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Lifting my shirt to my nose, I take a big whiff. The stench that was eye-wateringly bad hours ago at the campground has faded to nothingness, at least to my nostrils. My olfactory senses must be temporarily damaged.
I was hoping I might escape the smell unscathed since I wasn’t the person who was sprayed by the skunk directly, but I wasn’t so fortunate. It didn’t help that all of us had to ride back to Austin in the same van, closed up with the person who took the direct hit of the spray.
I guess when it comes down to it, secondhand skunk is still skunk.
“I thought you’d be at work,” I say weakly.
“I’m going in after lunch. What happened?” Mason asks, brow furrowed.
I fumble for a way to explain the last day’s events to Mason. It’s been a pretty terrible thirty-six hours, even before the skunk, which was kind of the cherry on top of a rotten sundae. I’d rather forget the whole thing.
“It’s a long story,” I say, edging toward my room, where a hot shower is calling my name.
Though I think it will take more than hot water and my favorite body wash to remove this putrid stench. A vinegar bath? A chemical shower?
“I’m sure you don’t want to hear it.”
“Actually, I do.” Mason waits, watching me with his trademark steady patience.
He’s typically a man of few words, and this brief conversation might have exhausted his rarely used vocal cords. Of course, now that hewantsto talk, I don’t.
Unlike Mason, I normally don’t have a limit on my words. I’ve been told I use too many where fewer would do. My vocal cords get a regular workout. Some—like my brother—might say they’reoverworked.
But regarding this wretched week’s events, I’m not eager to explain. It’s all pretty humiliating.
The reason I smell like skunk is because it turned out one of the guides for our camping trip was Chase—the guy I went on a date with the night before we left.
What are the odds, right?
Ever NOT in my favor. That’s what they are.
At first, I thought this was kismet. Fate. One of those moments where the universe plays matchmaker.
I mean, our date went well. Then again, I always think that until the guys ghost me. Still. Chase and I had a good time with easy conversation and laughter. He’s attractive and polite and funny and gentlemanly. Maybe a little too gentlemanly, considering he didn’t kiss me or ask for a second date at the end of the night.
Still—I was hopeful. Thinking maybe Chase would be the one tofinallybreak my Mason crush or my first-date curse. Even if I thought about Mason half the night. Way more than I had any right to on a date with someone else.
The way my thoughts kept circling back to Mason should have been my first clue it wasn’t going to work. The lack of a kiss when Chase walked me to my car was a second.
I mean, a kiss certainly isn’trequiredat the end of a date. Every other woman in Austin—or the world—is probably kissing at the end of every date. And that’s their prerogative. Call me old fashioned, but locking lips with a dude I met a few hours before is usually a bit rushed. Forme.
But if a guy has a good time on a date, it makes sense he’d at leasttryfor a kiss.
Or give a hug.
Or handshake.
Anykind of physical touch.
Now, in hindsight, the way Chase kept his distance after walking me to my car makes perfect sense. It screamed: I’M NOT INTERESTED IN MORE.
Despite all this, at the start of the camping trip when he turned out to be one of the guides, my hope grew legs and ran off with my good sense. I kept pushing, thinking Chase being our guide was the sign I’d been looking for, just like Sam said.
But then … PLOT TWIST!
The other guide leading the trip, Harper, turned out to be the woman Chaseactuallylikes. Or—probably more accurately—the woman he’s in love with. That became evident by the end of our trip.
Nothing like a front-row seat to disappointment and feeling like a big old turd for trying to come between two other people.
