Page 2 of Extreme Romancing in Idaho

You are a matchflashed onto the screen.

Holy kittens in a kaboodle, Batman! We matched.

I read his name again. He had blond hair, sun-tanned skin, and great fashion sense. I couldn’t wait to smooch that Smoot.

Who was I kidding? This guy must swipe right on everyone since someone as active as him would never have swiped on my profile pic. I’d intentionally replaced my filtered picture with one before I’d lost weight, hoping it would discourage douchebags.

My picture still displayed my long blonde hair arranged in a nice braid and showed off my next best feature, my blue eyes. Mama said she was always jealous of my lashes and complexion, but I only saw the double chin and monthly forehead pimples.

I tapped into the chat.

Good morning. Speaking of mornings … Are you a morning person?

I stared at my phone waiting for a response as the plane taxied and came to a stop.

Nothing. I took that as a no.

Switching to my messenger app, I typed a quick text to my brother, Jared.

Mama and Papa arrived safely. I’ll keep you updated with Papa’s cancer.

It was hit and miss whether Jared responded. He was basically nocturnal, living his best musician life.

Workers in bright-yellow vests towed the ramp to the plane and lined it up with the open door. Dropping my phone in my purse, I looped it over my shoulder and threw my empty cup in the trash. I strode to the window. Mama stood in the doorway beside the flight attendant, waiting to be let off.

Passengers flooded from the plane. They’d slowed to a trickle by the time my parents exited. A flight attendant opened a wheelchair, and Papa, wearing his favorite red flannel jacket, climbed into it. I frowned. He hadn’t been in a wheelchair a couple of weeks ago when he’d left to go to the Cancer Institute, which apparently sucked at treating colon cancer.

They made slow progress down the ramp and onto the asphalt. Mama’s short, red hair tousled in the wind; her shoulders hunched toward Papa. He’d lost more weight, and his hair had become as white as snow.

Mama turned to talk to someone behind her. That was when I saw him. My perfect ten—short black hair, well-kept, trim beard, tall—wearing a full-on backpacking backpack with an outdoorsy helmet hanging off the side.

Armed with a bright white smile and the ability to use it, Backpack-Helmet Man took Mama’s bag and pushed Papa’s wheelchair down the gangway while the passengers rushed past them. I melted where I stood. He got sexier with every step he took.

I pressed my nose to the glass. He said something that made Mama laugh. Great. He was one of those people who possessed easy-going superpowers, the ones who diffuse the tension around them. Simply watching him made a bit of the stress from my crappy week slip away.

Backing away from the window, I relocated closer to the metal detector. Other passengers were already walking into the side of the airport where liquids of more than three ounces were allowed. My parents came into the building, still assisted by my dream man.

In times like these, I enacted the Golden Chris Standard, in which I used four of the most exquisite male movie stars, all named Chris, as a comparative measure for the guys I met.

His face had a similar structure to my personal favorite of the hot Chris’s. Chris Pine. This guy had the same kindness etched in his features that I examined anytime I watched Chris on the big screen. Of course, I was projecting, as I’d never met Mr. Pine in person, but I imagine he would never make fun of someone for having a body that fits into plus-sized clothes.

Rex and Wendy shouted greetings to my parents. Tall, dark … and completely bald, our mayor and his shorter, pale, and platinum-blonde wife were perpetually traveling. Being from a town as small as Clear Springs, we couldn’t go anywhere without being sucked into a conversation, even at the airport in the ‘big’ city. It was like being part of a perpetual high school reunion.

“Oh, honey. I missed you so much.” Mama finally reached me and enfolded me into a squishy hug. The tears I hadn’t let out all morning rested on my bottom eyelid. I blinked, and one fell. I wiped it away before Papa saw it.

“Hey, Muffin,” Papa said.

I studied the blue and yellow lines crisscrossing the deep red of his flannel. I’d never liked the nickname he’d given me as a child, but I loved him more than a lifetime of jelly-filled donuts.

“Thank you, Remi.” Papa looked at the man, who was at least a couple of inches over six foot, and then held out his hand to me. “This is our daughter, Angie. The one we were telling you about on the plane.”

Where was some sand so I could plant my head in the ground like an ostrich? They’d talked about me and probably attempted to set me up with him. I couldn’t get more desperate than that.

“Remi was such a help to us on the plane and so nice during the flight.” Mama leaned next to me and whispered, “And there’s no ring on his finger.”

Remi’s eyes locked on mine. I didn’t normally notice the color of someone’s eyes the first time I met them, but his were striking. Deep and rich like the Idaho soil, encircled by thick, dark lashes, and they held such fierce life in them, as if he hunted for joy each moment he lived.

“Remington James the Third. Nice to meet you,” he said with what sounded like a practiced country-boy twang. He held out his hand to me, grinning like he’d found buried treasure.

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