Page 85 of Body Check

For tonight, I just breathe.

29

Holly

Jackson’s weekend getaway brings us to Newport, Rhode Island, home of Gilded Age mansions and beautiful oceanside views and picture-perfect little shops along the main strip in town.

I mean, even the Dunkin’ Donuts that we stopped at for coffee looked like something out of a magazine. It had seating outside and cute little picnic benches, and the girl at the counter actually smiled when she took our order.

Smiled.

Boston has its charm, don’t get me wrong, but the term “Masshole” is applicable because it’s the undeniable truth. Having grown up in the South, the land of gentile hospitality, I’m fully aware that there’s a difference.

Here in Newport, the only asshole we’ve come across is the Massachusetts driver who cut us off at the intersection in front of our bed and breakfast, and then proceeded to roll down his window and shout obscenities at us.

And maybe I’ve lived in the Northeast a little too long, the Dunkin’s coffee thickening my blood and steeling my spine, because I rolled my window down and yelled right back at him.

“Can’t take you anywhere,” Jackson teased as he pulled into the small parking lot behind the B&B where we’re staying. “Can’t lie, though. It’s a turn-on when you’re all fired up like that.”

Unfortunately for him, whatever lust heated his dark eyes died a quick death the moment the B&B innkeeper ushered us inside.

“You’re here!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together before yanking us in for a hug, one after another. Her bony arms threaten to cut off my oxygen supply, and I swallow a fistful of air and hope for the best. She’s somewhere between fifty and sixty, give or take any range of years on either side. “Oh, my goodness, this is brilliant. Just brilliant.”

Her red hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, her face makeup free. Unable to contain her enthusiasm, she bounces on the balls of her ballet-slippered feet. “I have all sorts of people stay here at The Ruby Slipper, but I’ve never had ahockeyplayer before.”

Oh, God—a fan.

I don’t know whether to laugh or hustle Jackson back out to the car and make the trek back up to Boston before anyone else notices that we’ve got a pro-athlete on our hands.

“I’ve been watchingGetting Pucked,” she goes on, all smiles and jabbing hands. “I’ll be honest, I’m not the biggest sports fan. Unless we’re talking about cricket, since I do love me some cricket. Oh! And I do love golf. But that hockey show is just”—she snaps her fingers in the air—“it grabs you, just like that! I was hooked from day one.”

Jackson’s smile is strained. “So glad you’re enjoying it . . . I’m sorry, is it Ginger? I think we corresponded when I booked our stay?”

Now he’s done it.

Ginger’s face positivelybloomswith happiness. “Yes! Ginger, that’s me. That’s so kind of you to remember my name. And Ihaveto tell you, you sound exactly the same as you do on the TV! So very manly.” She gives Jackson a slow, appreciative onceover before glancing at me, her smile still evident on her face. “And you! I know you too.”

It’s been a long time since I was recognized in any capacity, and I grip the handle of my suitcase a little tighter, amusement curling through me. Maybe she’s seen my face in passing on the show? I’ve been careful to stay out the way for the most part, but when you’ve got multiple camera crews all bustling around the same area, it’s hard to be completely invisible. “That’s so sweet of you, Ginger.” I rock onto the back of my heels, then ask, “You’ve seen my work before, then?”

I bump Jackson’s hip with mine.She knows who I am!I want to shout.

The tip of Ginger’s nose bunches as her brows tug inward. “Your . . . work?” She shakes her head, and I feel my stomach drop with dread for the words that will inevitably come next. “No, I don’t know anything about that, but Idoknow that the two of you were married! I saw you on Mr. Carter’s Wikipedia page. How cool is that, by the way? I’d love to be on the Wikipedia although I’m sure I wouldn’t have an interesting enough story to warrant anyone wanting to write about me.”

My lungs seize as her words sink in.

She doesn’t know me, not anything about my photography or my business or my work withGetting Pucked.

Though I shouldn’t let it get to me, her easy dismissal that I could be anything more than Jackson’s ex-wife feels like a punch to the gut.

So much for progress.

Ginger claps her hands again, completely oblivious to the slap of reality she’s hand-delivered. “I promise I won’t say a word to those newspapers, but are you two . . . are you getting back together? Oh, please,pleasesay yes. You would make such adorable babies!”

Jackson’s expression stiffens.

No doubt about it, he doesnotlook charmed by the effervescent Ginger.

Well, that makes two of us.

---