Chapter 4
This old bitch is too fast for me. I can outrun her just fine, but my reflexes are lacking. Before I even realize she’s about to take off, she’s—well, off. She is barking at two women, who are strutting over, giggling excitedly. I sigh; so much for having my hair cut a little shorter and letting my beard grow into a stubble. Ma told me there have been people around who had come specifically to check out the place I grew up. For me, this is the first fan encounter in Elken Grove. So far, this had been a haven of small-townishness. I mean—nobody here will ever forgive me for dousing the Christmas tree on Prather Square with a self-made infusion of catnip my freshman year in high school. That’s what I am famous for over here.
I’m glad it’s already late in the day, as Lily is a little easier to calm than in the morning. I restrain and try to soothe her. She’s not aggressive, just loud. But I don’t want a lawsuit of any kind.
I realize that one of the approaching women is very young. Maybe she’s sixteen, seventeen? I guess they must be from the Miller family that has rented one of the cabins.
“Sorry about the dog.”
“Rory,” the girl says in a high-pitched voice. “Can we have a photo?” She already has her phone in her hand.
Kat’s warning echoes shrill in my mind. I’m sure she meant to stay away from any kind of social media, too. “Um, actually I would prefer not to. Not today.”
Mrs. Miller places her hand on my forearm. I hate to be touched by strangers. Just because I am a successful artist does not mean I enjoy being pawed.
“We all have days when we feel conscious about our looks,” Mrs. Miller confides without being asked. “But let me assure you, you’re looking just fine.”
Ever since Tawpie Tantrum had its first hit single and media started gossiping about us, people think they know me, can read my mind even. I’m not conscious about how I look—or wasn’t until a minute ago. Her words seem to speak it into existence. Now I am unsure. My jeans are dirty from sitting on a damp log earlier, and my hair sticking out under my hat is a mess. Still, I don’t care what this woman thinks of me. “I just don’t want photos, okay?”
I pat my coat pockets and find the pen I use for signing autographs. Yay for not emptying my pockets. Experience has taught me it’s next to impossible to shake off fans without having given them an autograph.
The girl’s eyes light up and she starts unbuttoning her blouse. “Would you sign my boob?”
“Most definitely not.”
“Why not?” she asks, pouting. “I’ve seen you do it.”
That had not been my proudest moment. In my defense—I had been drunk and Kat had pressured for a more bad boy image at that time. And these women had been clearly of age.
I’m being spared an answer though, as Mrs. Miller reprimands her daughter and sends her to the cabin. So maybe we’re on the same page after all. But that thought is short-lived, because once the girl is out of earshot, Mrs. Miller glances over her shoulder. “My husband and my daughter will be trout fishing tomorrow. You can visit me in my cabin. I’ll wear a little nothing.” I open my mouth to give her my most decided no, but she turns and walks away, swaying her hips exaggeratedly.
Like a mantra, I tell myself that most fans are wonderful, if a little over-enthusiastic. The creeps are a minority.
Lilly starts barking again and stalks off. I had let go of her collar. When did that happen? There I go again, scrambling after her. Yet another guest is receiving Lilly’s treatment before they even exit their car.
I grab Lilly by the collar and reprimand her. When I look up, a woman gets out of the car. She’s about my age, late twenties. She doesn’t look like a tourist in her business attire: the ash-blonde hair is in a stubby ponytail, and she wears jeans, sensible boots, and a polo shirt with an embroidered logo. She’s no hardship to look at, not at all. She’s taller than most, maybe five eight. She’s got wide hips, a soft belly, and small breasts that I imagine being firm. And I notice the logo on her shirt is the dog trainer’s. Funny, I had expected a man.
She reaches out her hand and studies me. “I’m Hunter Marley and have an appointment with Mr. Winslow. Is that you?” Her voice is soft and pleasant. I’ve got a keen ear for voices, and hers is beautiful. There is an enticing mole above her lip and as she has removed her shades now, I find her eyes are blue and green and remind me of a cloudy sky over a spring forest. I could drown myself in those eyes.
She doesn’t recognize me. What a great gift. I nearly sigh in relief. At last, someone who will not talk to me about what happened in Nashville nor proposition me. I don’t want to spoil this moment by revealing my identity. So I extend my hand to shake hers and nod. “Please call me Jack.”
She gives me a puzzled look. “Jack? Jack, the lumberjack?”
I hope Hunter doesn’t notice the blush spreading across my face. “Um, yes. Jack, the lumberjack.” I will have to ask my family to call me Jack for a while. Already now I hate the smirk on Finn’s face.
She appears skeptical. So I quip, “I’m glad my mother didn’t call me John.”
“How so?”
“John. Going to the John… Toilet.”
She rolls her eyes. So no more dad jokes. I need to change the subject and blurt out with, “I didn’t realize you’re a woman. I thought ‘Hunter’ would be a man.”
No sooner did the words slip out, and I regretted them. Realizing I am being gender-biased is one thing, but voicing it is quite another.
Hunter looks me up and down and—in a very neutral tone—asks, “Do we have a problem here?”
“No, ma’am.” I flinch. That had not been a clever way to address her. Smooth, Rory.
“My photo is all over my website. You cannot have missed that. So I guess you’ve never been to my website. How did you decide you wanted my services?”
That left me fumbling for words. Admitting I had a PA was not an option.
I just landed myself into a mess and it takes some mental gymnastics to assure Hunter she’s the dog trainer I wanted in the first place, and to deflect by insisting I’d show her the cabin she’s going to stay in. I invite her to breakfast in the main house as everybody will be there.
The rest of the day I spend repenting the way I blundered through that encounter. That’s just like me. The first woman in ages that I feel any interest for, and I make a fool of myself.