Preview of Not What We Pictured
KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK OF BECCA KINZER S NEXT ROM-COM!
S IR ? THE SCENT OF MULCH and pine surrounded McKenna as she finally stumbled off the most sandal-averse trail in the world, closer to the proposal bench.
The man, dressed in a teal T-shirt and gray cargo pants, remained motionless, reclined flat with a black ball cap resting over his face and a brown messenger bag beneath his head as a pillow.
His hands were clasped and resting on top of what appeared to be a trim muscled stomach.
Vintage-looking white Nikes with a black swoosh jutted off the opposite end of the bench where his ankles were crossed.
Sir, I hate to bother you. Really, I do, but... Her hand hovered over his shoulder. Then his hat. Then back to his shoulder. She didn t know where to touch him. Everything felt too personal. Like Hey honey, can you wake up? Where was the Hey dude, scram part of the body?
She leaned down. Was his chest moving? She crouched closer to make sure he was breathing. Of course he was. Nobody looked this relaxed and comfortable dead. But how was he so still? Mannequins weren t this still. And what was tickling her toes?
Snake!
McKenna kicked one foot. Then the other. Then nearly face-planted into the guy s left armpit before realizing the deadly snake was nothing more than an overgrown piece of grass.
She caught herself in time, but not before getting a small taste of fabric when her tongue brushed the armpit of the guy s T-shirt because she was open-mouthed and silently shrieking.
The good news—she hadn t made a peep during that whole escapade, so the guy was still sleeping.
The bad news—she hadn t made a peep during that whole escapade, so the guy was still sleeping.
The unexpected news—the armpit of his T-shirt tasted better than the armpit of a stranger s T-shirt ever should. What did this guy do? Smear his armpits with apple pie?
Okay, enough. She didn t have time to think about armpits. Oliver and Bobbi might already be on the way.
Sir, she said, lifting her foot to nudge one of his shoes. Before her sandaled foot connected, he sprang from the bench. Her Birkenstock got caught between his Nikes. She hopped, spun, then found herself getting a taste of the turf.
One of these days she really needed to learn how to close her mouth—or at least scream out loud—when she was getting attacked by pretend snakes and dangerous strangers.
Ppthhht. She spit bits of mulch out of her mouth as she rolled onto her side, feeling for the shape of the engagement ring inside her pocket—good, still there—then took aim with the only weapon she had.
Stop it, stop it, stop it, she yelled, at last finding her voice as she fired off several shots with each stop it .
Stop what? asked the dangerous stranger, who McKenna had to admit was looking less dangerous by the second as he stood frozen, hands raised, with Windex spray dripping off his glasses. What s wrong with you?
Well, there was certainly nothing wrong with her aim. But to address his question more specifically, You drop-kicked me for no good reason.
He removed his glasses and began wiping them off with the bottom hem of his shirt.
Pretty sure waking up to find a stranger putting the moves on your armpit is a solid enough reason to drop-kick someone.
But for the record, I wasn t drop-kicking you.
I was just trying to defend myself after I d recovered from my initial shock.
Tall and lean muscled, he loomed over her with a fierce scowl. But hey, at least he wasn t slumbering or dead anymore, so they were moving in the right direction.
As he continued drying his glasses, McKenna scrambled to her feet. Well, if we re going to be keeping a record, might I add, sir, that nobody was getting amorous with your armpit. I was simply trying to make sure you were breathing when I slipped.
The scowl on his face dissolved into annoyance. Well, you sure have a sneaky method for determining someone s respiratory status, he said, leaning down to the ground to pick up what looked like an earbud.
Respiratory status? What are you, a nurse or something? Normal people don t talk like that.
You want to know what normal people don t do? Sneak up on complete strangers.
Right. So sneaky the way I yelled sir! thirty thousand times before I even got to the bench.
What was I supposed to do? Throw a pine cone at you from a hundred feet away before I approached?
Besides, she d apologized, hadn t she? The least he could do was accept her apology and thank her for cleaning his glasses—and maybe tell her what brand of deodorant he used.
Let me give you a little friendly advice, the stranger said, holding his glasses up to the early evening sky, then dropping them back down to the hem of his shirt. When you see a stranger sleeping on a bench, don t approach the stranger at all. Just keep on walking.
Thank you. Appreciate the advice. Now here s mine. If you re going to offer friendly advice, try sounding a little friendly about it. Also, for the record—
Oh, you really do want to keep a record, don t you?
—that s terrible advice. What if the sleeping stranger needed my help?
Why on earth would a sleeping stranger need your help?
Dozens of reasons.
Name one.
McKenna blew her hair from her eyes—not that her unruly red curls ever obeyed—and began spraying down the bench with the Windex.
Okay. How about if I see some grizzly-looking guy in a prison suit with a rock in his hand, about to smash a sleeping stranger s head in so he can steal his clothes and identification?
What then? Don t bother the sleeping stranger? Just keep on walking?
He settled his messenger bag over his right shoulder. If you come across a grizzly-looking guy in a prison suit about to bash in someone s head, then yes, by all means, throw a pine cone first.
McKenna felt the edges of her lips quirk upwards. She forced them back flat. This guy wasn t funny. He was... weird. And annoying. And maybe not completely terrible to look at. Which made him even more annoying.
While he returned to cleaning his glasses—good grief, how clean did those glasses need to be?—McKenna took the opportunity to study his face, capturing it like a photo in her mind the way she often did when taking in something new.
As much as she hated to admit it, he had a nice face even with the scowl. The right sort of angles. Nice jawline. Straight nose. Pleasant lips, the bottom a little more filled out than the top.
His glasses and short brown hair—except for the cowlick sticking up in the back and the windblown look in the front—gave off scholarly vibes.
The scripted tattoo on his inner right forearm that she couldn t see well enough to decipher offered a slight air of mystery.
His eyes appeared the type of hazel that change colors depending on the lighting.
Green now. More blue in the bright daylight. Probably almost brown once the sun set.
She sucked in a breath. Sunset . Her mission.
She refocused on dousing the bench with Windex. So all joking aside, I need you to leave.
I wasn t aware we were joking, and... no.
He settled his glasses back in place as she grabbed the roll of paper towels from her bag. What do you mean no ?
Well... think of yes, then sort of think of the opposite of yes, and that s pretty much what I mean when I say no.
Maybe I haven t made things clear.
You have. My glasses have never been cleaner.
Thing is, I need this bench.
Who says I don t need this bench?
Why on earth would you need this bench? Take a nap somewhere else.
I wasn t napping. I was writing.
She picked up his notebook, which had flopped open on the ground. With what? Invisible ink?
Hey. He held his hand out for the notebook. That s private.
She twisted away from him, flipping through the pages. Which part? The spiral wires and empty blue lines?
For the record—
Oh, see? You re into keeping records too.
Saint-Pol-Roux would hang an inscription above his door that read The poet is working while he slept. He pointed at her as if he d just proved something before retrieving his hat, which had apparently gotten knocked to the ground during the fierce battle of Birkenstock vs. Nike.
I m sorry, McKenna said after she felt like she d taken the appropriate amount of time to decipher what he d just said, which was probably three seconds longer than the statement deserved.
Did we just transition into some bizarre version of Jeopardy!
? Bzzzz. McKenna pretended to click a buzzer in her hand.
What are random sentences that don t mean anything?
It does mean something. It means sometimes a poet needs time to ponder before he s ready to put forth any words.
Ah, so you re a poet. Well, Mr. Emily Dickinson, you want to know what I m pondering right now? Why you can t put forth your pre-pondered words from a different location. Like any one of the dozens of benches along that trail. She pointed to the path she d just walked down.
Wait. No. That s the one Oliver and Bobbi would probably be coming down. Last thing she needed was for them to stumble upon a strange poet pondering . Not when she desperately needed this proposal to happen.
On second thought, take that trail. McKenna pointed to one that was likely still flooded from an unusually heavy rain season in the spring, but this rhymester didn t need to know that. If I recall correctly, there s a real nice pondering bench less than a half mile up the trail.
She gently pushed him in the direction of the muddy trail.
Then pushed harder when he refused to budge.
He was a tall guy. But then, she was a tall girl. She ought to be able to shove him further than an inch.
Can t help but notice, she said, grunting the same way she had when she moved her refrigerator on her own to repaint the kitchen a few months ago, that you re not really moving.