CHAPTER TEN CECI
Chapter Ten
Ceci
Ceci blinked at the sight of an old Chevy pickup truck.
No helicopter. No limo. No Ferrari or Aston Martin.
“How old is that thing?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“You don’t know?”
“It’s not my truck. I had to borrow it when the SUV I rented got a flat tire and there wasn’t a spare.”
She could see him out of the corner of her eye trying to rush ahead of her. No doubt to open the door for her, which she opened herself.
After she and Boudica were in, he picked up Holly and hesitated.
“Give her to me,” Ceci said, taking her from Clarke’s arms and placing her in between herself and Boudica.
Clarke shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side while Ceci shivered, pulling her gloves out of her pocket.
She smiled at Holly in her red-and-green sweater.
“You look very stylish and warm,” she said, and couldn’t help feeling that, as the dog gazed up at her with those black eyes, she’d responded, I am, thank you.
Clarke got in, started up the truck and they took off. “I’ve got the heater on full blast but it might take a bit for the car to warm up,” he said in an apologetic tone.
Ceci looked around, finally fixing on the dashboard. “This thing is really retro. Where did you borrow it?”
“It belongs to the guy who flew me from Bozeman airport to the small airstrip about ninety miles from here. I guess he would qualify as your neighbor.”
“And you just asked if you could borrow his truck?”
“He offered.”
“Just like that. He offered.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Is that so hard to believe? Is there some reason people wouldn’t want to do nice things for me?”
Do you really want me to list them?
“Never mind,” he said. “Don’t answer that.”
She pointed at the dashboard. Her eyes popped. “There’s a cassette player.” She rummaged through the glove compartment with no success. From there she moved on to leaning forward and digging under the seat. “This is no good,” she huffed, undoing her seatbelt.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Looking for the cassettes.”
Suddenly, the truck swerved and Ceci hit her head against the window.
“Hey!” she cried, as they came to an abrupt stop.
“Did you hit your head? Are you okay?”
She shook her head, pulled her flask out of her parka pocket and took a swig.
He was staring at her mouth the way he’d stared at Boudica when she’d opened the front door.
“Do you want some?” She held out the flask. “It’s bourbon.”
“It’s not even noon yet.”
“Stop worrying … ‘It’s already tomorrow in Australia.’ Charles Schulz said that. He was the creator of—”
“Peanuts. I know.”
“That was rude. Interrupting me like that.”
“You’re right. I apologize.”
She bit her lip to keep from grinning. She didn’t care, but she knew he did.
“Now let me look at your head.”
“What? Why?”
“I just want to make sure you didn’t hit it too hard.”
“I wouldn’t have hit it at all if you hadn’t suddenly swerved like that.”
“I wouldn’t have swerved like that if you hadn’t taken off your seatbelt. You of all people should know proper protocol when driving.”
“But I’m not driving.”
“You’re not. And we should thank the gods on that point. Now let me look at your head.”
Before she could object, he leaned over, had his palms on her cheeks, turned her head, and ran his fingers gently over the side of her skull.
Definitely the Man in the Iron Mask.
He smells like cinnamon.
Like cinnamon baked in a roll with a glaze of sweet sugar frosting on top.
His hands are warm, like his eyes with those long lashes.
There’s something wrong about a man having lashes that belong on a pretty girl’s face.
And how is it his hands are warm? In temperature like this? None of this is right. Or fair.
His touch was gentle, but the flesh on his palms was rough.
He has callouses. Just like the Man in the Iron Mask.
She would have expected Sir Clarke’s hands to be manicured, used only for raising a glass of fine wine, pointing out a fine painting, or holding up his pinky finger during high tea.
What has he been doing with his hands that would give him callouses?
Imagining the possible answers made her cheeks tingle.
Or maybe it was the finger that was brushing her scalp and the other one brushing her cheek.
It shouldn’t have been brushing her cheek.
She hadn’t hit her cheek. Not to mention that cheek was on the other side, which hadn’t hit the window at all.
“It looks okay. Nothing there.”
Once he let go, her curls tumbled forward. He caught one and held it between his fingers, peering at it. “Your hair used to be red.”
“I dyed it that color. This is my real color.”
“A true blonde then,” he said, as his eyes began to drift down but quickly shot back up.
“What, you don’t believe me? You want proof?”
His cheeks crimsoned. “Of course not.”
She pushed his hand away, expecting the movement to send him back to his seat.
But instead he leaned in. His hot breath laced with cinnamon and some kind of earthy spice bathed her cheek, sending a warm glow to the southern hemisphere.
His face was a mere inch from hers. If she turned her head, their lips would meet.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He pulled her seatbelt from its retractor, draped it across her body, and locked it into place.
Once upright and with his own seatbelt buckled, he released the parking brake and stepped on the gas. “Please keep that locked for the remainder of the ride.”
The man could be so robotic. He sounded like a recorded message being played over a loudspeaker. Except he wasn’t loud. She’d never heard him be loud. She wondered if it was possible for him to ever be loud. And what circumstances would prompt him to be loud.
“I was looking for cassette tapes. I figured if there was a cassette player, there must be tapes.”
“Maybe here,” he said, tapping a compartment between them.
She opened it. “Score!” She pulled out a case.
Oh, he’s going to love this, she thought, perusing the selection. Old country—Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline. No Bach or Mozart. No jazz either.
She pulled out Hank Williams and popped it into the player. She gazed out at the icy road, listening to the soulful twang as he sang about melting that cold, cold heart.
She stifled a giggle and shot him a sidelong glance.
“So what have you been doing during the break?” she asked.
“Do you mean since you last saw me lying unconscious on the men’s room floor at the Royal Horseguards Hotel, or slammed up against the embankment at Silverstone?”
Why did he have to bring that up? And you forgot to include that party, Man in the Iron Mask.
“Yeah,” she said, her tone bitter. “Since then.”
“Nothing much.”
She peered at him, but she had only his profile to look at.
“Been to any good parties lately?”
No response.
“I asked you—”
“I heard you the first time.”
“You don’t want to tell me?” she ventured.
“No.”
“I went to a fun party. It was a masquerade ball. I dressed up as Annie Oakley.”
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. His knuckles were white.
“You’re quite the conversationalist. At least tell me this, why Montana?”
“What kind of question is that? Because you’re here. So here am I—we—are.”
“Yeah, but to take such a long trip out here?”
“Had we met in New York, I would have had to board an airplane anyway.”
“So, you were in England?”
“Yes.”
That made it even more unbelievable, not to mention illogical. She would have thought logic was embedded in this man’s DNA.
“You haven’t answered my question, but maybe that’s the point. Again, it’s something you don’t want to tell me. You could just lie, which is what most people do when they don’t want to tell you something.”
She watched a vein rise to the surface on his neck as his pulse throbbed.
Lying isn’t his style. As Pixel said—too honorable.
He sighed. “I wanted to get this over with, like yanking a wisdom tooth. I didn’t want it hovering over me as we get closer to the start of the season.
I would imagine you feel the same way. You should be thanking me.
Would I have preferred we meet in New York rather than Cornhusker, Montana?
Yes. Without question. But upon further reflection, I realized that this is probably the ideal place.
We won’t have to worry about press or fans with their phones catching us on the street or in a restaurant. ”
“It’s Cornhole. Not Cornhusker. And isn’t that the whole point of this thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“This deal. You know, what you and Roxanne hope to get out of this.”
“What deal?”
“You and me—dating. But not really dating—fake dating. So you can get some press.”
He swerved to the side and slammed on the brakes.
“Will you stop doing that?” she cried. “You almost sent my head through the window. Again.”
“There is no deal. You outbid everyone else, so you won the date. And here we are. That’s it.”
“Okay, this date, yes. When you were lying unconscious on the bathroom floor—”
“Because of you!” he interrupted.
“Because you got in the way. If you hadn’t, the asshole would have been lying on the floor instead of you. Problem solved.”
“That’s how you solve problems?”
She shrugged. “Some problems. In any case, I told Roxanne what happened, and she asked me to bid on you in case no one else did.”
“Why the hell did the two of you think you needed to come to my rescue? Why would you think nobody would bid on me?”
“Probably because of that black eye. You’re just not the kind of guy one expects to see with a black eye.
Rocco Vittori—maybe. Ian Anker—definitely.
But you? No. Never. People were stunned.
In case you’ve forgotten, there were long stretches of silence when no one was bidding.
So I promised her, given I was maybe partially responsible, that I would step in and bid. ”
“So you didn’t decide to bid on me yourself?”
“Of course not. Why would I do that?”
“Because it was your fault I had the black eye. Maybe because you would feel obligated to take some responsibility for what you did. Maybe even because you felt bad for me, having to go out onstage like that.”
“First of all, you didn’t have to go out onstage like that. No one made you.”
“I did have to. I’d given my word.”
Ceci drew a deep breath that sounded like the hissing of a cat when she exhaled. Maybe because she was gritting her teeth.
For a moment, neither of them said a word.
Clarke turned in his seat, facing her. “So you only bid on me because you’d told Roxanne you would.”
“Yeah. Well, that and the fact that I might get something out of it.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe she’d take on Ian as a client.”
His cheeks were flaming as he glared back at her.
She shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. Okay, would both of us prefer it not be me that won the bid? Yes, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Someone was supposed to outbid my final bid. But Roxanne fucked up.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Look, I get it. You don’t want to be doing this any more than I do. Problem is I won and now we’re stuck with each other. I guess the reaction to what happened at the auction got you some good press and Roxanne noticed.”
He sighed. “The raging lion, the jungle cat.”
“Is that what they said? I wouldn’t know.”
She turned her head, gazing out the window, just in case he might be able to read that she’d been lying on her face.
When she turned back, he had his right hand resting on the steering wheel and was gazing out in front of them.
Is he just going to sit there like that?
Ceci huffed. “That’s what led Roxanne to come up with this dating scheme.”
He turned his head. “What dating scheme?”
“You and I go out on a date after every race of the season. Not a real date, of course. A fake date.”
She saw one vein pop out on his neck and another at his temple.
“What?” he roared.
So it was possible for him to be loud.
“Roxanne and I discussed it just before you showed up.”
“Roxanne and you? Without me! Given I’m involved, don’t you think you should have included me in that discussion?”
“I thought Roxanne had. I assumed when she suggested it she’d already gotten the go-ahead from you.”
“Explain to me why she got the go-ahead from you? Why would you agree to this?”
“I wanted her to take on Ian as a client. So she agreed to do it next season, in exchange for you and I going on some dates this season.”
“Well, you and Anker are out of luck because I won’t do it.”
Won’t do it? Is it that awful to sit across the table from me and have a meal? Am I that distasteful to you?
She could kick Roxanne. Ceci never would have brought it up to him, let alone agreed to the deal, if she hadn’t thought he’d agreed to it first.
She crossed her arms. “Fine,” she spat.
“Damn right, fine,” he growled as he put the car in gear and they took off.
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
Where are we going?
She would have asked but she was too angry.
They’d already been driving for nearly an hour, and the town of Cornhole was just up ahead.
It was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of place.
It consisted of a diner, a gas station, fire station, small grocery market, an Elks club and one sorry-looking dress shop.
The nearest town beyond Cornhole was at least two hours away. And while it had more going on than Cornhole, that wasn’t saying much.
What is he thinking we’ll do there?
She sighed as they approached the itty-bitty town with that dramatic backdrop of the snowcapped mountains, which seemed close enough to touch.
The town was still sporting the Christmas vibe—a garland strung over the main road, with lanterns and bells, swaying in the wind.
A big banner read Montana Snowpocalypse: Freeze, Fleece, and Fun!
Barriers had been set up. Snowpocalypse was in full swing—vendors selling food and items made by local artists, as well as carnival games, lined the street. Further down, she could see some people carving sculptures out of ice.
She sighed. If it hadn’t been for Sir Stick Up His Ass, she and Pixel could be going to the festival.
“We can’t go down this street,” she said. “There’s a festival, but I can direct you to a way around it. Take a right here.”
He did.
“Okay, now take this left up ahead.”
He didn’t.
“What are you doing? Why didn’t you turn? Now you’re going to have to flip a bitch.”
“Pardon me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Make a U-turn.”
He didn’t. Instead, he pulled into a public parking lot that had been set up for the festival, and parked the truck.
“Wait. What—why are you parking here?”
He opened the door and already had one leg out. “I should have thought it obvious.”
Her eyes opened wide, her mouth even wider.
No! It can’t be!
This is the date?
The Montana Snowpocalypse?
Sir Stick Up His Ass at the Montana Snowpocalypse?
Not. Possible.