Detour Ahead. Cindi Myers
“Nice to talk to you. How are you doing?”
“I’m actually pretty busy right now. I just called to get directions to your place.”
“Sure. Or if you want to meet for a drink or something I can bring you a map.”
“I don’t really have time for that. Just give me your address.”
She frowned. Craig wasn’t any chattier on the phone than he was via e-mail. “Sure. I’m really easy to find.” She rattled off her address and the names of the cross streets.
“Great. I’ll pick you up at eight on Saturday morning.”
Almost too late, she realized he was about to hang up. “Wait, wait,” she called. “Don’t hang up yet.”
“What is it?” He came back on the line.
“Is there anything I should bring? Anything you need me to do?”
“No, I already have everything planned out. And I have reservations for hotels along the way.”
“You do?” Not that she wasn’t aware some people traveled this way; she just never saw the point.
“Yes. That way we don’t have to waste any time searching for a place to stay each night.”
“What if something happens and we don’t make it to the place where you have reservations?”
“What could happen?”
“I don’t know—bad weather, construction detours. Or we could get lost.” She didn’t mention that she always got lost at least once on a trip of any length.
“You don’t have to worry about that. I have our itinerary all mapped out and I’ve checked road conditions.”
“Oh. Well, I wasn’t really worried.” She shifted the phone to her other ear. “Are you sure you don’t have time for a quick drink? Or a cup of coffee.”
“Sorry, but I’m pretty busy here. I’d better go.”
Without waiting for her to say good-bye, he hung up. She replaced the phone in its cradle and stared at it, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Hadn’t Mr. Brinkman heard that first impressions counted? He certainly hadn’t made a very good one with her.
She sat back on the sofa and stared at the television. The Pause function had timed out and the movie had stopped altogether while she’d been on the phone. Just as well. She couldn’t focus on enjoying Guy Pierce in drag until she’d sorted out her reaction to Craig Brinkman.
What she knew about Craig:
A) He didn’t waste time on small talk, to the point of brusqueness. Her father would have said he was a “no-nonsense kind of fellow,” something Dad approved of. So maybe that wasn’t all bad, though it tended to annoy Marlee.
B) He was a planner. Okay, some people were like that. They liked to pretend they were in control. Not her cup of tea but she could live with it.
Besides, she’d taken enough detours in her life to know that you could never, ever, count on things turning out the way you planned them. She’d give Craig’s itinerary a day, maybe a day and a half, before something came up to throw it off completely.
C) He wasn’t very sociable. Sure, he said he was “busy” but who was so busy he couldn’t have a cup of coffee or a single drink? Especially with someone he’d be spending an awful lot of time with in the next week or so. Of course, maybe he reasoned that since he was going to be hanging out with her all week there was no need to worry about getting to know her before then. Men did think like that sometimes.
So this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach when she thought of Craig didn’t mean that he was a bad person. He was different, maybe, than the people she normally chose to hang out with, but that wasn’t all bad, was it? It was good to get out and get to know different people. She was all for expanding her horizons.
She sat back and hit the Play button for the movie. Fine. Traveling with Craig Brinkman would be merely another kind of adventure. Maybe not the most fun she’d ever had in a car, but it was better than riding the bus.
Just in case though, it wouldn’t hurt to pack the Greyhound schedule.
2
MARLEE was up early Saturday morning, stashing the last few necessities in her suitcase and keeping watch out the front window for her ride. She paced the living-room floor, stopping from time to time to stretch or to fetch some last-minute item to stow in her bags. Anything to burn off the nervous energy humming through her. She couldn’t wait to see Susan. And to meet Bryan’s friend, Craig.
He was probably a lot nicer guy than he’d sounded on the phone. After all, how much could you really tell from a few minutes’ conversation and a single e-mail?
They’d have plenty of time to get to know each other on this trip. She’d probably spend more time with Craig Brinkman in the next week than she had with the last four or five guys she’d dated. Men seemed to prefer her as a friend instead of a girlfriend.
Fine. She’d settle for a friendly relationship with the man who was providing a way for her to get to Susan’s wedding. A girl couldn’t have too many friends, could she?
A sleek black sedan turned the corner and she pulled back the curtains for a better look. A Beemer. Very up-and-coming professional looking. Not very imaginative, but it definitely looked better than a Greyhound bus, so she wasn’t complaining. The car parked at the curb and a tall, dark-haired man unfolded from the front seat. She let out a low whistle. Very, very nice. He wore loose-fitting jeans, a polo shirt that showed off broad shoulders and muscular forearms and dark sunglasses that added a hint of mystery. Why hadn’t Susan mentioned her chauffeur was so easy on the eyes?
He slammed the car door shut and headed up the walk toward the main house. Marlee’s shoulders slumped. Oh. So maybe this wasn’t the right guy after all. She picked up the oversize tote bag she’d stashed next to her suitcase and inventoried the contents once more. Should she take another bottle of water? More sunscreen?
She was in the bathroom searching for another tube of sunscreen when the doorbell rang. She checked the peephole and found Mr. Gorgeous himself on her front porch. She hurried to unfasten the multiple locks and chains. “Hello,” she said. “You must be Craig. I’m Marlee.”
He nodded. “You didn’t tell me you were in the carriage house.”
Ouch! Was that any way to start their trip? She purposely flashed her biggest smile. “I didn’t? Sorry about that. The main house is 112A. I’m in 112B, but quite a few people get the addresses mixed up.” See? It’s all your fault you went to the wrong door first. She held the door wide. “Won’t you come in? Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”
“No thanks.” Sunglasses still hiding his eyes, he stepped into the living room and looked around. She wondered what he was thinking. She’d decorated the place herself, in what one friend had dubbed “eclectic kitsch.” A row of brightly colored papier-mâché cats from Guatemala lined the mantel over the small gas fireplace, a fuchsia shawl from India was draped over her Salvation Army sofa and a chipped marble garden bench served as her coffee table, while an inflatable palm tree left over from a photo shoot took the place of any living plants.
He frowned at the palm tree. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes. My luggage is right over here.” She started toward the bags she’d stashed to the left of the door.
He shook his head.
She looked at him. “What?”
“I should have known a woman would pack half her closet for just a few days.”
The words set her teeth on edge. She faced him, hands on her hips. “We’ll be gone over a week. Besides, that’s not half my closet. Not even