Story of My Life (Story Lake #1)

20. Two-wheeled menace

20

TWO-WHEELED MENACE

HAZEL

The next morning, I was determined to appear to be unruffled. Just because I, Hazel Freaking Hart, had my first date in over a decade with a man who had inadvertently inspired me to change my entire life was no reason to let anyone—besides Bertha, the chubby raccoon that I bumped into on the stairs—know I was hyperventilating on the inside.

Sure, it was just a fake date for research purposes, but I still had to put forth real-date effort.

By the time the Bishops arrived at the butt crack of dawn—7:30 in the morning—I was dressed, made-up, caffeinated, and typing gibberish into my document while I did a mental assessment of my wardrobe. I’d spent my married life on two extreme ends of the clothing spectrum: workout wear and cocktail attire. Neither seemed appropriate for a small-town date with a blue-collar hottie.

“Mornin’,” Levi said, pausing in the library doorway.

“Good morning,” I said a little too chipperly.

Cam glanced my way, grunted, and continued on to the war zone of the kitchen.

Gage poked his head into the room. “Morning, Hazel. Just wanted to remind you that you have a date.”

I blinked several times in a row. Had Cam told his brothers about our arrangement after he explicitly told me not to? Or was this Gage’s way of asking me out? Or did one of the brothers from the town meeting think I’d actually said yes to their strange offers?

“I do?” I said, trying for casual but landing somewhere near being strangled.

“My sister, Laura, is taking you shopping to pick out finishes. Light fixtures, tile, that sort of thing,” he said. “Here’s her number. She said give her a call any time after ten.”

I sagged in relief. Thank God I wasn’t actually dating. The mental gymnastics alone were exhausting.

Gage crossed to me and handed me a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it.

“Thanks,” I said. “No Melvin today?”

“He’s taking a shift at the store with our mom. Fewer bathtubs to get into there.”

“Gage!” Cam barked from the back of the house.

Gage’s grin was like the sun poking its head out from behind rain clouds. “I don’t think he likes it when I’m alone with you.”

“He’s probably just afraid I’ll corrupt you with my big-city ways,” I joked.

“I’m tempted to hang out in here all day,” Gage said. “I could help you unpack your books. Maybe take you and your friend Zoey to lunch?—”

“Hey, dumbass!” Cam appeared in the doorway, looking like the entire world was irritating him. “Are you gonna help us get the counters out to the dumpster or are you gonna stay here and keep runnin’ your mouth?”

Gage looked my way and grinned. “Definitely leaning toward stayin’ here.”

Cam grabbed his brother by the back of his neck and marched him out of the room, rattling the glass door with a slam.

“Well, that was…interesting,” I said to the empty room.

I gave the whole writing-a-book thing a valiant effort, but I was so wound up about my fake date and the incessant demolition and bickering noises that I threw in the towel by nine.

It was still too early to call Laura, but I needed to get out. Some fresh air would do me good, I decided, guiltily checking my pathetic word count for the day. I had a date tomorrow with Cactus Cam Bishop. The words would flow like a barrel over Niagara Falls this weekend, once I was topped off with Camspiration. I could afford to take some time for myself today, I rationalized.

I tiptoed out the front door—not like a coward avoiding the attractive men in my house, but like a thoughtful client who didn’t want to distract the crew from their very loud job. I congratulated myself on getting really good at rationalizing and took a deep inhalation of summer humidity.

Bees and other insects buzzed noisily in my overgrown yard—a novel sound that delighted this big-city procrastinator. It was so…peaceful.

At least until heavy footsteps thumped across the porch roof and a powder-blue toilet sailed through the air into the dumpster in my driveway and shattered on contact.

“For the love of—” I abruptly cut off my tirade when I spied my spiderweb-covered bike leaning against the porch railing. Escape .

I carried it off the porch, ducking instinctively when something else smashed into the dumpster behind me, and wheeled the bike around the side of the house. I found an old nozzleless hose near the library windows and proceeded to rinse the neglect off my old friend.

Both tires were flat and the brakes were a little sticky, but I was confident I could get it in leisurely-ride-around-town shape in no time.

“Now where did I put that tire pump?” I muttered to myself.

“Hey, neighbor!”

Yelping, I jolted and hosed down a four-foot section of fence, regaining control just before I sprayed the floating head.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” I said, shutting off the water.

“My fault. I should have started with a gentle wave or something. I spend a lot of time talking to people on screens, and sometimes I forget how to not be weird face-to-face.” The head belonged to a young Black woman with a short shock of turquoise hair held back by a thick headband. She had a fanciful tattoo that wrapped around from her chest to her shoulder.

“Are you a romance novelist too?” I joked.

“Ha. No. I’m a game designer, video, not board. I live next door in case you were worried that I was some yard-hopping weirdo,” she said, hooking her thumb toward the cozy cottage-like ranch house behind her. “Felicity.”

“Hazel,” I said with a wave. “I live here now.”

The sound of glass shattering in the dumpster had us both flinching.

“Very peaceful,” Felicity said over the litany of swear words that was coming from the front of my house.

“You don’t by chance have a tire pump, do you?”

“So you just picked up and moved here without even seeing the place?” Felicity asked as I muscled air into the front tire on the flagstone patio she’d installed herself off the side of her house. It was crowded with potted plants and a screened-in catio that housed a fat tabby whose only sign of life was an occasional tail twitch.

“To be fair, Darius’s auction listing took some creative license with the condition of the property,” I said, not wanting to sound crazier than I was.

“Still, that’s giving main character energy. I mean it was a bold move,,” she added quickly, as if she were used to talking to middle-aged folks whose grasp of slang had ended in the 1990s. She topped off my glass of homemade lavender lemonade. “Sometimes I wish I were brave. But then I remember how comfortable I am and decide that being brave is overrated.”

“I feel more desperate than brave most days,” I confessed, screwing the cap back on the tire valve.

“You faced down Emilie Rump in a town meeting. That’s brave.”

“Oh, God. I don’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. I don’t remember seeing you there,” I said, blowing my bangs off my forehead.

“I watched the livestream. I, uh, don’t like to leave my house much,” Felicity said. “It’s my weird quirk.”

“We’ve all got ’em,” I assured her.

“Really? What’s yours?”

“You mean besides crashing my car into the town sign and being accused of vehicular birdslaughter? I have to sleep with my hands and feet under the covers so the monsters under the bed won’t get them.”

“Pfft. That’s not weird,” Felicity insisted. “Everyone does monster prevention.”

“Okay. How about I can only watch reruns on TV while I’m eating dinner, I act out the dialogue I’m writing with my face, and once I take a pair of socks off, I can’t put them back on? Also, I just snuck out of my own house because being surrounded by attractive, available men makes me break out in hives.”

“I think we’ll get along just fine,” Felicity predicted.

Ten minutes later, I was sufficiently sugared up, dressed for a brisk summer ride, and ready to escape the dusty, crash-y mess that was my house.

I was buckling my helmet into place in the driveway when Cam appeared on the porch roof to hurl the Pepto Bismol–pink bathroom sink into the dumpster.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“Going for a ride,” I said, swinging my leg over the bike.

“Try not to destroy any public property.”

“Me me mee me mee,” I mimicked.

“Real mature, Trouble. Watch out for birds,” Cam warned.

I smirked and righted the bike, balancing on two wheels without moving.

“I think I’ll be all right.”

He shook his head. “I can’t watch this. If I see you fall, I’ll feel obligated to drive your blood-soaked body to the doc, and I’ve got too much shit to do today to play chauffeur.”

“Later, loser,” I said, sticking my tongue out at him and pushing off.

The muscle memory came back in a rush. I took off down the sidewalk, leaving Cam’s “that woman is a menace” in my dust before bunny hopping off the curb and into the street.

The sweltering breeze in my face brought back memories of weaving through standstill traffic and swooping through crowds of jaywalking pedestrians. I’d been a bike messenger for three exhilarating years after college before I’d sold my first book.

I patted my backpack to make sure I had remembered my phone and wallet, then took a fast loop around Main Street. It was another quiet day in town, I noted, veering off onto Lake Drive. To my left, the pristine lake waters sparkled in the morning sun. A handful of boats and kayaks crisscrossed the lake’s surface while a small crowd of people enjoyed a summer morning on the sandy beach and swimming area.

A silent shadow fell over me, and I hunched over the handlebars. Goose soared past me, banking hard over the lake before swooping dangerously low over an unsuspecting kayaker.

I saw a paddle and a splash as the kayak tipped over, dumping its occupant into the water. Goose landed smugly on the overturned kayak. “Classic Goose,” I said, shaking my head.

My attention was drawn to the small section of storefronts on my right. Most of them were empty, except for a colorful clothing boutique and a—ooh! I slammed on my brakes and came to a stop in front of Story Lake Stories, a tiny bookshop.

They weren’t open yet, or I would have performed a thorough inventory in all my humid glory. Probably for the best. After my first impression, it probably wouldn’t hurt to make my second and third impressions a little more friendly and competent.

Pushing off again, I followed the lakefront until Lake Drive became Lodge Lane. I could pay Zoey a visit. After so many decades of friendship, there was no need to impress her.

The road was wooded on both sides, and the lake soon disappeared behind a wall of forest. There were a few dirt lanes marked by mailboxes that cut through the trees toward the lake, and I wondered what kinds of houses lay at the end of them. The road snaked up and around the east end of the lake, gaining a not-so-subtle altitude.

My out-of-pedaling-shape legs began to protest the incline. My pelvic bones joined in, making me wish I’d taken the time to dig out my old padded bike shorts.

By the time I crawled past the handsome carved Story Lake Lodge sign, I was sweating like I’d been locked in a sauna. I shoved my damp bangs out of my eyes and huffed and puffed my way to the two-story timber-beamed porte cochere.

The lodge rose impressively from forest and rock with picturesque black board and batten siding and a mountain-green metal roof. Thick natural rafters held up the front veranda. Two wings jutted out from either side, angling toward the lake beyond. I came to a breathless stop in front of a conveniently empty bike rack near the front porch next to a glossy-leafed rhododendron. There were only half a dozen cars in the parking lot, which could have held over one hundred.

I parked my bike in the rack and hung the helmet from the handlebars. I took the stone stairs and was still fluffing out my bedraggled hair when I hit the huge glass-front doors. They opened automatically and I stepped inside, worshipping the cool air.

The two-story lobby offered sweeping views of the lake through a wall of glass. Leather couches were positioned in a U around a massive stacked-stone fireplace. There was a small library-themed bar in one corner and a dozen small tables and chairs scattered around the stamped-concrete floor.

“Come on. Be a big girl and take one bite,” a disembodied female voice insisted from behind the backlit granite of the front desk.

“You know I don’t like cabbage,” a perkier voice complained.

“Babe, it’s kimchi, not cabbage.”

“Kimchi is cabbage, and I’m sorry to say, but I never cared for your grandfather’s recipe. And before you give me the speech again, yes, I know it’s part of your Korean heritage, which you know I love. I just don’t love cabbage.”

“Gramps’s recipe sucked. Mine is amazing. Eat.”

“I don’t wanna—oh, hey. That’s not bad.”

“Not bad? Truffle fries with aioli are not bad. This omelet is gastric perfection.”

“Not bad gastric perfection.”

I was just debating texting Zoey for directions to her room when a coughing fit caused by my own saliva overtook me.

A woman jumped to her feet from behind the front desk.

“Welcome to Story Lake Lodge!” she chirped. Short, curvy, and smiley with dark skin and a cascade of curls atop her head, there was something about her that reminded me of a camp counselor ready to reassure nervous parents that their children probably wouldn’t be emotionally scarred under her care. It may have been the polo shirt, khaki shorts, and lanyard.

She greeted me while not so subtly kicking the woman slouched in the desk chair next to her. A pair of Tory Burch combat boots slid off the counter and hit the floor. They were on the feet of a well-dressed woman who had a good eight inches in height on the first. This one was wearing a double-breasted vest that showed off two arms’ worth of simple blackwork tattoos. She wore her glossy black hair in a short side comb. Everything about her made me think confident and edgy.

“Can we help you with your bags? Or get you a gallon of water?” she offered in a husky voice. Both women looked me over from head to toe.

“Uh, no bags,” I rasped. “I’m just here to see a friend.”

The dueling looks of disappointment made me instantly feel guilty. The lobby was emptier than the parking lot, and with a property this size, that probably wasn’t good.

“Oh! You must be here for Zoey. You’re the romance novelist, right?” the camp counselor lookalike said. “I didn’t recognize you. Last night you…” She trailed off, too polite to mention my bedraggled appearance.

“Had all my hydration on the inside of my body?” I offered, tugging at the damp neck of my shirt.

She wrinkled her nose apologetically. “Kinda. Yeah.”

The edgy combat boot wearer leaned an elbow against the granite. “Heard your first town meeting was a memorable one.”

“Well, only if you call being exonerated for bird murder memorable,” I quipped.

“I’m sorry I missed it. Had some late check-ins. But Billie texted me updates,” she said, hooking her thumb at her front desk partner.

They were wearing matching silver bands on their ring fingers.

“Right. You were eating Skittles in the back,” I said to Billie.

Edgy gasped theatrically. “You told me we were out of Skittles!”

Billie winced. “Well, we are now .”

Edgy shook her head. “It’s like I don’t even know you.” She turned back to me. “I’m Hana, by the way. This is Billie. Zoey’s in 204. Elevators are just down that hall. I’d show you, but I need to stay here and guilt-trip my wife about her snack shenanigans.”

“Understood,” I said.

“Here. Take these,” Hana said, sliding two tasting plates with omelet on them toward me. “Breakfast of kimchi-ians.”

Billie shook her head. “I thought we talked about the dad jokes, Han.”

“And I thought we were out of Skittles. I guess we’re even.”

I used my foot to knock on Zoey’s door. “Room service,” I trilled.

The door swung open to reveal my friend with her curls tamed into a sleek twist, a full face of makeup, a cute sleeveless top, and Spiderman pajama bottoms.

“Zoom call?” I asked, marching past her.

“In twenty. Why aren’t you writing? And what’s with the plates?”

“Kimchi omelets courtesy of Billie and Hana downstairs.”

“Gimme. Why aren’t you writing?” she demanded as I handed over one of the plates.

Her suite was what we New Yorkers would call rustic luxury, with quiet brown walls, leather furniture, and uninterrupted lake views. It was also bigger than her apartment.

“Nice digs,” I said. I took a seat at a small black onyx table by the balcony door.

“Hazel Misdirection Hart. Why is your drenched self in my hotel room instead of speed-writing the next great American romance novel?” Zoey asked as she took the chair across from me.

“Ugh. Because my house is full of hot, loud men, and I couldn’t hear myself think let alone figure out what happens after my heroine wrangles her contractor into a first date. Do you know how long it’s been since I went on a first date? I need your expertise.”

For instance, what was I supposed to wear on a date with Cam? Although I couldn’t tell her I had a date with Cam because he’d asked me not to tell anyone. And I couldn’t very well lie and say I was going out with a stranger because Zoey would demand an extensive background check on my pretend man and then try to follow me on said fake date.

“Much as I would love to be your resource, I have a Zoom in twenty minutes with an old friend at that online magazine Thrive and then calls with every female entertainment editor from the closest media outlets to remind people that you’re still relevant.”

I forked up a bite of breakfast. “That’s nice, but am I? Still relevant, I mean.”

“You will be if it kills me,” she said with determination. “I’m striking while your social media rebirth is hot. That newsletter you sent has the first decent open rate in forever, and I’m seeing screenshots of it on socials. I’m pitching the idea that at some point in her life, every woman fantasizes about running away and starting over to find her HEA, and here’s this adorable, kooky romance novelist who’s actually doing it.”

“Only problem is, I’m not looking for a happily ever after. I’m looking for inspiration and finding it in this omelet.”

Zoey grinned. “We’ll see.”