Page 7 of Pity Present
“You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy it.” She doesn’t make a move to leave so we wind up standing there in the doorway, awkwardly staring at each other for a few beats. It’s about as comfortable as being at a high school dance with a girl your cousin set you up with.Ask me how I know how much fun that is.
“I’m just going to go … Thanks again.” I begin to shut the door, but my neighbor suddenly pushes against it to keep it open.
“WouldYouLikeToGrabABiteToEatWithMeDownstairs?” Her words are as rapid as machine gun fire and it takes a minute for my brain to realize that she’s asking me to eat with her.
“I was about to call room service.” I don’t want to offend her, even though the look on her face suggests I just did. Molly is average height, but she carries herself regally, so she seems taller. Her dark hair is so shiny and thick, I kind of want to run my fingers through it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. Her eyes are a piercing blue …Where am I going with this?
“They close at eight. The dining room is open until nine.”
“Oh.” So much for my cheeseburger. “Well, then, I guess I’ll just eat my way through my gift basket.” Her expression drops as though she’s suddenly become an old hound dog. Hoping to mitigate any offense, I hurry to add, “I have a work call in a few minutes.”
She inhales deeply before releasing her breath in a staccato fashion. “Fine. Have a good night.” Then she turns and proceedsdown the hall like a soldier under attack. In other words, she nearly sprints.
Part of me wants to call her back and tell her that I’ll eat with her, but I’m not here to enhance my own social life.
Closing the door, I pick up the basket and carry it to the bed. Using the included corkscrew, I open the bottle of cabernet before pouring myself a coffee cup full. Then I eat a bag of cashews and some truffle crackers before finishing off the chocolates. Too bad the pears aren’t quite ripe, or I’d have one of those, as well. While not exactly the supper of the gods, it’s not half bad.
After refilling my wine, I open my laptop and read through the notes for my assignment. Essentially, Gillian wants to run an article a week in the Sunday magazine insert for the first three weeks of the New Year. She doesn’t care how they’re structured; she just wants compelling stories about what the Elk Lake Lodge dating events are like.
Rubbing my hands together like some old penny opera villain, I start to type.
Some of you know Trina Rockwell from her hit seriesMidwestern Matchmaker. Even though her show has been cancelled, Trina has not given up on her dream of matching Midwestern singles. Quite the opposite, in fact. She’s partnered with her fiancé to run singles’ events at their newly-opened lodge in Elk Lake, Wisconsin. I’m the lucky guy who’s been enlisted to find out if she’s as good at her job as her press would have us believe.
I don’t have anything against people being set up by friends or office mates, but I don’t have the same kind of faith in matchmakers. How can a person you’ve never met know enough about you to help you find your soulmate? Why would you ever trust them to do so? And more importantly, what kind of person takes money to bring people together?
I’m here for two weeks for Trina’s first non-televised date-a-palooza. While on the frontlines, I won’t rest until I give you the full story behind her quest. But if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath that I’m going to become a convert to this kind of thing.
It’s my humble opinion that love does not stem from a business transaction.
CHAPTER FIVE
MOLLY
What possessed me to invite Blake to have supper with me?I try to convince myself it’s because I thought we’d formed a connection on the train/car ride/walk up to our rooms, but that’s not the real reason. The truth is, my hormones have a mind of their own and they’ve developed an interest in Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hunky.
I stomp my way to the elevator like I’m trying to kill an army of cockroaches under my feet. I don’t believe for one minute that Blake is expecting a business call at 8:30 on a Friday night. He just didn’t want to eat with me. I suppose that’s understandable, given my somewhat bizarre behavior, but it still smarts.
Exiting the elevator, I follow the signs to the restaurant. When I reach my destination, the hostess smiles at me and asks, “How many in your party?”
“Just me,” I tell her. As a rule, I don’t mind eating by myself. I actually do it a lot, but there’s something about staying at a gorgeously romantic lodge during the holidays that makes me sad about my current state of aloneness.
The hostess picks up a menu and leads the way to a four-topin front of the vaulted wall of windows. “I know the table’s a bit big,” she says, “but you have a great view of the outside here.”
“Thank you,” I tell her before sitting down on a chair facing the aforementioned vista. There are dozens of large pine trees covered in colored lights. Nestled among them are several clusters of decorative deer standing around adorned in twinkling lights. It’s pure magic.
After opening the menu, I quickly choose my meal. As I’ll most likely eat my body weight in my mom’s gingerbread cookies when I go home for Christmas, I conclude a salad is my best bet. When the waiter comes to take my order, I add a salmon filet to it, to jazz it up.
While I wait for my meal, I take out my phone and text Ellen back.
Me:
I’m here and all checked in. You’re right, this place is outstanding.
BS
Send pics! I want to see how they’ve decorated for the holidays.
When the waiter drops off my diet soda, I tell him, “I’m just going to get up and take a few pictures.”
