A Great Kisser. Donna Kauffman
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a very respected trial attorney, who’d also been Lauren’s dad. She just couldn’t fathom what had made her mom, who’d been courted plenty over the last sixteen years since her father had passed away, and by some pretty distinguished men…fall for this one?
Yep. Apparently she had a little more work to do on her whole “unbiased” approach if she hoped to pull it off outside the initial handshake.
Lauren continued her stroll down Main Street, looking at the window displays that alternated between mountain gear, mountain sportswear, and a surprising array of beautifully done art, sculpture, and hand-crafted jewelry, with the occasional bookshop and restaurant thrown in for good measure. Most of it immediately forgotten, as her thoughts continued to stray back to the impending dinner. She really wished she could get her mother alone, first to talk and, hopefully begin to smooth things over, before diving into the crux of why she’d come, much less meet the crux. But she didn’t see that happening.
It was the beginnings of a tension headache that had Lauren impulsively pushing through the doors of a bike shop. The constant stress of her job had been taking its toll for some time, even longer if you counted in how long she’d stubbornly refused to accept the fact. Headaches had become the norm, not the exception, and, by the end of each day, her body had ached like someone twice her age. Her doctor—when she’d finally broken down and gone to see him—had given her solid suggestions on how to reduce stress. But his first suggestion had been to either manage her job better, or find another job. She remembered thinking he was over-exaggerating at the time, that if she simply followed a few of his other ideas, things would improve.
Well, one of the other things he’d recommended was walking, swimming, or biking. She walked—ran, really—all day, every day, it seemed, for her job. And while she wouldn’t drown if she ever fell overboard, swimming for distance, or style for that matter, wasn’t ever going to be part of her repertoire. Bike riding, on the other hand, had sounded like fun. Between riding on the Mall, around the Tidal Basin, or all the trails through Rock Creek Park, she had plenty to choose from. She’d decided that would be her gift to herself, her way of distressing. She’d even looked forward to doing it, imagined herself pedaling around town. She’d just…never gotten around to finding the time to actually get a bike. It had been on her to-do list. Along with making time to ride it.
She’d ceremoniously burned the list the day she quit her job. She didn’t need reminders now. Her calendar was wide open.
“So,” she said, “no time like the present, then.” Because the present was definitely not the time to court a migraine-level headache. It could be the thin air, but more likely it was the only serious remaining source of stress in her life, which, when said and done, all boiled down to dinner. This evening. At seven.
Fifteen minutes later she was riding what they called the “townie” model, which essentially meant it had a bigger seat for her bigger caboose. One look at the narrow, rock-hard wedge that served as a mountain bike seat had her quickly swallowing any vanity she might have had on the subject, which had been ever-so-gently broached by the guy at the rental desk, and opting for the biggest, softest townie model in stock. It was pink. Very pink. She’d been trapped in navy blue and pinstripes for so long, she’d just instinctively pointed at it. The rental guy couldn’t possibly know how un-pink her life had been. But he didn’t laugh, or even look at her funny. He’d merely smiled as if it made perfect sense for her and handed her a matching helmet and water bottle. She decided the rental guy was her new best friend.
After a wobbling start in which she almost took out a sidewalk rack of fleece vests and an entire folding table lined with Crocs, she finally managed to find her pace, only to have to stop at the first corner as the one and only light in town turned green for cross-moving traffic. So, she took the opportunity to check out the map her new BFF had given her. He’d explained which trails were accessible to her on her “townie” and which were steep, mountain-bike-only trails. She didn’t bother to even look at those. This was supposed to be fun and pleasurable, after all. And she’d already risked death today in the gum-wrapper-size plane she’d flown out here in. No need to taunt fate twice.
There were various points of interest on the map as well. The ski resort, of course, along with the Olympic training grounds, the Nicklaus-designed golf course, the rodeo and county fairgrounds—just west of town—and a wee bit farther up…hunh. “McKenna Flight School,” she read out loud. “What do you know. He’s a town landmark.” Or his school was. She wondered again about what role he played, if any, in local politics, or just as a local businessman. She’d had him pegged as the sort who kept his focus on his own work and out of others’ business, but then, what did she really know about him? “Other than he didn’t throw you under the bus when Arlen’s secretary had come calling.” And if that was all she had to go on—okay, that and the fact that he was lust on a stick—then she’d extend him the benefit of the doubt. For now.
She glanced back over her shoulder and realized she’d come farther down Main Street than she’d thought. Another glance at her watch showed she still had more than an hour before she was to report for dinner. Which felt more appointment than social engagement. She toyed again with the idea of trying to call her mother to break the ice a little, but she really wasn’t ready for all the variables that action might lead to.
She purposely hadn’t gone into any of the shops, either. Other than the rental guy, Melissa, and Debbie at the motel, she hadn’t talked to any locals. “So much for your plan of playing super sleuth.” She had a whole list of questions she’d planned on asking folks once she got into town, find out what kind of man Arlen Thompson really was, especially to the people who knew him best. Riding herd on the media during Todd’s campaign had taught her a great deal about the dogged persistence of journalists and how they wheedled information out of even the most taciturn delegate. She’d always loathed their whatever-it-takes mentality, but now that she was on the fact-finding end of the stick, the education she’d inadvertently picked up was quite useful. Or would have been if she hadn’t landed in Cedar Springs as some kind of pseudo–local celebrity.
She looked up as the walk light came on, and tucked the map back into her pocket before setting off again. The fact that she happened to be heading in the direction of the flight school was strictly coincidence. Jake had been kind enough to get her into town, then leave her be. She thought about their “date” and wondered if he’d even remember it come Sunday. That was days away from now. Or, perhaps after hearing the buzz of gossip spreading about the mayor’s estranged stepdaughter being in town, he might decide she was too much trouble.
It should bother her, or at the very least be a red flag of some perspective-giving sort, that the idea he might back out on the date disappointed her the way it did. But, at the moment, he was the only person here she felt she could trust, ridiculous as that sounded. And now his school was on the map. She usually went with her gut, and she was rarely wrong. But maybe all the stress, combined with her rather abrupt, life-altering decision, had diluted her instincts. After all, she still had no idea what she was going to do with her life. Not exactly an instinctive move on her part.
Still, she continued pedaling without turning back.
Chapter 5
Jake hung up the phone and raked his hand through his hair. Again. It was amazing he hadn’t pulled it all out. He’d spent the better part of what was left of his day after returning from Holden, talking to the guy he hoped was going to be his first corporate sponsor, then updating his crew, who were all chomping at the bit on whether or not to plan on being ready and available for the National Air Races next month. To which he, yet again, had to tell them, he didn’t know.
The most recent debate was on how, exactly, the corporate sponsorship of the Betty Sue would be marketed. Jake was not going to slap their company name on Betty Sue’s perfectly restored and historically accurate skin. He’d agreed to a whole raft of corporate swag they wanted to hand out during the races, but he balked on plastering anything on the plane itself. Betty Sue had always been, and always would be, true to her original paint job. This was not NASCAR.
The corporate boys—bankers and stock traders mostly, all connected with