Page 8 of Making New Plans

I thought about dropping into one of the chairs beside the fireplace and doing just that, but my rumbling stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten all day. Not even peanuts on the plane. I really wished I could simply call up a takeout place and have some food delivered, but I doubted Tangled River had advanced as far as prompt food delivery.

I dragged my feet out the door, taking one last look at the bright bookstore. How odd that a place like this existed in Tangled River. Maybe this was what Chloe had mentioned when she had been trying to get rid of me earlier. I definitely wasn’t going to tell her that I’d been here or how much I liked it. This bookstore was a fluke. Outside the door was a town still full of memories waiting to haunt me.

3

Chloe

To caffeinate or to sleep, that was the question.

One I usually answered with yes and eventually. My to-do list would make a wedding planner shriek, what with my being on every town committee in existence (and trust me, the town initiated a committee for everything) and running a lodge. And now I had another item on that list in the form of a terribly hot heir-intern-potential owner. My brain hurt trying to figure out what title to give him, so I’d listed them all. Next to his name, I’d written “win at all costs.” What exactly I wanted to win I wasn’t sure. Win him over with my superior managerial skills? Win every argument that he and I were sure to have? Who knows—I’d written it on a triple-shot-caramel-macchiato high after Sarah had stopped by to bring me coffee.

Of course, I’d word-vomited everything to her that’d happened, while lugging Morton to the dumpster. I’d tried to convince her we should bury him or something, but she assured me I was crazy. She also insisted we’d figure something out about the whole Hunter-lodge-doomsday situation. That I should push through the day and we’d have a meeting at our house tonight. The first meeting of the Survive the Next Thirty Days Committee or something like that. Then I’d have an even ten on my committee list.

Fantasizing about my stash of energy drinks and feeling eighty instead of thirty, I opened the front door of the house I shared with Sarah in town. A blast of laughter greeted me as I dumped my postman-sized bag full of paperwork on our entryway table. I toed off my flats next to a pair of bedazzled leather ankle boots and a pair of lace-up suede knee-high boots, which meant Gina and Rose were here. I didn’t realize our new committee included them, but it made sense. They were my other two best friends, and Hunter wouldn’t stand a chance with the four of us combining wits, wills, and wine.

I followed the smell of something cheesy and doughy to the back of the house where the kitchen, dining area, and living room were located. A dollhouse compared to the mansion I grew up in, our home sweet home boasted two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a basement intended only for our ancient laundry machines and odds and ends. You know, murdered bodies and such.

But we’d really made the place our own with beautiful artwork, courtesy of Rose and my older brother, Flynn. Gina had helped us with the jewel-toned paint job, and Sarah had found some quirky furniture from her thrifting sprees. And I, of course, had very proudly installed the large whiteboard calendar on a wall in the kitchen.

I entered the daisy-yellow kitchen to see my friends twirling and flipping pizza dough above their heads. Sarah’s slapped onto her face while Gina and Rose caught theirs. But Rose’s stretched too far and practically encased her tiny arm. All three of them were laughing. A tiny bit of my sour mood stalked off into a corner to grumble by itself.

“Hey!” Gina saw me first, her beautiful Italian features lit in a smile. “Come on, I saved you a crust.”

Rose giggled, her pixie face framed by her choppy black hair. “You might want to warm up first.” She handed me a glass of Chianti with her non-doughy hand.

“That’s probably why I missed,” Sarah grumbled, peeling dough off her face. Typically good-natured, she had a competitive streak a mile wide and a few bloody noses deep. Tetherball incident of ’03. Enough said.

“Ah, a little practice goes a long way,” Gina crooned, expertly flipping her dough from hand to hand with fancy spins.

I downed half the wine in my glass and took my slab of dough. “Not all of us grew up with an Italian family who has their own restaurant,” I reminded her. Her uncle owned and ran the local Italian food haven, Baciami.

She gave me a wide grin framed by deep red lips. “True.”

After a few practice tosses, I released the dough a few inches into the air and shouted with triumph when it landed safely on my hand.

I heard Sarah mutter “witchcraft” behind my back and laughed.

Probably to prevent any bloodshed, Gina took the dough from us and worked her magic with toppings. First, she oiled and seasoned each crust before smoothing on her family’s secret recipe marinara sauce. Then sausage, fresh mozzarella, peppers, olives, and basil for her. Spinach, feta, and mushrooms for vegetarian Rose. Pepperoni, hamburger, and pounds of cheese for the carnivorous Sarah. And bacon and chicken with cheese for myself. Then she popped them in the double oven.

Sarah sat down on one of our barstools and poured herself a generous glass of wine. She quirked an eyebrow at me. “So?” she demanded.

Getting a sense of déjà vu attached to a chiseled, angry face, I fiddled with my glass. “So...”

Rose clasped her hands over her crossed knees, her many bracelets tinkling. “Sooo?” she wheedled.

I sighed. “All right, how much do you know?”

They began chattering at once:

“Sarah said you might lose the lodge!”

“He’s drop-dead gorgeous! There’s a picture of him running in the Tangled River Gazette this week, I hear.”

“Did you really corner him with a moose head?”

“And is it true you get to boss him around for thirty days?”

“Whoa, whoa!” I held up my hands for silence like I was fielding the press at a red carpet.

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