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My adrenalin pumps, like I need to get a rolled car off of a damsel in distress. Come on, lady, let’s go!
She opens the door a crack. “Who are you?” she says through that one-inch gap. She’s not at all charmed by my Hawaiian demeanor.
“Hey there,” I say, trying a little harder, shooting for friendly, shooting for sweet, but it sounds more like a cartoon character. “I left my keys at home. Thanks.” I grab the door handle, ready to pull, but she snatches the inside handle right back, keeping her one-inch gap in place.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a teacher.” True.
She looks me up and down, from my khaki shorts to my button-up shirt. Come on, it’s summer, lady. Do people in Love never wear shorts?
“I’m new in town.” True again.
“Nope.” She pulls on the door.
“No, no. Wait!” I hold the handle tight, flexing with the muscle it’s taking to keep this old gal from shutting me out. “I’m Kal Jex. I’m here to see Meg Miller. She’s—she’s expecting me.” False. Nope, she isn’t.
“Miss Miller’s in a meeting. And those toilets aren’t going to disinfect themselves.”
“Wait,” I call as we play tug-of-war with this door. “Your name. What’s your name?”
“Phyllis.”
“That’s lovely,” I say, my breath gone, my charm in the toilet waiting for Phyllis to come disinfect it.
“It isn’t lovely. It’s never been lovely,” she says, her mouth in a permanent frown.
“Phyllis, please. I need to see Miss Miller.” My heart is on my sleeve—and my face and my feet—it’s everywhere. Surely Phyllis can see that.
“Where’s your badge?” she says, flicking her chin toward me.
“Ah,” I peer down as if a magical teacher badge just might appear around my neck. “I left it at home, with my keys?” The whole sentence comes out like a question, and with it, Phyllis yanks the handle with Hulk-like strength, shutting the door and locking me out.
“Wait!” I pound. “Phyllis!” I slap the glass with my open palm.
Phyllis’s beady eyes go wide, her lips purse, and her eyes slowly turn to slits as she stares me down. Angry wrinkles form around her mouth. When I lift my hand, there is a clear handprint all over Phyllis’s clean glass door. One she knew would be there. One that just secured me being locked outside—and one that’s possibly getting the cops called on me.
Phyllis barks a four-letter word and marches back to her cart, pushing it until she’s out of sight.
Abandoning my suitcase, I start to case the building—not unlike a madman. But I didn’t fly three thousand miles, leaving my Hawaiian home for the first time ever only to not see Meg.
Besides, if Phyllis is calling the cops, I might as well do something worth calling them for.
I’m halfway around the building when I see a window open a few inches. It’s an old building, and Meg’s told me how cold Wyoming is in winter. I’m guessing this building doesn’t have air conditioning. And on a nice summer day like today, they might wish they had it. Thank you! Finally, a little luck.
I push up on the glass, opening it wider. Wide enough for a six-foot-three, two-hundred-ten-pound Hawaiian to fit through. I poke my head inside and hoist myself up, somersaulting, not all that gracefully, into the room.
There’s a loud shriek at my right, along with a low, “Hey! Who are you?”
I jump up—my breath gone—and brush off my pants, ready to talk my way out of being hauled off to jail, when—
“Kal?”
“Meg,” I say, my voice cracking. She’s in jeans—even though it’s summer. Why would the woman ever cover up her legs? Her gold-blonde hair is back in a ponytail, and her cheeks are pink with surprise.
She stands frozen—right next to a tall, thin, man. A weasel-ish looking man.
I study him, my heart pounding.
