Colorado 01 The Gamble (2 page)

“Slim?” he said into the phone. “Yeah, got a
woman here a…” he looked down at the papers, “Miss Sheridan.”

“Ms.,” I corrected automatically and his
clear gray eyes came back to me.

It had also dawned on me, at this juncture,
that he had a strangely attractive voice. It was deep, very deep,
but it wasn’t smooth. It was rough, almost gravelly.

“
A
Ms.
Sheridan.” He cut into my thoughts and emphasized the “Ms.”
in a way that I thought, maybe, wasn’t very nice. “She’s lookin’
for keys.”

I waited for this Slim person, who I
suspected was Mr. Andrews the absent caretaker, to explain to this
amazing looking man that I had a confirmed, two week reservation,
pre-paid,
with
a rather
substantial deposit in the rather unlikely event of damage. And
also I waited for this Slim person to tell this amazing looking man
that there obviously was some mistake and perhaps he should vacate
the premises so I could unload my car, put away the perishables,
have a shower, talk to Niles and, most importantly,
go to
sleep
.

“Yeah, you fucked up,” the amazing looking
man said into the phone then he concluded the conversation with,
“I’ll sort it out.” Then he beeped a button and tossed the phone
with a clatter on the counter and said to me, “Slim fucked up.”

“Um, yes, I’m beginning to see that.”

“There’s a hotel down the mountain ‘bout
fifteen miles away.”

I think my mouth dropped open but my mind
had blanked so I wasn’t sure.

Then I said, “What?”

“Hotel in town, clean, decent views, good
restaurant, down the mountain where you came. You get to the main
road, turn left, it’s about ten miles.”

Then he handed me my papers, walked to the
front door, opened it and stood holding it, his eyes on me.

I stood where I was then I looked out the
floor to A-point windows at the swirling snow then I looked at the
amazing but, I was tardily realizing, unfriendly man.

“I have a booking.” I told him.

“What?”

“A booking,” I repeated then explained in
American, “a reservation.”

“Yeah, Slim fucked up.”

I shook my head, the shakes were short and
confused. “But I pre-paid two weeks.”

“Like I said, Slim fucked up.”

“With deposit,” I went on.

“You’ll get a refund.”

I blinked at him then asked, “A refund?”

“Yeah,” he said to me, “a refund, as in,
you’ll get your money back.”

“But –” I began but stopped speaking when he
sighed loudly.

“Listen, Miss –”

“Ms.,” I corrected again.

“Whatever,” he said curtly. “There was a
mistake. I’m here.”

It hadn’t happened in awhile but I was
thinking I was getting angry. Then again, I’d just travelled for
seventeen plus hours; was in a different country; in a different
time zone; it was late, dark, snow was falling, the roads were
treacherous; I had hundreds of dollars worth of groceries in my
car, some of which would go bad if not refrigerated and hotels
didn’t have refrigerators, at least not big refrigerators; I was
tired and I had a head cold coming on, so I could be forgiven for
getting angry.

“Well, so am I,” I returned.

“
Yeah, you are, but it’s
my
house.”

“What?”

“I own it.”

I shook my head and it was those short,
confused shakes again.

“But, it’s a rental.”

“It is when I’m not here. It isn’t when I’m
home.”

What was happening finally dawned on me
fully.

“
So, what you’re saying is, my confirmed
booking is really an
unconfirmed
booking and you’re cancelling at what is the absolute
definition of the very last minute?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m speakin’ English, we do share a common
language. I’m understandin’ you.”

I was confused again. “What?”

“You’re English.”

“I’m American.”

His brows snapped together and it made him
look a little scary mainly because his face grew dark at the same
time. “You don’t sound American to me.”

“Well, I am.”

“Whatever,” he muttered then swept an arm
toward the open door. “You’ll get a refund first thing Monday
morning.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“This is… I don’t… you can’t –”

“
Listen,
Ms.
Sheridan, it’s late. The longer you stand there talkin’,
the longer it’ll take you to get to the hotel.”

I looked out at the snow again then back at
him.

“It’s snowing,” I informed him of the
obvious.

“This is why I’m tellin’ you, you best get
on the road.”

I stared at him for a second that turned
into about ten of them.

Then I whispered, “I can’t believe
this.”

Then I didn’t have to wonder if I was
getting angry. This was because I knew I was livid and I was too
tired to think about what I said next.

I shoved the papers in my purse, snatched up
my grocery bags, walked directly to him, stopped and tilted my head
back to glare at him.

“So, who’s going to refund the money for the
gas for the car?” I asked.

“Miss Sheridan –”

“
Ms.,
” I hissed, leaning toward him and then I
continued. “And who’s going to refund my plane ticket all the way
from England where I
live
but my passport is
blue?
”
I didn’t let him respond before I went on. “And who’s going to pay
me back for my holiday in a beautiful A-Frame in the Colorado
mountains which I’ve spent seventeen
plus
hours travelling to reach, travelling, I might add, to a
destination I paid for
in full
but didn’t get to enjoy
at all?
” He opened his mouth but I kept right on talking. “I
didn’t fly over an ocean and most of a continent to stay in
a
clean
hotel
with
nice
views
. I did it to
stay
here
.”

“Listen –”

“No, you listen to me. I’m tired, my sinuses
hurt and it’s snowing. I haven’t driven in snow in years, not like
that.” I pointed into the darkness extending my grocery-bag laden
arm. “And you’re sending me on my way, well past nine o’clock at
night, after reneging on a contract.”

As I was talking, his face changed from
looking annoyed to something I couldn’t decipher then, suddenly, he
grinned and it irritated me to see he had perfect, white, even
teeth.

“Your sinuses hurt?” he asked.

“
Yes,” I snapped. “My sinuses hurt,
a
lot,
” I told him then
shook my head again, this time they were short,
angry
shakes. “Forget it, what do you care? I’m too
tired for this.”

And I was. Way too tired. I’d figure out
what I was going to do tomorrow.

Then I stomped somewhat dramatically (and I
was of the opinion I could be forgiven for that too) into the
night, thinking this was my answer. This was the universe telling
me I should play it safe. Marry Niles. Embrace security even if it
was mostly boring and deep down if I admitted it to myself, it made
me feel lonelier than I’ve ever felt in my life.

Paralyzingly lonely.

Who cared?

If this was an adventure, it stunk.

I’d rather be sitting in front of a TV with
Niles (kind of).

I opened the boot and put the bags back in
and when I tried to close it, it wouldn’t move.

This was because Unfriendly, Amazing-Looking
Man was now outside, standing by my car and he had a firm hand on
it.

“Let go,” I demanded.

“Come back into the house, we’ll work
somethin’ out, least for tonight.”

Was he mad? Work something out? As in,
him
and
me staying
in the A-Frame together? I didn’t even know his name and,
furthermore, he was a jerk.

“Thank you,” I said snottily, “no. Let
go.”

“Come into the house,” he repeated.

“Let go,” I repeated right back at him.

He leaned close to me. “Listen, Duchess,
it’s cold, it’s snowing, we’re both standin’ outside like idiots
arguing over what you wanted in the first place. Come into the
damned house. You can sleep on the couch.”

“
I am
not
going to sleep on a couch.” Then my head jerked and I
asked, “Duchess?”

“My couch is comfortable and beggars can’t
be chosers.”

I let that slide and repeated,
“Duchess?”

He threw his other hand out, his gaze
drifting the length of me as he said, “Fancy-ass clothes, fancy-ass
purse, fancy-ass boots, fancy-ass accent.” His eyes came to my face
and he finished firmly. “Duchess.”

“I’m American!” I shouted.

“Right,” he replied.

“They don’t have duchesses in America,” I
educated him.

“Well, that’s the truth.”

Why was I explaining about aristocracy? I
returned to target.

“Let go!” I shouted again.

He completely ignored me shouting and looked
into the boot.

Then he asked what I thought was insanely,
“Groceries?”

“Yes,” I snapped, “I bought them in
Denver.”

He looked at me and grinned again and again
I thought it was insanely before he muttered, “Rookie mistake.”

“Would you let go so I can close the boot
and be on my way?”

“Boot?”

“Trunk!”

“English.”

I think at that point I might have growled
but being as I was alarmed at seeing only red, I didn’t really take
note.

“Mr…” I hesitated then said,
“whoever-you-are –”

“Max.”

“Mr. Max –”

“No, just Max.”

I leaned toward him and snapped,
“
Whatever
,” then
demanded, “Let go of the car.”

“Seriously?”

“
Yes,” I bit out. “Seriously. Let. Go. Of.
The.
Car.
”

He let go of the car and said, “Suit
yourself.”

“
It would suit me if I could travel back in
time and not click ‘book now’ on that stupid webpage,” I muttered
as I slammed the boot and stomped to the driver’s side door.
“Idyllic A-Frame in the Colorado Mountains, not even
bloody
close. More like Your Worst
Snowstorm Nightmare in the Colorado Mountains.”

I was in the car and had slammed the door
but I was pretty certain before I did it I heard him chuckling.

Even angry, I wasn’t stupid and I
carefully reversed out of his drive, probably looking like a granny
driver and I didn’t care. I wanted out of his sight, away from the
glorious yet denied A-Frame and in closer proximity to a bed which
I could actually
sleep
in and I
didn’t want that bed to be in a hospital.

I turned out of his drive and drove a lot
faster (but still not very fast) and I kept driving and I didn’t
once look into my mirrors to see the lost A-Frame.

Adrenalin was still rushing through my
system and I was still angry as I think I’d ever been when I was
what I figured was close to the main road but I couldn’t be sure
and I hit a patch of snow shrouded ice, lost control of the rental
and slid into a ditch.

When my heart stopped tripping over itself
and the lump in my throat stopped threatening to kill me, I looked
at the snow in front of my car and mumbled, “Beautiful.” Then I
went on to mumble, “Brilliant.”

Then I burst out crying.

* * * * *

I woke up or at least I
think
I woke up.

I could see brightness, a lot of it, and a
soft, beige pillowcase.

But my eyeballs felt like they were three
times their normal size. My eyelids actually
felt
swollen. My head felt stuffed with cotton wool. My
ears felt funny like they were tunnels big enough to fit a train
through. My throat hurt like hell. And lastly, my body felt leaden
like it would take every effort just to move an inch.

I made that effort and managed to get up on
a forearm. Then I made more of an effort and pulled my hair out of
my eyes.

What I saw was a bright, sun-shiny day out
of the top of an A-Frame window through a railing. I could see snow
and lots of it, and pine trees and lots of those too. If I didn’t
feel so terrible, I would have realized how beautiful it was.

Cautiously, because my stuffed up head was
also swimming, I looked around and saw the loft bedroom from the
A-Frame website.

“I’m dreaming,” I muttered, my voice was
raspy and speaking made my throat hurt.

I also needed to use the bathroom which I
could see the door leading to one in front of me.

I used more of my waning energy to swing my
legs over the bed, I stood up and swayed mainly because, I was
realizing, I was sick as a dog. Then I swayed again as I looked
down at myself.

I was in a man’s t-shirt, huge, red, or it
was at one time in its history. Now it was a washed out red. On the
left chest it had a cartoon-like graphic of what looked like a man
with crazy hair, madly playing a piano over which the words “My
Brother’s Bar” were displayed in an arch.

I opened up the collar to the shirt, peered
through it and stared at my naked body, save my still in place
panties.

I let the collar go and whispered, “Oh my
God.”

Something had happened.

The last thing I remembered was bedding down
in the backseat of the rental having covered myself with sweaters
and hoping someone would happen onto me somewhat early in the
morning.