Austensibly Ordinary (27 page)

“So, you up for a walk?” I said, my legs bobbing up and down.

She peered at me out of one eye. “I can do a stroll.”

“You can set the pace,” I assured her. “I'm gonna get dressed—I'll meet you back here in . . . ten?”

“Fine,” she agreed. Before I'd even turned away she'd flipped the blanket up over her head, evidently intent on squirreling away a few final minutes of private time. Once she was all the way under, I sprinted inside, cringing against the headache, hurtled up the stairs, and rummaged through my bag in search of the phone.

I had a single message, from Courtney, confirming her plans to be there for dinner with Micah. Nothing from Ethan. I threw the phone down in disgust, not sure who it was aimed at (the disgust), quickly changed, grabbed a hat and sunglasses, and fled.

Probably the reason I was five minutes early and she was five minutes late in meeting back up, giving me ten solid minutes to let the impotence of my situation fester. When Gemma appeared, geared up but still scoping out her surroundings like the paparazzi were after her, I plastered a smile on my face, tamped down on the coulda/shoulda/woulda train chugging out of the station in my head, and decided to enjoy this rare morning with my sister. I was fine with putting Ethan on hold—it was possible he'd already disconnected.

I shook my head, which was clearly jumbled with metaphors and crazy imagery, and took advantage of the fact that I was wearing huge, dark sunglasses. I admit, I let my eyes get hot and tingly with tears, but I refused to let even a single one fall. This was my idea of self-control.

I tried gulping in deep breaths of the cool, crisp air, drawing on the whole nature thing again, but mostly it just made me feel light-headed. Luckily, Gemma seemed distracted with her own thoughts, because I didn't particularly want to rehash it all and have it confirmed that I'd screwed things up royally. Gemma, I was sure, would get some sort of whispered lowdown from Mom during cornbread stuffing prep.

We took it easy, walking the relatively flat hiking trail around the lake. Halfway around we'd both found our stride and were pushing each other to an ever more brisk pace that, in the end, had us sprinting the last stretch, elbows out, jostling for position.

“Whew!” Gemma said, glancing around, probably hoping, as I was, that our little spectacle had gone unwitnessed. “Now I'm ready for breakfast. Or lunch. Or breakfast for lunch, yum! Let's see if Cheyenne will make waffles.”

 

After a late lunch of pasta salad and garlic bread, with waffles promised for pre-Thanksgiving dinner, Gemma and I were sprawled on the leather sectional in the great room, flipping through Gemma's airplane reading, i.e., the impulse-buy glossy magazines she'd picked up in the airport.

“Want to ride the zip-line? Just once before it gets dark? It's kind of a tradition . . .” I reminded her.

Her face, a moment ago blissfully content, now scrunched in consideration. She glanced at her watch before posing a suggestion. “Why don't we go shower, brush our teeth, and change into our yoga duds and do a little meditation in the trees?”

I felt my eyebrows turn down in confusion.

“Why are we showering and brushing first?”

“Because you stink,” she said, with a full measure of sisterly sensitivity.

“What?!”

“The sweat? The garlic? They're mixin', sweetie, and not in a good way. You'll feel better if you freshen up a little.” She wrinkled her nose at me.

The possibility that I currently smelled like sweaty garlic jolted me out of complacency. I stood up, discreetly trying to smell my breath and pits on my way to the bathroom. When Gemma didn't move, I turned back. “Aren't you showering?”

“I'll be right behind you,” she assured me, turning the page of
In Style
with a flick of her wrist.

“Should I meet you on One?” Technically, Portkey 1. Dad had read all the Harry Potter books and seen all the movies. After watching
Goblet of Fire
and seeing how a lone boot on a hill had transported Harry and friends to the Triwizard Tournament, Dad decided a zip-line was as close as Muggles could get to that sort of wild, free-fall mode of transportation. He refused to even acknowledge skydiving as a front-runner.

Gemma glanced up. “How about Five?”

“Is anyone staying in the cabin?”

“I do believe The Castle is to let at the moment,” she returned in a stilted British accent.

The Castle was either proof that Dad was secretly a romantic at heart or that he was a keen businessman preying on the tender emotions of “those poor bastards.” Built on a larger platform thirty-five feet in the air, the
cabin
was like something out of the
Swiss Family Robinson
movie. Crafted out of golden oak, the cozy little retreat boasted enough room for a queen-sized bed and a tiny sitting area. The three-sixty views were open-air, but there were gauzy white privacy curtains and a mosquito net draped over the bed, which was made up with all-white linens. Amid the rustling breezes and the sound of birdsong, it was a lovely little escape that seemed a world away—at least after the zip-liners were done for the day. Gemma and I had spent hours lounging on the down-stuffed duvet when the lofty cabin wasn't booked, each imagining a life as Roberta and debating the merits of Fritz versus Ernst.

You could only reach the cabin from Portkey 5, or a miniature bridge that led to a rustic little bathroom cottage, and in an attempt to keep The Castle experience as private as possible, we tried to avoid Portkey 5 whenever necessary. But if it was empty. . . . I was all for yoga on Five and then a zip-line ride down to the cushy comfort of the cabin.

“Five it is, then,” I agreed and headed to the shower, where I let the tears finally have their way.

 

When I reached the top of the platform, Gemma was already there, looking suspiciously unfreshened. I narrowed my eyes at her.

“What happened to your shower?”

“I checked and I wasn't dire, so I decided to hold off till after yoga.” She was fiddling with her phone, presumably cueing up some soothing music. She looked up at me. “Didn't you have any black yoga gear?”

I glanced down at myself, in purple pants and a bright, flower-patterned top. “Why? Is this throwing you off your Zen?”

“I'll keep my eyes closed.”

I rolled my eyes in exasperation and laid out my yoga mat, appreciating my clean, fresh scent. Lavender mint . . . very soothing.

We took turns picking positions and specifying hold times, with Gemma choosing the most overtly sexual of the standard poses and then adding a few of her own.

“You haven't branched out into pole-dancing, have you?” I quizzed, lying back on my shoulders with my hips up off the mat and one kinked leg in the air.

“Not yet,” she said. I could hear the smile in her voice. “But I hear it's a great workout.” She sat up. “Ready to take a ride?” Her eyebrows did a little Groucho Marx number.

“Sure. I'm done. My muscles feel like noodles.” I reached for the harness and stepped into it, clipping it around my waist before slipping the helmet on my head. As I fastened it beneath my chin, Gemma clipped the zip-line carabiner into place at my waist. Then she turned quickly and grabbed her phone, grinning.

Seconds later, the
Mission: Impossible
theme was echoing through the trees, and Gemma was leaning in to speak to me.

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to
close the deal
.”

Her grin broadened and she took hold of the zip-line strap and gave it a good hard yank toward the edge of the platform.

Surprised, confused, and suddenly a little panicky, I grappled for something to hang on to. But there was nothing—even Gemma's hair was back in a ponytail I couldn't reach.

“Good luck, sweetie!” she said, right before she centered her foot on my ass and sent me flying out over a Hill Country panorama, replete with gorgeous fall color, native birds, and at the moment, a cornucopia of expletives.

 

The landing wasn't graceful, and that put Gemma even higher on my shit list. She was tramping on the tradition: We were supposed to sail gracefully into The Castle, like fairies, or at the very least, elegant young ladies. We were
not
supposed to catch our foot on the platform and go sprawling. Then again, we weren't supposed to be pushed either. Or squirming,
or
cursing like a sailor.

The moment I stopped I realized that
Mission: Impossible
was playing over here too. The dork. I quickly disengaged myself from the harness and removed my helmet, wanting to pummel Gemma with it. I peeked up through the canopy of leaves, toward Portkey 5, trying to get a glimpse of her, wondering if I should keep hold of the helmet in anticipation of her imminent arrival, but she'd obviously gone into hiding. Smart girl.

Now I had The Castle all to my fresh-smelling self, and I would use the opportunity to plan yet another bit of revenge. Smiling broadly with maybe a twinkle of menace in my eye, I stepped through the doorway and felt my heart stop as a thundering rush filled my ears.

Ethan was lying on the plush white down.

Fully clothed (that was the first thing I noticed!)—wearing faded jeans and a royal blue polo. He was lying in the typical hottie calendar pose, propped up on one elbow, facing the doorway. He lifted his phone, and suddenly it was quiet. Shockingly quiet. And we were alone. Glaringly alone, with only a soft, white bed between us.
Awkward.

“Hello,” I said, a world of inflection in my voice. I honestly couldn't decide how to react to this little surprise of Gemma's. I was
thrilled
to see him, but über-conscious of the fact that there were a lot of hurt feelings—on both sides—and I wasn't sure of my footing. I felt my face flush as I realized he'd seen—and heard—the unprecedented humiliation of my grand zip-lined entrance. Perfect.

“Hi.” It wasn't much, but it was more than he'd said to me in nearly a week. Something loosened inside me, and I let out the breath I'd been holding. It was still a little hitched. And that's when I noticed the Scrabble board.

Lying on the bed beside him, the board already had words arranged on it with careful spacing. With each word building off another, wherever possible; it read: “I'm game, if you're game.”

My gaze shifted back and forth between the board and his face. I was loath to misinterpret whatever message he was sending by showing up unannounced, conspiring with Gemma to be alone with me . . . and a bed . . . but I was also daring to be optimistic. I felt an encouraging glow of hope kindle inside me.

“What does that mean exactly?”

“It means,” Ethan said, standing and walking slowly around the bed to my side, “that if you're willing to put up with my strange schedule, ‘secret life,' and a nondisclosure agreement, then I'm willing to put up with your amateur sleuthing, amateur ghost hunting, and amateur matchmaking.” His mouth quirked up in an amused smile, and I melted. I'd missed that smile. I fisted my hands to keep from touching him and twisted my lips in a rueful smile of my own.

“What if I go pro?”

“With what exactly?”

“Any of it.” I shrugged in an “it could happen” sort of way and faced down Ethan's stare with my arms crossed over my chest.

I could hear the amusement in his voice when he answered. “You could probably win me over to your side, assuming there was no danger to your person,” he admitted. “Or my reputation.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed back. “Probably?”

“Very probably,” he allowed, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“But there's no guarantee.” Reaching his hand out, he wrapped it around my wrist and tugged gently, pulling me toward him on the bed. I resisted falling onto his lap, but just barely.

“There never is, Cate. If I'd do it for anyone, I'd do it for you. Good enough?”

I stared at his face, feeling suddenly incandescent, and grinned. “How could I ask for more than that?”

“I feel certain you'll find a way.” His tone was dry and a little superior. So I pushed him back on the bed, falling over him into the pillowy down. He caught my hands and flipped me in what seemed like a well-practiced move. I was going to assume spy training and leave it at that.

The moment hung between us, our faces inches apart. We were beyond just benefits now—this was the real deal. We were going for it, the big win . . . the happy ending.

I bit my lip. “You're okay being my Mr. Knightley?”

“I've been your Mr. Knightley almost since the day we met. You were just looking for a Mr. Darcy.”

“I could see that.”

“
Now
you can see that.” He smirked, settling a friendly kiss on my forehead.

Alone in The Castle with—I was certain—guaranteed privacy, this wasn't the time for forehead kisses. “You know, this whole thing is reminding me a
lot
of a James Bond film . . . the double cross, the riveting soundtrack, the daredevil action sequence . . .” I cocked my eyebrow up. “And now, the seduction scene.”

Ethan's face broke into a giddy grin as his arms tightened around me. “Are you saying you want one of those kinky names?”

“I hate to burst your bubble, Chavez, but I'm imagining
myself
as James Bond, thus making you the Bond Girl equivalent. You just let me know if you want one of those raunchy names.”

Ethan wasted no time in shutting me up, or stripping me out of my “spy duds” and finding ways to remind me that I was, in fact, the girl in this equation. But always one to have the last word, he couldn't resist uttering, “Oh, James!” as things progressed.