Working It (10 page)

Calder hands me one of the appetizer plates Tiffani left on his side of the table.

“No, thank you.”

“Eat something, lassie.”

I shake my head. “Do you know how many calories are in one of those deep fried cheese lumps? I would have to take two Boot Camp classes just to work off the weight.”

“Believe me, lassie, ye dinnea need to worry about yer weight.”

I am not good at taking compliments about my appearance. Deep down, I don’t believe the praise is sincere. I might have shed my Éléphanny weight, but I am still carrying the baggage of being fat and unpopular.

Calder uses his fork to maneuver three cheese balls onto my plate and pushes it across the table. The aroma of hot, bubbling, greasy cheese hits my nose like a right hook. My stomach growls at the assault. The aspirin and booze aren’t cutting it.

“Was that yer stomach?”

“Yes.” Heat flushes over my body. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“Eat something, lassie.” He forks another ball onto my plate. “Then ye can tell me what brought ye to Alaska.”

I look at the artery blocking bites of cheese, and my stomach growls again. Woman cannot live by booze alone.

“Maybe one,” I say, forking a ball into my mouth. “Just one, though.”

“Och, ye're a long time deid.”

I finish chewing and swallow the diet-killing appetizer, resisting the urge to moan with pleasure. Either my body has entered starvation mode or these damned cheese balls are addictively delicious.

“What does that mean?”

“It means”—he grins and pops a cheese ball into his mouth, chews, and swallows—“enjoy life, because once ye’re dead ye’re going to be that way for a verra long time.”

“Force me to eat another one of these crispy crack balls, and I will definitely die.”

“Go on, ye ken ye want another one.”

He’s right. I do want another one.

“I am onto you, Calder MacFlirty. You’ve exchanged your whisky moves with cheese.”

He grins and pierces me with an intensely sexy stare. “Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

His grin widens.

I cut a cheese ball in half, dip it in the sauce, and put it in my mouth. I rationalize eating the second half by telling myself the cheese will stop the liquor from sloshing around in my belly. The whisky has me feeling a bit light headed and—
foutre!
—horny.

I am not attracted to the arrogant, feckless Scot. It’s just the booze. It’s just the booze.

“So do ye mean to keep me in suspense, or will ye tell me why ye’re in Alaska?”

I flag Miss Wet-n-Wild down, order us two more whiskies, take a deep breath, and tell Calder about the events leading up to this moment. I tell him everything. I mean, everything—my date with the catfish, the humiliating two a.m. call, writing the misguided mission statement, getting fired, my contract with Each One, Teach One. I even tell him about my father ditching me to take his silicone-injected sex doll to Switzerland. Calder doesn’t interrupt with questions or commentary. He sits, quietly listening, his gaze never wavering.

“I am in Alaska because writing that mission statement effectively destroyed my career. I did a Miley Cyrus on my career.”

Calder frowns.

“Miley Cyrus. Wrecking ball.” I sigh and shake my head. “Never mind. Pop culture references really aren’t my thing. I should leave them to Vivian.”

Calder doesn’t laugh at my reference or my self-deprecating humor. He just continues to stare at me, a sad smile on his face. His silence is a bit unnerving.

Finally, he leans across the table, his face close enough for me to see the slight reddish-blond stubble shadowing his angled jawline and the cleft in his chin.

“I’m sorry, Fanny.”

It’s too much. The intensity of his gaze, the tenderness in his voice, the rumbling brogue as he speaks my name.

“Everything I have worked for, everything I have dreamed about, has been smashed to pieces.”
Shut up, Fanny. Stop filling the silence with pathetic confessions.
“But it’s fine. I will be fine.”

“Dinnea do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend everything is fine when it’s nae.” He reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Ye dinnea need to be so tough. Cry, if that’s what ye feel like doing.”

“Thank you,” I say, pulling my hand away, “but I don’t cry.”

He leaves his hand on the table and continues to stare deep into my eyes. “Can I give ye a bit of advice?”

“Sure,” I say, drawing a shaky breath.

“Lower yer defenses, lassie. If ye want more two a.m. friends, ye need to let people see this softer side. Let people see the real Stéphanie.”

Calder’s advice reaches into my chest and plucks the most vulnerable chords in my soul. I know I have erected walls too thick for the average person to penetrate, but it’s taken me twenty-six years to build them. Twenty-six years of pain, loneliness, disappointment, and abandonment have stacked up like blocks, separating me from anyone who might hurt me again.

“I…don’t even know who the real Stéphanie is…” I have to look away. Calder’s stare is too intense, too probing. I take a deep breath and return my gaze. “I thought I knew who I was, where I was going, what I desired, but I don’t know anymore.”

Calder clears his throat. “Have ye considered that everything that has happened—getting terminated, coming to Alaska—has been preordained?”

“Preordained? As in arranged by God?”

“Aye.”

I snort. “I am not a religious person.”

“Ye dinnea have to believe in God to concede that sometimes things happen in our lives for a reason. Maybe this happened so ye could figure out exactly who ye are, lass.”

“You think?”

“Aye.” He nods his head. “I think life is a series of tests and lessons. Ye are being tested. It’s up to ye to determine what ye’re gonna learn from it.”

He looks at his watch.

“Do you have somewhere you have to go?”

“Unfortunately.” He stands and pulls out my chair. “I have a flight to catch.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Sitka.”

“Sitka?” My head feels like it’s spinning. “Why are you going to Sitka? You’re not going there because of me, are you?”

“No,
banfhlath
,” he says, chuckling. “I’m stationed there. I am a foreign exchange officer assigned to Air Station Sitka.”

My heart feels like someone tethered a bunch of helium balloons to it. I am ridiculously happy, relieved, to know I will know at least one person in Sitka.

Calder throws two twenty dollar bills on the table and stands.

“Come on then,
banfhlath
,” he says, grabbing my suitcases. “I will help ye load yer shoe collection into a taxi.”

We follow the signs directing us to ground transportation, and Calder hails a taxi. A yellow cab pulls to a stop. I stand on the curb as Calder loads my bags into the trunk, fighting the sudden urge to burst into tears. The whisky has made me a sloppy, sappy, weepy mess.

This is really happening. I am really in Alaska. The gravity of my new situation is hitting me hard.

Calder slams the trunk and turns to face me. He looks into my eyes. I am trying to think of something flippant and clever to say when he leans down and kisses me, a slow, tender kiss that steals my breath away. I close my eyes and savor the taste of the whisky still on his lips, the scent of his woodsy cologne. I am about to press myself against his solid body when he pulls away.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes. Calder is at least a foot taller than I am, which means I have to crane my neck to look at his face.

He is staring at me with that same blue-eyed intensity that made all the ladies in our tour group sigh.

“I have to go now,” he says, grinning. “’Tis certain we will see each other in Sitka, but in the meantime, remember, it’s a lang road that’s no goat a turnin’.”

Maybe it’s the drugging effect of the whisky or Calder’s kiss, but I feel disoriented. I see his lips moving, hear the words, but…

“It means, don’t lose heart in dark times. Things can’t keep going in the same direction forever.”

I am still trying to catch my breath, when he turns and strides back into the airport. In my head, I hear myself telling Vivian, “Girl, he was worth the Dior lip gloss.”

My dream is to save women from nature.

Christian Dior

Panty Pinching Pervos

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Did you know the fragrance Jicky, created by Guerlain in 1889, was named after a girl who broke Aimé Guerlain’s heart? 120 years later, Jicky is still a best-selling luxury perfume. Moral of the story? Heartbreak doesn’t have to stink. Bloom, Fanny!

I close my eyes until I see splinters of light and say a little prayer to the goddess of fashion. That I am praying to a higher power underscores the dire nature of my present situation.

“Please, please, please, let them be there,” I whisper. “Pretty please.”

I open one eye and then the other, but the Fashion Goddess hasn’t answered my prayers. My suitcases are still missing.

After checking into the Klondike, an economy motel conveniently situated in the shadow of the new, sleek Marriott, I stacked my suitcases in my room and went for a brisk walk down Seventh Avenue. I had to do something to work off the booze and cheese ball calories and the tension of Calder’s sweet kiss.

I returned to the motel with wind-chapped cheeks, frozen fingers, and the singular ambition to take a hot shower before meeting my new suite mate, Delaney Brooks, for dinner. I knew something was tragically amiss when I found my door ajar.

Some miscreant has pulled a Patty Hearst on my Louis Vs. Thousands of dollars’ worth of chic, sleek, luxurious luggage kidnapped. All of my clothes…and shoes!

Oh,
putain de merde!

What kind of knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing barbarians inhabit this miserable frozen tundra? The worst kind. The kind that break into a shitty motel room and steal a woman’s La Perla panties and bras. Crack whores. Tweakers. Panty-sniffing perverts.

I slam the door open and walk all of the way into the room, too fucking pissed to worry about my personal safety. Actually, I hope one of the panty-pilfering Neanderthals is still lurking about so I can take off my size six Burberry Finways and jam my stiletto heel into his sloped forehead. I haven’t been sweating my ass off in Body Combat and Krav Maga classes just so I can fit into size-two skinny jeans.

The tacky western-printed curtains flutter. The window is open. That’s strange. I didn’t leave it open. Wait a minute! Maybe they were in the middle of pinching my panties and kidnapping my Louis Vs, heard me coming down the hall, and jumped out the window.

Hurrying to the window, I trip over something solid and fall flat on my face. What the… I push myself up on all fours, stand, and prepare to deliver a swift uppercut elbow to my assailant’s throat, but there’s no assailant, just my battered carry-on.

Yanking the curtains open, I stick my head out the window in time to see two teenagers dressed in Goth garb running away with my suitcases.

“You better run you freaky little motherfuckers”—I climb onto the windowsill—“because when I catch you, I am going to—”

I am just about to jump out the window onto a pile of snow when I feel a solid grip on my forearm.

“Stop! What, are you totes cray cray?”

I turn around and find a tall brunette with heavy bangs and big round black glasses standing behind me, clutching my arm.

“Let go of me.” I try to pull my arm free. “They stole my luggage. I am going after them.”

“Oh, no you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“It’s not safe. They could be legit jerries.” She sticks her head out the window and looks down the street just as the Marilyn Manson groupies are tossing my luggage into a rusted out pickup truck. “Shitballs! They’re jerries, all right.”

The groupies jump into the back of the flatbed and the truck speeds off, gears grinding, wheels crunching over the snow packed road. She pulls her head back into the room. I hop down off the windowsill.

“Who are you? And what in the hell is a jerry?”

“I’m Delaney Brooks,” she says, using her index finger to push her ridiculously large glasses up her nose. “The other outreach worker with Each One, Teach One. We’re traveling to Sitka together.”

I stare at her mouth. She is speaking because her lips are moving, but my mind must be on a five-second delay. All I can hear is the sound of that shitty pickup truck speeding away with my precious luggage.

“You’re Stéphanie Moreau, right?”

I nod. Too numb to speak. This isn’t happening. This. Is. Not. Happening.
Non
. There’s been some kind of mistake. I want to cry, to rage, to bargain—all of the typical reactions of someone in grief.

I blink several times and look back at the girl with the chunky bangs and chunkier glasses. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Delaney. Delaney Brooks.” She holds out her hand and smiles a big Colgate-white toothy grin. “My friends call me Laney, though.”

“
Bonjour
, Laney.” I shake her hand. “I am Stéphanie, but my friends call me Fanny.”

“Fanny, Fanny. Bi-Banny. Fee-foe-fi-Fanny.” She strums her fingers as if playing an invisible guitar. “Fanny! Fanny Price. Fanny Farmer. Fanny around with press releases.”

She finishes her air guitar solo and does a little bow. You know that awkward moment when you’re checking yourself out in a store window and then realize there’s someone on the other side watching you? Or when you say you need to lose weight and then realize there’s an obese person standing nearby? Yeah, this awkward moment is worse—much, much worse. I am not sure if I am supposed to applaud or respond with a Laney song.

“Um, thanks for the…” I don’t know how to finish the sentence. Bizarre greeting? Freaky song? Mentally disturbed rambling?

“It’s nothing.” Laney shrugs her shoulders and laughs. “Just a little trick I use to help me remember names.”

“Oooo-kay.” I have to fight to stop from making a circle with my finger near my temple, because the girl is a little black dress short of a wardrobe. “I think I understand your little ditty, but what is ‘fanny around with press releases?’”