flinches when he tugs at one of the belt loops on her pants. “You’re that bird girl.”
“Excuse me?” Dove stifles a laugh. She doesn’t want to offend the guy—after all, he’s a guest—but his state of inebriation hardly gives him credibility.
“You know,” Traffic Cone nods, his words mushing together. “The bird’s name …”
“Oh yeah. I’m Dove.” She points to herself, pulling on her cropped hair out of habit.
“You’re the one she said used to have money or something, right?” He gives her a drunken leer and smiles. “Why would a good-looking girl like you go dropping a fortune behind?” He wobbles on one foot and for a second Dove thinks he might face plant into the carpet, which would suit her very well. What an ass. Who brings up someone’s personal finances? And more importantly, how does he know?
“It’s really none of your concern.” Dove gives him her case-closed expression and sips again at the beer. It could be worse; the Christmas carols could be playing on a continual loop, like they are in the rest of the buildings. If I hear “Joy to the World” one more time, I just might have to scream.
“Aren’t you supposed to pay for that?” A voice interrupts the party’s hazy hum. Appearing behind Traffic Cone Guy is an even-less-welcome sight.
“Claire. I should have known.” I just might have to scream, anyway. Dove feels out of place in her work uniform, and wishes she didn’t care. Sure, I’m off having adventures, following my own path and heart while Claire is stuck back at school in our old life, but still — it would be nice not to have any doubts. Particularly since Claire seems to have the ability to see right through any exterior I might have and into my core.
Claire turns to the drunk Traffic Cone. “She’s working here, you see. Really she oughtn’t be consuming the beverages.”
“Your friend’s got a point.” Traffic Cone nods.
She’s not my friend. Not by a long shot. “Actually, as per the instructional guide handed out to all employees of Les Trois, section four, clause two states that, quote, ‘While engaged in duties including but not limited to socializing, event chairing, and entertaining, or while off-hours, one may partake of the food and drink provided by the resort in a limited and mature fashion.’” Dove holds her beer in one hand, a bemused and steely eyed look on her face. “So you see, Claire, that not only am I allowed to be doing what I’m doing …” She takes a dramatic sip from the glass and licks the foam from her top lip while Claire and Traffic Cone stare. “I’m doing it in a mature way, which is more than I can say for you. Either of you.”
Pleased with herself, Dove scrambles back to the kitchen to let out a sigh of relief. With her back to the party and her face toward the oven, she removes yet another tray of baked Brie and sighs. I might not have reached William today, and I might not have changed my plane ticket to Nevis, but at long last I held my own with my nemesis. And that’s something.
“That was quite a rebuttal,” Max says from the doorway. Long since dried off, he’s the essence of rugged coziness in a red fleece and jeans. He’s so tall he fills up the entire doorframe, and yet again catches Dove off guard.
As soon as she sees him, she tries to talk herself out of her gut reaction. He’s incredible. If he marched in here and demanded I break up with William, what would I do? Agree. With a large amount of blushing, Dove stares at the red fleece and the body in it and realizes she’s already pictured herself wearing only that fleece. It would be long, like a dress on her, and she could curl up with Max, fireside, and—
“So, did you reach your”—Max stumbles over the word—“boyfriend?”
Dove returns to reality, where Max is getting it on with Claire, and William is a continent away, miles of ocean between them. If I say no, I’ll only appear weak and desperate. Why should I
“Excuse me?” Dove stifles a laugh. She doesn’t want to offend the guy—after all, he’s a guest—but his state of inebriation hardly gives him credibility.
“You know,” Traffic Cone nods, his words mushing together. “The bird’s name …”
“Oh yeah. I’m Dove.” She points to herself, pulling on her cropped hair out of habit.
“You’re the one she said used to have money or something, right?” He gives her a drunken leer and smiles. “Why would a good-looking girl like you go dropping a fortune behind?” He wobbles on one foot and for a second Dove thinks he might face plant into the carpet, which would suit her very well. What an ass. Who brings up someone’s personal finances? And more importantly, how does he know?
“It’s really none of your concern.” Dove gives him her case-closed expression and sips again at the beer. It could be worse; the Christmas carols could be playing on a continual loop, like they are in the rest of the buildings. If I hear “Joy to the World” one more time, I just might have to scream.
“Aren’t you supposed to pay for that?” A voice interrupts the party’s hazy hum. Appearing behind Traffic Cone Guy is an even-less-welcome sight.
“Claire. I should have known.” I just might have to scream, anyway. Dove feels out of place in her work uniform, and wishes she didn’t care. Sure, I’m off having adventures, following my own path and heart while Claire is stuck back at school in our old life, but still — it would be nice not to have any doubts. Particularly since Claire seems to have the ability to see right through any exterior I might have and into my core.
Claire turns to the drunk Traffic Cone. “She’s working here, you see. Really she oughtn’t be consuming the beverages.”
“Your friend’s got a point.” Traffic Cone nods.
She’s not my friend. Not by a long shot. “Actually, as per the instructional guide handed out to all employees of Les Trois, section four, clause two states that, quote, ‘While engaged in duties including but not limited to socializing, event chairing, and entertaining, or while off-hours, one may partake of the food and drink provided by the resort in a limited and mature fashion.’” Dove holds her beer in one hand, a bemused and steely eyed look on her face. “So you see, Claire, that not only am I allowed to be doing what I’m doing …” She takes a dramatic sip from the glass and licks the foam from her top lip while Claire and Traffic Cone stare. “I’m doing it in a mature way, which is more than I can say for you. Either of you.”
Pleased with herself, Dove scrambles back to the kitchen to let out a sigh of relief. With her back to the party and her face toward the oven, she removes yet another tray of baked Brie and sighs. I might not have reached William today, and I might not have changed my plane ticket to Nevis, but at long last I held my own with my nemesis. And that’s something.
“That was quite a rebuttal,” Max says from the doorway. Long since dried off, he’s the essence of rugged coziness in a red fleece and jeans. He’s so tall he fills up the entire doorframe, and yet again catches Dove off guard.
As soon as she sees him, she tries to talk herself out of her gut reaction. He’s incredible. If he marched in here and demanded I break up with William, what would I do? Agree. With a large amount of blushing, Dove stares at the red fleece and the body in it and realizes she’s already pictured herself wearing only that fleece. It would be long, like a dress on her, and she could curl up with Max, fireside, and—
“So, did you reach your”—Max stumbles over the word—“boyfriend?”
Dove returns to reality, where Max is getting it on with Claire, and William is a continent away, miles of ocean between them. If I say no, I’ll only appear weak and desperate. Why should I
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