Page 26 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

Chapter 9

KELSEYLOSES ANEYE

By the time I leave Good Brew, which was anything but, the sun has slanted enough that I can’t see into the windows of the other businesses.

I shield my eyes from the glare and drop into the driver’s seat of my car, pulling up a map to see where I should go next.

Do I try again? Or call it a day?

I’m in range to make it to Arizona. I didn’t book hotels because, for one, this was a very last-minute trip, and two, I wasn’t sure when I might end up stopping for a while if something worked.

It definitely isn’t going to be in Briston, Nevada.

On the map, just across the border to Arizona, I spot a lodge and a bar not far off the interstate.

Done.

I like the idea of meeting my future husband at a lodge. We could go there for every anniversary.

The tires crunch as I pull away from the crumbling curb and leave the town of bad coffee, feeling optimistic despite the failure. I got the first attempt out of the way, and didn’t spoil any real prospects with my missteps.

This is good, right?

Totally good.

I go back to my girl-power playlist and sing along.

As the afternoon wears on, I subsist on snack mix and warm Diet Coke. My hybrid switches to gas, but there’s nothing anywhere by way of a charging station on this tiny highway, so I let it go.

When I pull up to the Pitchfork Lodge, I wonder if I’ve made the right choice. It’s rustic and small town, but the aesthetic is heavy on taxidermy. Huge antlers make a rather ominous archway at the entrance, and every window has a stuffed bear in it, looking out, jaws open, arms up.

I sit in my car a full minute trying to gather the gumption to go in.

Come on, Kelsey.It’s miles to anywhere else.

I blow out a breath and reach in the back for the smaller overnight bag I prepared so I didn’t have to haul a big suitcase around. I need to be nimble in case I happen to trip and fall into someone’s arms, or have to hurry to catch up with someone so I canthentrip and fall.

Or reach for the same magazine in the lobby. Or perhaps a cup at the water station.

So many possibilities.

But as I enter beneath the antler arch, I wonder if I’ve stumbled into Gaston’s lair fromBeauty and the Beast. Inside, everything is rough-hewn wood. The floor is covered with rugs made of dead animals, and there are so many glass eyes. So many.

There isn’t a single woman anywhere, but quite a few men lounge about, all holding big beer steins.

Some are in jeans, real-life distressed, not artificially, mostly Levi’s, $55. Others are in camouflage, and definitely not Coût De La Liberté, which clocks in at $1,900. A couple of the men sport full coveralls. I can’t put a price on those.

One is cleaning a shotgun, right there in the lobby.

I consider backing out slowly, but really, this is a meet-cute waiting to happen. I don’t have to marry them. It’spractice.

So, I swing my day bag around, planning to have it bump my leg so I can take a cute, controlled tumble right into the middle of them all.

And see who catches me.

But I misjudge the weight of the bag. It knocks me off kilter, and I reach out to grab anything I can to steady myself. My hands wrap around the stiff, creepy fur of a stuffed beaver.

I let go, and the dead critter starts to tumble. I drop my bag to snatch at him, but I’m not quite fast enough, and he topples.

---