Page 13 of One Wild Night
‘Fancy it?’ Kent suggests. ‘I made a start.’
Kent, who must be in his early thirties, gestures towards a ball of snow behind him.
‘Well, that might just be the saddest snowman I’ve ever seen,’ I tell him with a laugh.
‘That’s because he doesn’t have a head,’ Kent points out. ‘I gave up after the body.’
‘Okay, come on then,’ I say, dropping my own shovel. ‘Let’s get this head going.’
I wince at my own choice of words but Kent doesn’t utter so much as a giggle.
‘So, do you work on the farm full-time?’ I ask Kent curiously.
‘No, I but I still help out my dad, now that he’s getting older,’ Kent replies. ‘I’m actually the village vet.’
‘Oh wow,’ I reply. ‘That’s amazing.’
I know that some women think that firemen, policemen, soldiers or ever rockstars are the sexiest men – as far as professions go – but, for me, surely a vet has to be up there? I mean, a vet is like a doctor, but one who takes care of cute animals. Is there anything sexier than a man who cares about animals?
‘What do you do?’ he asks me.
‘I’m a music journalist,’ I reply.
‘Wow, then you really are a long way from home,’ Kent says. ‘We don’t get many music journalists around here. Lots of sick animals though.’
‘Well, at least this snowman isn’t one of them,’ I say as we place a head on top of the snowy body Kent made earlier. ‘Now we just need to find some things for his face.’
‘You know, we don’t have many opportunities for music journalists here but, if you’re still around tomorrow, there’s a local fella – Andy Brightwell – who plays guitar and sings at the local. It’s a great little pub. Fancy it?’
I stop and smile. I don’t know what to say. I don’t remember the last time a normal man with a normal job asked me to go to a normal place with him.
As I ponder what to reply I notice a short, thick stick at my feet that would make a great nose for a snowman – seeing as though we don’t have a carrot. I reach for it at the same time as Kent does, both of us squatting down at the same time, our hands bumping as we reach for the same stick.
‘Nicole?’ I hear Dylan call out.
Dylan King, right on cue.
‘Dylan,’ I say, jumping to my feet.
I don’t know why I’m acting like I’ve just been caught out because I absolutely haven’t.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, babe,’ he says.
Babe. No! No, no, no. Now really isn’t the time to pretend to be my boyfriend.
‘I’m right here, talking to Kent,’ I reply. ‘He lives next door – he was just telling me about a pub in town.’
‘I was just asking Nicole if she fancied going tomorrow,’ Kent tells him. ‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t catch your name.’
I always see a funny little flicker of something behind Dylan’s eyes when someone doesn’t recognise him. It’s not that he’s an egomaniac (I don’t think) more just that he’s not used to having anonymity. Although sometimes I do think he takes offence from it, like now.
‘Dylan,’ he says. ‘Dylan King – Nicole’s boyfriend.’
My heart sinks.
‘Oh, right, sorry,’ Kent quickly insists. ‘I’ll leave you guys to it and get back to my fence.’
‘Nic, Pat wants you,’ Dylan tells me, pretty much ignoring Kent.
