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“Sure. She’s been working for ten days straight. The woman’s a machine. I’m sure she could use the good news.”
Artair didn’t protest, obviously keen to catch up with an old friend. He took the microphone gingerly, clearing his throat a few times. “Hey there, Dunebug.”
“Leprechaun!” Sandy snorted, the fatigue vanishing from her voice. “I wondered when you’d finally call in. You know you’re a month late for your first shift?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I was busy.”
“It’s 2005. It might be time to get a mobile?”
“Ewww,” said Artair, scrunching up his nose.
Sandy laughed. “Were they good gigs at least?”
“Yeah, they were! I ended up in Aspen for most of the last year. Do you know their ski season lasts all the way into spring?”
“Ewww,” said Sandy, copying Artair’s inflection. “Why would anyone want to spend spring in the snow? It’s bad enough in winter.”
“I know. But there were all these cute little bars that needed someone in the corner to play. There was even this tiny metal lounge in a basement that?—”
Luca snatched the receiver, the curly wire shuddering from the tension. “Okay, okay, this could go on for hours,” he said, as much to the microphone as Artair. “You. Why didn’t you tell me Artair was the usual fire watch?”
Rather than being chastened, Sandy was infuriatingly unfazed. “Why would I? If you’d both kicked up a stink and insisted the job was yours, I could have stepped in—mostly to mock Artair for costing himself a cushy summer gig. But he went away, and you stayed. And that’s where it ended. How would you have benefited from knowing that you’d taken someone else’s job?”
Luca glared back and forth between Artair and the receiver. Suddenly, a memory returned to him. From when he’d first seen the campfire. From when Sandy had given a curiously knowing laugh at the direction of the smoke. “Oh my God... You knew it was Artair by the cabin, didn’t you? That he’d find something else to do with his season?”
“Yup,” said Sandy. “Two miles northwest of Bleeding Heart? You should’ve heard the number of times he’s talked about that damn cabin.”
Before Luca could continue his grilling, he heard the drawn-out creak through the radio, like someone was leaning slowly back into a swivel chair.
When Sandy next spoke, Luca could almost taste her grin. “But you’re right, Rookie. I should apologize. Keeping secrets is a terrible thing to do, right? Incidentally, how’s your article coming along?”
Luca froze, eyes darting to the wastepaper basket. Sandy couldn’t have known for certain that he and Artair had hooked up, or that he’d failed his pledge.
It was a shot in the dark.
A wild stab.
But she probably knew exactly what Artair’s type was.
And exactly what might happen if the two of them met.
Artair raised an eyebrow, obviously picking up the significance of Sandy’s words, even if he didn’t know the details. After all, how could he know—Luca had deliberately kept the specifics from him. He’d only told Artair vague crap about the article being about his summer and his isolation. Nothing about the celibacy. Nothing about the stakes.
Luca’s shoulders tensed.
So did Artair’s.
Luca moved first, darting toward the crumpled story beneath the desk.
Artair moved slower, but he was closer to the bin, able to snatch the paper before Luca could.
In his panic, Luca tried to do three things at once—none of them successfully.
The first was dropping the receiver onto the floor, rather than returning it to its holster.
The second was flailing to grab the stack of paper from Artair, having them yanked out of his reach.
And the third was tripping over Bowie when he tried to lunge forward—the little fox having rejoined the group, probably curious about a familiar voice over the radio.
