Chapter 12
Kaylee
At straight-up six, Liz and I walk across the grassy strip separating Luke’s campsite and mine. I admit to being a little nervous and fretting over that incredible first kiss we shared on the mountain. My toes still curl at the memory! The guy knows how to kiss, but what did it mean? Was it just a spontaneous reaction to me almost tumbling down the trail? If he’s planning to go back home at the end of the week, can this really go anywhere?
I observe Luke undetected as he sets food on the picnic table. Despite my underwhelming dating experience—meaning I’ve dated exactly two guys for any length of time—this guy makes me want to instantly assign him boyfriend status and hope he returns the favor of deeming me his girlfriend. What’s happening to me? I usually overthink everything, but here I am considering a serious relationship with a guy I’ve known for less than a couple days.
Yap! Yap! Liz blows our cover .
Luke looks up, and a slow sexy smile crosses his face, causing my heart to flip. Whew! I’ve got it bad for this guy.
“Hey! You made it,” he says.
Trying not to trip over my own feet, I carefully pick my way across the last stretch of grass as Liz pulls like a Saint Bernard, tugging at the end of her leash. Luke bends over and greets my dog while she dances around his feet. She’s as taken with him as I am.
“I brought some chips and salsa,” I say, holding up my contribution to the meal. “Hope this goes okay with the prepackaged meals.”
“Practically anything goes okay with these,” he says, pointing to a variety of shiny pouches spread out on the tabletop. “Lady’s choice.”
“Do you have to heat them?” I ask as I pick up a pouch and read the label.
“No, they’re not that kind, I got the ones you don’t have to warm. Just open, stir, and eat.” He seems rather pleased with that choice, but I’m dubious. Cold entrées ?
Deciding on the cheese tortellini meal, I rip open the pouch. Luke hands me a fork, and I dig in. Eating pasta cold is not exactly a culinary delight: it reminds me of eating paste. Not that I’ve ever eaten that, but I imagine this is what it would taste like. Plastering on a neutral expression, I choke down my first bite.
Chew, chew, chew. Take a sip of water. Chew. Chew. Chew.
“You’re wrinkling your nose. Do you hate it?” he asks.
I swallow the horrible bite, trying not to gag. “I’d like it better if it was warm,” I rasp. “It’s edible, but—”
He laughs. “But?”
Turning apologetic eyes to him, I say, “But it’s like eating paste.”
Barking a laugh, he says, “That bad?”
“I think I’d rather eat a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich than this. Sorry!” I say, grabbing a couple chips, furiously dipping them in the salsa, and popping them into my mouth, hoping to eliminate that awful paste taste .
“MREs aren’t for everybody, but you can eat them anywhere and they have a long shelf life,” Luke says, defending what has to be the worst food on the planet.
Leaning towards him, I whisper, “Honestly, eating this stuff makes me feel like a prepper.”
His eyes widen. “What experience do you have with preppers?”
“My uncle’s one. His basement is outfitted and ready for when an apocalypse hits.” Waving my hand in a dismissive fashion, I say, “Let’s not talk about him. Can we discuss the suspect list and our plan for tomorrow?” I snag another handful of chips, place them on a paper towel, and dip each one in the salsa, my taste buds slowly returning to normal.
“Are you going to finish that?” Luke asks before I can pull out my phone to bring up the list. His MRE pouch sits empty on the tabletop, so he’s pointing at mine.
I arch my eyebrows and slide my MRE across the table. “All yours. I’ll snack on chips. ”
“The problem with these is the portion size is so small; you have to eat a couple to fill up.”
“You mean you have to choke down a couple to fill up,” I retort. “Guess I wouldn’t survive an apocalypse if these were all we had to eat.”
We look at each other, bend over, and laugh. Several beats tick by before our mirth passes.
Wiping my fingers on my jeans, I whip out my phone and pull up our suspect list. “What’s our strategy for tomorrow?”
My partner polishes off the second MRE, then starts chowing down on the chips and salsa. As my mom would say, this guy has a hollow leg. “Who do you think is our top suspect?” he asks between crunches.
“The Richie Riches,” I say without hesitation. “Look at all their fancy stuff. That vehicle alone costs over eighty grand.”
“They could be software developers who started their own company, sold it for a huge price, and are living off the proceeds. ”
Tapping my chin, deep in thought, I say, “True. But I don’t get a good vibe off them.”
“Vibe? What kind of vibe did you get about these potential suspects?” He snort/chuckles and I toss him a glare.
Leaning closer, I reply, my voice barely above a whisper, “Here’s the deal. Neither one has been on their phone or a tablet since they got here. That’s not typical behavior for software developers.”
“You are observant, aren’t you?” Luke says with a grin. “Okay, so our number one suspects are the Richie Riches. Who else?”
“These are more of a stretch, but I’ve got a feeling about both of them.”
“Ooh! Another bad vibe?” he teases.
Shrugging, I say, “Yellow Galoshes and the VW Bus Gang. The VWers have a perfect disguise with the rusty old bus, the two kids, and the dog. Who would suspect them? ”
Nodding, he says, “I’m not going to bet against your vibes. Let’s watch both of those groups closely tomorrow. What’s your reasoning for Yellow Galoshes?”
“The more I think about it, the more the cargo pants make me suspicious. Is collecting rocks a smokescreen? It would give her plenty of excuses to bend down and sneakily snip some alpine-parsley.”
Luke nods thoughtfully then hops to his feet. “Time for dessert!” Striding over to the Jeep, he pulls out two grocery bags. “Fixings for s’mores!” he says excitedly as he removes each item from the bag. Graham crackers... Hershey’s chocolate bars... marshmallows. “Voilà!”
Ugh! There’s a teeny, tiny piece of information I failed to disclose about why I was thrown out of the Brownie troop. Should I share that now or keep my mouth shut? Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same spot, right? I wince. Bad metaphor when thinking about forest fires .
Luke looks so proud of himself, and my mouth waters just thinking about the chocolatey marshmallow goodness waiting for me. I managed to roast hot dogs over an open flame without disaster, so why am I concerned about roasting marshmallows? Decision made! “Start the fire and let’s get cooking,” I say, hiding my anxiety behind a fake, overly bright smile. Hottie Mountain Man will keep me from burning down the entire mountainside, right?