Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
NATALIE
Standing across the street from the town square and the pig lighting festival that spills from it, I struggle to take in everything that’s happened.
A week ago, I had everything figured out.
It was all nice and straightforward.
Just force myself to go on an adventure. Move to New Orleans to take a great new job and start afresh. Try on a different life for size.
And then Gabe Woods tackled me to the ground and I looked up into his eyes as he held me down, and something inside me went wonky.
On the other side of the street there’s music and laughter and lights around every one of the little wooden huts housing the festival stalls.
And usually it would make my heart sing.
But Wyatt has put a damper on that. He told me to stay away from Gabe. That Gabe is not the good guy I think he is. And it tallies with what I read online. Wyatt and I might not be close, or even really in touch, but he’s known Gabe for at least a couple of years. I’ve known him for seven days.
And of course it would only be a jerk who’s interested in me. I didn’t think my ex was one at the time. But looking back, I can see all his jerk-ish tendencies with fresh eyes. The way I’d hang out with his friends, but he’d never hang out with mine. The way if he hated a show I liked we wouldn’t watch it, yet I tolerated endless hours of stuff I had no interest in because it made him happy. And the way he accepted the job in Alaska just assuming I’d go with him without ever discussing it with me.
I thought I’d seen a glimpse of the good under Gabe’s loner-ish and grumpy exterior. But maybe I’m wrong and all that’s under there is a jerk. Because I’m a jerk magnet.
The heaviness dragging my heart to my stomach increases with the thought of Divina Montclair, and how much she will undoubtedly drive a self-serving truck through the community drama program and ruin it for the kids. While that’s something totally beyond my control I can’t help but feel responsible for it. If I weren’t leaving, she wouldn’t be here.
This dark weight inside me is a stark contrast to the music and laughter in front of me. Two happy little kids giggle as they pull their parents across the street toward the multicolored fun, the glittering lights, the games, and the bulbous, unlit Christmas pig.
Anyway, when it comes to Gabe, whatever the deal is with him doesn’t matter in the long run.
But could I still have some fun with him now and walk away pain-free in a few days? Could I prioritize some meaningless pleasure with a guy for the first time in my life ?
“Well, fuck me. It really is a giant pig.” I jump at Gabe’s words that snap me out of my reverie and find him standing beside me, parka zipped up tight to his dark beard, red beanie pulled down low.
My body shivers at his presence, every inch of it from the top of the bobble on my powder-blue hat to the tips of my toes in my winter boots. This man makes my chest flutter just by standing here. And it only takes his eyes meeting mine for me to become instantly wet.
His gaze quickly moves to the top of my head. “And what in all holy hell are these?” He twangs one of the pig ears on my headband with his gloved hand.
In spite of everything, a troupe of butterflies dance across my chest and a smile springs to my lips.
“It’s called entering into the spirit of the occasion,” I tell him. “You’ll be the odd one out without them.”
“Then I’m delighted not to fit in.”
“Did you really think I’d made up the pig lighting?” I ask. “My imagination isn’t that good.”
“There you go again, diminishing your talents, putting yourself down.” He nudges me playfully, sending a shiver of desire rippling down my side.
My belly quivers with the possibility that maybe it’s my impression of him that’s right, not Wyatt’s or the tabloids’.
“I was there for the rehearsal just now, remember.” The red of his hat is a bright contrast to his dark beard. “Your play’s a work of fucking genius. I haven’t laughed that hard since—well, since you first told me about Wendolyn and Sir Percival in my kitchen.”
My mind flashes back to that morning, wearing his Apollos T-shirt and baking cookies and thinking he was an annoying ass but that I’d better do something to say thank you for him putting me up for the night and taking care of my ankle—even though he was the one who’d hurt it in the first place.
“Is your aunt here?” he asks.
“Yeah, she had to come on ahead. One of her mayoral duties is to make the official speech and flick the switch on the pig.”
His broad chest shakes. “This town is totally fucking bonkers.”
And despite my new doubts, his deep laughter is infectious.
I slap him right over his heart. “Hey. It’s my town. And I fucking love it.”
He looks down at me and meets my eyes again. “Then why the hell are you leaving, Bugs?”
This time his tone has more of an undercurrent of affection and familiarity rather than teasing.
I don’t even have any answers to that question anymore.
The only thing I’m sure about is that I’m here right now. And so is he.
And when have I ever just said “fuck it” and enjoyed myself just for sheer pleasure of something?
Never.
So, fuck it. I’m going to have fun tonight. And maybe Gabe will have fun with me.
“Come on.” I tap my elbow against his. “The coffee twins usually have a little something hidden under the counter to spice up the cocoa for the adults.”
“Cheers, Atticus.” I drop my change into the jar on the counter of the Bearded Bean’s hut and hand the second cup of spiked sweet goodness to Gabe.
He’s about to take a sip, but I pull him to the side. “There’s a giant line behind us, so let’s get out of the way. Also, if you sip it right away, you’ll burn your tongue.”
Gabe’s eyebrows rise under the edge of his hat, and the coffee bean-shaped lights decorating the stall illuminate the glint in his eye.
Tongue.
My insides cringe with embarrassment.
Why did I have to mention his tongue? It sounds like I’m concerned it stays in good shape because of all the nice things it could do to me. Jesus.
“ Mouth . You’ll burn your mouth.” Not one hundred percent better, but a good fifty, so I’ll take that.
“Is it this busy every year?” Gabe says, thankfully not taking my accidental bait.
He glances around the packed town square that’s dotted with festive huts for sellers of gifts, snacks, and treats. The air’s filled with endless festive music piped through speakers attached to the light-and-tinsel-wrapped lampposts, and the laughter of happy families.
“Coming through,” says an unmistakable voice as the crowd in front of us parts and Mrs. Bentley and her walker emerge.
“I wouldn’t want to get in her way,” Gabe mutters out of the side of his mouth, his words only for me.
Yup, Mrs. Bentley’s determination to trample everything between herself and her goal is even worrying to a man who’s mown down many a professional hockey player in his time.
“And you certainly don’t want to get between her and the Bearded Bean hut when they’re spiking the drinks,” I say.
“There you are,” a panting Cecil says as he trots behind her. “I got stuck talking to Gerald at his homemade wine stall. Something about a new cranberry and chestnut variety. Barely managed to escape a taste test.”
“This way,” Mrs. B. shouts as if she’s leading her troops into battle. “Oh, hello, Natalie.” Her walker slams down half an inch from my toes. Then she looks to my right and her gaze gradually moves higher and higher up Gabe’s body until she gets to his face. “And hello to you, Mr. Gabriel.”
I swear to God if her hips were good enough to cock one, she would.
“Lovely to see you again, Mrs. B.”
“How’s the cocoa ?” Cecil asks with a wink.
Gabe takes a sip and instantly coughs. “Slightly more rum than chocolate, I think.” He tries again, more prepared the second time. “But good. Actually, excellent.”
“Come on.” I pull at his sleeve. “Let’s get out of their way.”
We’ve barely moved into the throng before a voice from the hot chocolate line behind me says, “Of course you can go first. It must be tiring getting that walker through the crowd.” If only they knew Mrs. B. has more energy than the whole of this town put together.
“Gabriel?” I say to Gabe.
“What?”
“I hadn’t processed Gabe as being Gabriel.”
“Does it make me less incredibly attractive?”
“No, but it does make you incredibly more Christmassy.”
“How? ”
“The angel Gabriel.”
He snorts. “Doesn’t make me more Christmassy. But it does make me more of an angel.” He half closes his eyes and draws a halo over his head.
Then his attention is distracted by something over my shoulder. “What the hell is that?” He points to the Polly’s Produce hut.
“Hah. I’ll show you.”
We duck between a kid holding the string of a pig balloon and a man with a little girl on his shoulders—her headband has pig ears on the ends of long springs so they bob around as the man walks.
“It looks even weirder close up,” Gabe says as we approach the produce stand.
“Hey, Nat,” says Polly. “Who’s your friend who’s insulting my veggie snowman?”
“Snowman?” Gabe laughs. “I thought it was a sheep that’s been through a couple of nuclear accidents.”
“Are you criticizing my wife’s produce art?” Polly’s husband, Max, rises from under the counter to his tall, never-a-hair-out-of-place bajillionaire self.
“I’d say more gazing in wonder than criticizing,” Gabe says.
“It’s the gourds,” Polly says. “They’re a bit warty. I thought the kids might think it was funny, but a few of them have been scared. I had to give them some lavender soap to calm them down.” She points at an arrangement of her mom’s locally famous handmade goat milk soaps. She always makes a special batch shaped like pigs for the festival.
Gabe points at Max. “You look familiar. Have I seen you in the executive box at Apollos games?”
“I’ve been to a few,” Max says. “But not lately because?—”
A baby’s cry attracts Max’s attention below counter level again. “Because of this little guy.” He beams at the kid we can’t see. “Hey, Marty. I promise not to show you the warty snowman.” And he ducks back down out of sight to attend to his son.
“Have a great first Christmas with Marty.” I wave to Polly as we move along.
Walking through the festival crowd always gives me a cozy tingle inside. Like I’m part of something. Something like a huge happy family. And like I’m where I belong. Like I have a home.
And tonight, with Gabe by my side, there’s a whole different edge to it. A spark, a thrill, a flutter of hope… For what, I don’t know. But definitely something exciting.
Wonder what Christmas in New Orleans will be like. Other than a lot warmer.
“Oh, here we go. This looks right up my alley,” Gabe says as we reach the hut with the ever-popular pigtail game.
There’s already a game in full swing, so we stand behind the four competitors.
“What’s the idea here?” he asks.
I point to the back of the stall and the board covered in images of pig butts with curly tails hooked onto them. “You just have to fire the Super Soaker and knock as many tails off in your color as you can. If you knock off someone else’s color, it counts for them.”
“Time’s up,” Jerry announces from behind the stand. “I’ll count up the tails.”
“Is this here every year?” Gabe asks.
“Yup. Jerry never misses. There was one time, about five years ago, when he hurt a hand in a cobbling incident and had to have some help. But he still did the announcing and ran the timer.”
“Cobbling?” Gabe looks like it’s a word he’s never said before.
“Yeah, he has the cobbler’s shop in town. He repairs shoes.”
“Sometimes this place makes me feel like I’ve been transported back in time to about 1957.”
“And the winner is…” Jerry pauses for effect. “Blue tails!”
He reaches for a hot pink plush piglet and hands it to the tween girl who’s jumping up and down.
When the space clears, Gabe and I step up for our turn.
“Anyone else prepared to take on these two gallant competitors?” Jerry cries, in true fairground roll-up, roll-up style.
“Oooh, let’s see if Gabe Woods aims as well at pig butts as he does at the Washington Capitals’ goal,” a voice behind us says.
“Gabe Woods?” says another. “As in the New York Apollos’ Gabe Woods?”
Quite a crowd gathers behind us amid a lot of murmuring while Jerry refills two Super Soakers, then hands them to us.
“Are you seriously going to play against me?” Gabe asks.
That smirk. Honest to God, the things that smirk does to me.
“Of course,” I tell him. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
“Fear of embarrassment?” He glances behind us. “ Public embarrassment.”
“The young lady is aiming for yellow tails,” Jerry declares like a nineteenth-century ringmaster. “The gentleman for green.”
He grabs his pig-shaped kitchen timer and twists it to one minute.
“Sixty seconds on the clock,” he announces.
“On your marks…”
Gabe makes a dramatic show of setting his feet as if he’s lining up for the perfect golf shot.
“Get set…”
We aim our water guns at the wall of pig butts.
“Go!” Jerry releases the timer and Gabe and I get to squirting at the tails.
He gets two right off the bat.
“Your gun is more powerful,” I complain as my water stream dips before it even reaches the board.
“A bad player always blames his tools,” Gabe says.
“Ah.” Finally I get a good shot out of my plastic pistol and send a yellow tail flying. Then a second. “We’re even.”
Gabe focuses on one stubborn tail that won’t budge while I knock off two more.
“Goddammit,” he says, moving on and accidentally knocking off a yellow one en route to the next green.
“Five-two to the lady,” Jerry shouts.
“That’s not fair,” Gabe says.
“It’s in the rules,” Jerry and I say at the same time as I knock off another yellow and Jerry taps the sign on the hut wall declaring Pig Tails Rules .
“Have the green ones been glued on?” Gabe asks.
“A bad player always blames his tools.” I manage to dislodge a yellow tail on the third squirt.
“Twenty seconds to go and it’s seven-two to the lady,” Jerry declares.
“Come on, Nat,” someone shouts behind us .
“See, you have home advantage,” Gabe says.
“Come on, Gabe,” calls another.
Then rhythmic clapping starts as half the group shouts “Nat, Nat, Nat, Nat,” and the other half counters with “Gabe, Gabe, Gabe, Gabe.”
“Got one,” Gabe cries. “Support from the crowd always helps. Oh, and another.”
“Ten, nine, eight,” Jerry starts the countdown and the group behind us joins in. “Seven, six?—”
“And he scores another,” Gabe cries.
“Five.”
“Me too,” I drop another yellow.
“Four, three, two?—”
I don’t hear the cry of “one” because as I turn to face Gabe, punching the air and jumping up and down in victory, a spurt of water hits one of my pig ears and sends the headband flying off my head.
“No firing at your opponent, sir,” Jerry reprimands Gabe.
“Just needed to prove how good a shot I am,” Gabe says to me.
“Mission accomplished.” I wipe tiny droplets from my nose.
Gabe places his water pistol on the counter and reaches down to retrieve my ears.
“Competitor to the end, huh?” I say with a laugh as he hands them to me.
The sight of Gabe’s face wearing a combination of devastation at having lost a fairground game and pride at winning his own Shooting The Ears Off Nat’s Head Game is excessively amusing.
“I’m a bad loser.” He pretends to teeter backward from my push. “You should see me in the locker room after a defeat.”
Gabe in just a towel. Hmm, there’s a thought.
“Final score, the lady seven, the gentleman five.” Jerry reaches for the back shelf. “I declare the lady the winner.” Behind us there’s a round of applause, punctuated by some whistles and a few pig grunts.
Jerry hands me a hot pink plush piglet of victory just as a voice crackles out of the public address speakers above our heads.
“Residents and visitors of Warm Springs, the annual pig lighting ceremony will take place in five minutes. Please gather around.”
I turn to Gabe. “Since you’re new in town and this is your first pig tail shootout, I would like to gift the prize to you.”
I hand him the stuffie as everyone walks off toward the giant pig.
He looks at me with affectionate amusement.
“The weirdest gift, from the weirdest game, in the weirdest town ever,” he says as he takes it in one hand and wipes a drop of water off my cheek with the other. The stroke of his thumb sends a prickle of pleasure across my skin.
And it dawns on me I’ve just done exactly what Sir Percival does in the legend.