Page 4 of Pity Present

Standing up slowly, I force my unhinged jaw to close. Meanwhile, Gillian spins her chair around and starts to talk to the person she just called. What just happened here? Have I really just been sent to Elk Lake, Wisconsin, for a dating getaway?

As I walk out of the office, I fantasize about moving back to LA. The only reason I left was to fulfill a childhood dream of reporting on my hometown teams. But what if Charlie decides to hang on for another year, or ten? God knows what hellacious crap I might have to put up with then.

Once I’m out on the street, I hail a passing taxi and take it back to my apartment in Wrigleyville—a neighborhood so named for its proximity to Wrigley Field. Talk about serendipity. I knew the minute I found it that my move home was meant to be. Now I’m not so sure.

By the time the cab turns onto West Addison Street, I’ve reluctantly accepted my fate. And while I’m about to spend two weeks in snowy Wisconsin, that doesn’t mean I have to like it. It also doesn’t mean I’m going to write the kind of articles Gillian expects me to.

I’m not overly hopeful a miracle will occur that will help make this trip bearable, but I’m not opposed to a little divine intervention. If such a thing exists.

CHAPTER THREE

MOLLY

A train full of commuters can be overstimulating, as is currently the case. The woman across the aisle is filing her fingernails so aggressively, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard, not to mention the acrylic dust filling the air—gack. The guy next to me is so disheveled, he looks like he’s recovering from a days-long bender. He’s hogging our shared arm rest, and is slumping in my direction, so that his head is nearly on my shoulder. If that’s not bad enough, he reeks of garlic and regret. The topper is the little kid in front of me who is standing on his seat trying to burp the alphabet as loudly as humanly possible. It’s times like this I wish I owned a car.

I have another hour before I reach my destination, so I pop in my earbuds, close my eyes, and try to escape my current reality by listening to a crime podcast. There’s nothing like murder and mayhem to settle the nerves.

When the train pulls into the Elk Lake stop, I jump to my feet and practically run for the exit. Unfortunately, I don’t see the foot blocking the aisle. As such, I wind up making a spectacular display as I trip up the aisle for several yards. My performance isakin to a vaudevillian physical comedy routine. Luckily, a hand reaches out to steady me before I hit the ground. “Whoa there. I’ve got you.”

I take a moment to catch my breath before turning to thank my rescuer. One look at his hazelly green eyes and chiseled jaw renders me nearly speechless.Is that a tan?I finally manage to say, “Thump queue.”

The Adonis stands up and reaches toward his overnight bag. “Excuse me?”

“Thump queue,” I repeat before forcing my mouth to form proper words. “I mean, thank you.”

His lips curve ever so slightly before he responds with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

I know I just told my sister I wasn’t interested in dating and that she was crazy to suggest I might be about to embark upon my very own cheesy movie experience, but for a split second, a wave of possibility washes over me. Before I can stop myself, I ask, “You aren’t a lumberjack by any chance, are you?”

His eyes widen. “No.”

Feeling foolish, I try to think of something to say that will make me seem less weird. I decide to go with, “Me neither.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Good to know. I hear it’s hard work.”

I’m going to be single forever.While I claim to be fine with that outcome, I secretly want to find the man of my dreams, get married, have two point five children, and then adopt a Bernese Mountain puppy or three. The house in the suburbs and white picket fence are a given.

Turning around, I continue to make my way off the train while chastising myself for being such an idiot. I step down to the ground before lugging my suitcase to my side. The gorgeous stranger is behind me, but he doesn’t stick around to continue our inane small talk. Instead, he veers to the right and exits the platform.

I don’t move as quickly. I simply look around at my charming surroundings. There’s nothing like a small-town train stationdecorated for the holidays. The depot windows are strung with colored lights. The old-fashioned streetlamps lining the walkway are festooned with flocked wreaths, and Christmas carols are booming from the speakers against the side of the building.

Laughingly, I tell myself, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Not that Chicago is at all comparable to Kansas, but a certainWizard of Ozmagic seems to have overtaken me.

I appreciate my surroundings for long enough that by the time I turn around, I’m the only person left on the platform. The text I received from the Elk Lake Lodge said they would send a driver to pick me up. As such, I make my way through the depot to the other side of the building.

The sidewalk is covered in fresh snow, so I’m careful to step into the footprints left by others. I look around for a van with the hotel’s name on it, but the only vehicle at the curb is a dark blue Suburban. Before I can approach it, a gaunt middle-aged man wearing a gray parka steps out. “Molly Anders?”

I throw a hand up in the air and reply, “That’s me!”

He walks over and takes possession of my suitcase before putting it in the back hatch. Then he opens the door for me. “Name’s Paul. You’re my last pickup which is good because we’re expecting more snow.” I’m glad I decided to come tonight and not wait until morning.

Getting into the back of the truck, I’m greeted by a familiar face. “Hey, there.” It’s the hottie from the train.

“Hey, hi. Fancy meeting you here.”

The driver gets in and asks, “You two know each other?”

Before I can answer, my seat mate explains, “We met on the train. Neither of us are lumberjacks.”Kill me now.

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