1. Angie

Chapter 1

Angie

W orld traveler . Check. Loves kids . Double check. Collects skulls of small animals?

I read the last line again on Theo’s eHarmony profile. Why would anyone admit that, let alone put it on their profile? But this guy had such a darn sexy body. Too bad he was going to be the next Ted Bundy, and I’d be safer on a date with a rattler.

I swiped left.

My green hospital scrubs caught on the stiff fabric of my chair. I glanced up from my phone, arched my back, and rubbed along my lumbar spine. A couple of flight attendants gabbed as they rolled their bags to security. The server at the café wiped an already clean table nearby.

“Good morning,” she beamed when she caught me looking.

“Thanks. You too,” I said through a yawn. Ugh. Morning people. I would never understand them.

The air filled with the scent of freshly brewed, dark French Roast, and I glared at my empty disposable cup sitting on the floor beside my foot. I’d consumed four cups to get through my shift at the NICU last night, and at some point, I had to cut myself off.

Only three flights a day came into this airport: six a.m., noon, and six p.m. Why couldn’t my parents have been on the six p.m. plane? I arrived here before the sun got out of bed, which should be illegal. This morning was the most abysmal one yet. I flipped from eHarmony and re-read my parents’ text strand.

It’s not good. Stage four.

Mama tacked on a sobbing emoji to her last sentence.

What’s our next option? Another round of chemo? We can still fight this.

I’d written that message knowing this type of stage four cancer equated to a death sentence. I hadn’t wanted to give up on a miracle.

Papa’s responses gutted me.

No more treatments … I want to be home … Sorry, Muffin. Looks like I won’t be able to be there on your wedding day after all.

By wedding, he meant a hypothetical wedding in the distant future, one we’d been joking about since elementary school—the wedding where the groom was yet to be found.

I couldn’t deny any longer that his colon cancer had come back like the Terminator dragging itself from underneath the hydraulic press. Only in Papa’s story, the robot was going to win in the end. We were headed into the world of hospice care.

Hospice was worse than mornings—and coffee didn’t make it better.

At the onset of his cancer diagnosis, we’d made a deal with each other; he’d fight this Terminator inside him and be a survivor to walk me down the aisle. It was one of his greatest dreams, that and meeting his grandkids.

Given the few months estimated time frame, I couldn’t make the second happen. But I could make the first a possibility. I was a doer. My other half existed out there, and come hell or high water, I’d find him before Papa left this Earth. So, I jumped headfirst into online dating, creating profiles on every dating app imaginable. Tinder—before I knew it was for casual hook-ups. Learned this the hard way—eHarmony. Bumble. Match. Hinge. Coffee Meets Bagel. Plenty of Fish. And even FarmersOnly.com, because city folks just don’t get it. All of which led me to some epic no-good-very-bad dates.

Dates like Fart Boi at the driving range. He literally let one go with every swing. Then the guy who Facetimed with his mother during dinner on our first date. I live with my parents, and even I couldn’t handle the Oedipus vibes oozing off him. Oh, and how could I forget about Pee Pee Pants McGoo, who was so drunk he wet himself while trying to make out with me?

The past year, Papa had been in remission. My drive to find someone had slackened, believing my dad would be with me for at least another decade. But now, time was running out.

What would I do without Papa? Who would envelop me in a hug, let me cry into their chest, and make this lonely wasteland of a world bearable? Sure, I had other friends and family, but it was like I was trapped in a desert surrounded by people offering me salt water, and Papa was the only one holding the clearest spring water out to me.

My eyes burned. My thoughts drifted between the real world and the dream world until the rumble of the jet engines rattled the airport. Instead of curling up on the chair and falling asleep, I opened my newly downloaded dating app: ExtremeSingles, a place where lovers of extreme sports looking for long-term relationships could meet. With the failures of the other dating sites, I was becoming desperate. I needed a fresh pool to fish in. Never mind that I hated anything extreme.

With a swipe of my thumb, I scanned over the next potential Mr. Angelina Johnson.

Daniel Smoot. Loved dogs. Lived in Boise. Favorite extreme sports: climbing, rappelling, and BASE jumping. I shuddered at the thought of doing any of those things. This guy also played guitar and piano. Believed in love at first sight, and he was looking to settle down!

Boom. Drop the mic. Someone on the hunt for a committed relationship wouldn’t be opposed to a quick marriage. Perfect! Minus the extreme sports hiccup, but I could make it work.

I went to swipe right, but I stopped. I gnawed at my thumbnail. He could be a total loser like my last three online heartthrobs. But who was I to call anyone a loser? A thirty-five-year-old woman still living with my parents? I raised my eyes enough to see the plane’s wheels touch the ground.

But I would never find true love if I wasn’t willing to take risks. I chewed a loose chunk of my thumbnail off, spit it on the floor, and swiped right.

You are a match flashed onto the screen.

Holy kittens in a kaboodle, Batman! We matched.

I read his name again. He had blond hair, sun-tanned skin, and great fashion sense. I couldn’t wait to smooch that Smoot.

Who was I kidding? This guy must swipe right on everyone since someone as active as him would never have swiped on my profile pic. I’d intentionally replaced my filtered picture with one before I’d lost weight, hoping it would discourage douchebags.

My picture still displayed my long blonde hair arranged in a nice braid and showed off my next best feature, my blue eyes. Mama said she was always jealous of my lashes and complexion, but I only saw the double chin and monthly forehead pimples.

I tapped into the chat.

Good morning. Speaking of mornings … Are you a morning person?

I stared at my phone waiting for a response as the plane taxied and came to a stop.

Nothing. I took that as a no.

Switching to my messenger app, I typed a quick text to my brother, Jared.

Mama and Papa arrived safely. I’ll keep you updated with Papa’s cancer.

It was hit and miss whether Jared responded. He was basically nocturnal, living his best musician life.

Workers in bright-yellow vests towed the ramp to the plane and lined it up with the open door. Dropping my phone in my purse, I looped it over my shoulder and threw my empty cup in the trash. I strode to the window. Mama stood in the doorway beside the flight attendant, waiting to be let off.

Passengers flooded from the plane. They’d slowed to a trickle by the time my parents exited. A flight attendant opened a wheelchair, and Papa, wearing his favorite red flannel jacket, climbed into it. I frowned. He hadn’t been in a wheelchair a couple of weeks ago when he’d left to go to the Cancer Institute, which apparently sucked at treating colon cancer.

They made slow progress down the ramp and onto the asphalt. Mama’s short, red hair tousled in the wind; her shoulders hunched toward Papa. He’d lost more weight, and his hair had become as white as snow.

Mama turned to talk to someone behind her. That was when I saw him. My perfect ten—short black hair, well-kept, trim beard, tall—wearing a full-on backpacking backpack with an outdoorsy helmet hanging off the side.

Armed with a bright white smile and the ability to use it, Backpack-Helmet Man took Mama’s bag and pushed Papa’s wheelchair down the gangway while the passengers rushed past them. I melted where I stood. He got sexier with every step he took.

I pressed my nose to the glass. He said something that made Mama laugh. Great. He was one of those people who possessed easy-going superpowers, the ones who diffuse the tension around them. Simply watching him made a bit of the stress from my crappy week slip away.

Backing away from the window, I relocated closer to the metal detector. Other passengers were already walking into the side of the airport where liquids of more than three ounces were allowed. My parents came into the building, still assisted by my dream man.

In times like these, I enacted the Golden Chris Standard, in which I used four of the most exquisite male movie stars, all named Chris, as a comparative measure for the guys I met.

His face had a similar structure to my personal favorite of the hot Chris’s. Chris Pine. This guy had the same kindness etched in his features that I examined anytime I watched Chris on the big screen. Of course, I was projecting, as I’d never met Mr. Pine in person, but I imagine he would never make fun of someone for having a body that fits into plus-sized clothes.

Rex and Wendy shouted greetings to my parents. Tall, dark … and completely bald, our mayor and his shorter, pale, and platinum-blonde wife were perpetually traveling. Being from a town as small as Clear Springs, we couldn’t go anywhere without being sucked into a conversation, even at the airport in the ‘big’ city. It was like being part of a perpetual high school reunion.

“Oh, honey. I missed you so much.” Mama finally reached me and enfolded me into a squishy hug. The tears I hadn’t let out all morning rested on my bottom eyelid. I blinked, and one fell. I wiped it away before Papa saw it.

“Hey, Muffin,” Papa said.

I studied the blue and yellow lines crisscrossing the deep red of his flannel. I’d never liked the nickname he’d given me as a child, but I loved him more than a lifetime of jelly-filled donuts.

“Thank you, Remi.” Papa looked at the man, who was at least a couple of inches over six foot, and then held out his hand to me. “This is our daughter, Angie. The one we were telling you about on the plane.”

Where was some sand so I could plant my head in the ground like an ostrich? They’d talked about me and probably attempted to set me up with him. I couldn’t get more desperate than that.

“Remi was such a help to us on the plane and so nice during the flight.” Mama leaned next to me and whispered, “And there’s no ring on his finger.”

Remi’s eyes locked on mine. I didn’t normally notice the color of someone’s eyes the first time I met them, but his were striking. Deep and rich like the Idaho soil, encircled by thick, dark lashes, and they held such fierce life in them, as if he hunted for joy each moment he lived.

“Remington James the Third. Nice to meet you,” he said with what sounded like a practiced country-boy twang. He held out his hand to me, grinning like he’d found buried treasure.

I expected a wave or a nod—not a handshake. And definitely not the whole ‘The Third’ intro.

“Nice to meet you, Remington James the Third.” I laughed as his cheeks grew a little red. I assume he’d been named for his father and his grandfather before him. I’d been named after Angie Harmon, the actress for Abby Carmichael on Law & Order, not one of my relatives. Nope, a TV star. After the first episode aired a few months before I was born, my parents became superfans. I didn’t tell him all this of course. “I’m just Angie.”

I slid my fingers into his hand. He held mine with a strong grip and shook vigorously. Goosebumps raised the hairs on my arm as I studied him. His soft, businessman’s hands were manicured, yet his clothes matched that of a mountain climber … or one of those people who went to every national park.

Maybe Smoot and Remi had figured out the secret ingredient to happiness: extreme sports. Too bad I had the courage of a gnat.

Mama scooted behind Papa’s wheelchair. “We’ll head over to baggage claim. Meet you there.” She winked and mouthed, Get his number.

I rubbed my forehead, certain a trace of a blush dusted my cheeks.

Remi adjusted the straps on his backpack. The helmet hanging from it thunked against its metal frame. “So, have you lived here your whole life?”

“Yep. Small-town girl. That’s me. We don’t even have a stoplight.” Stop talking. Just stop talking. I squeezed my lips together. The farthest I’d been from my town was this airport. “Where are you from?”

“Uh—Texas.” He tilted his chin down.

Hence his Southern accent with a Texan twist.

“If you’ve lived here your whole life, then you’ve been to the Perrine Bridge,” he said.

The bridge? It spanned the Snake River Canyon. “Yeah. I drive over it almost every day.”

“ No way. My buddy and I are going to BASE jump it.”

I took everything I saw in him back. He was nuts. Jumping into a chasm with no guarantee your ‘chute’ would open? No, thank you. At least three BASE jumpers died every year catapulting into the canyon.

Smoot couldn’t be this extreme.

“Are there any good places to eat around here?” He shrugged his backpack on his shoulders and smiled at me.

“I really like eating at Elevation 486.”

“That’s how tall the bridge is. 486 feet!” He bounced onto the balls of his feet. For a second, he may have actually left the ground.

Yikes. He acted like I was the most blessed thing on this earth to have the privilege of having a close relationship with the sacred structure.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “You must think I’m … intense.”

“Just a little bit.” I held up my thumb and pointer finger with only a small gap between them.

He let out a burst of laughter like a kid on a carnival ride. If only I could hop on the same ride with him.

“It’s just … I’ve been waiting my whole life for a chance to take on this challenge. My enthusiasm kind of takes over.” He shifted his weight. “So, what do you like to do for fun? Jump off bridges?” Sarcasm wove in between his words.

Between finishing nursing school, working, caring for Papa, and running the farm, I didn’t have much time for fun. What would it be like to travel around the country with a helmet strapped to your bag and do whatever the heck you wanted?

It would be heaven. Except I would do other things, like soak in hot springs, lay out on a sandy beach, get massages, and … soak in hot springs some more. “No way would I do something as stupid as jumping off a bridge.”

His shoulders dropped a little with my answer.

“I guess I like to ride my horse,” I continued. I glanced away for a second. My parents had their bags but didn’t gesture for me to leave. Sly devils.

“You actually ride a horse? Not the kind you put quarters into?”

Merriment twinkled in his eyes, and, despite my bad mood, I laughed. Darn his superpower.

“I’m impressed. I live in a city. People don’t ride horses there.” He stepped closer, giving off a scent of fresh air and clean laundry with a hint of cedar.

I didn’t do dangerous stuff like meeting a man in person. The apps were safer. With the online chat, I could get to know them a bit, choose if I wanted to give them my number, and then set up a date in real life—layers of built-in protection. Popping straight into the ‘in real life’ meeting always ended badly. Like what happened with Troy, my most recent ex. He cheated on me with Melissa Kesler, the high school counselor, and they eloped to the UK.

“Well, my parents look like they’re ready to go,” I said, then sped over to Mama and gathered their two rollie bags.

Remi followed me.

“Here, let me help you out to your car,” he said.

“Isn’t he the most considerate man?” Mama looked at me while she asked her question.

Yes, he was. He was also way out of my league. My search for a match started and ended in a pool two levels down from Remi. Men living in my realm proved to be more considerate.

I pushed my way out the door. The wind blasted into me on the way to our old Dodge truck. I bent to lift the bags into the back, but Remi beat me to it. He made those bags look as light as a piece of straw. I caught myself staring at his muscles and shook my head.

It would never work. I would fall in love with him in, like, five minutes, then what would happen? He’d ask me out for drinks, then dinner, maybe a movie. Perhaps we’d make-out at the back of the theater, I’d invite him over to hang out with my parents, and we’d talk all night. Inevitably, when he was done with me, he’d discard me and move on to the next vulnerable girl. I might as well spare myself the heartache and stop the progression here and now.

Besides, spring planting season loomed before me. My scant extra time would be spent with the one. Possibly with my match, Daniel Smoot.

My phone buzzed against my thigh in my purse. I pulled it out, and indeed, there was a message from Smoot.

Hey! So excited you messaged me. Not a morning person. Haha. What do you do for fun? Love that your profile says adventurous.

My heart lifted. He messaged me back! Okay. Maybe I stretched the truth a bit when I’d put adventurous in my profile. Adventure for me was watching Netflix instead of Hallmark on my days off.

Here was a good, solid option for me. Fun, fairly cute, and, from his profile and message, had a great personality. I peeked over the edge of my phone at Remi. Farewell, tall, handsome Remi with the softest eyes I’ve ever seen. Goodbye, heaving biceps and taut pectorals. It would have been nice to touch you.

He slammed the tailgate closed, setting his helmet to motion once again.

My mind churned through all my failed dates this past year. I couldn’t be boring old me if I wanted to snatch a soulmate like Smoot. No. I had to reinvent myself. Become more interesting … like Hot-Backpack-Guy-the-Third. If Smoot wanted adventure, I’d give him adventure.

Without thinking, I typed my response.

Hi. Full-on night owl here too. And I love to jump off bridges. With a parachute. For fun.

I hit send and threw my phone back into my purse with my heart in my throat.

Without much control—I blamed lack of sleep—my eyes found Remi again. He stood next to Papa while Papa struggled into the cab, not offering too much help or making him feel dependent.

Ignoring the gravitational pull tugging me toward Remi, I yanked my door open. The hinges creaked louder than the howling wind. Mama sat beside Papa in the back of the truck, and I scooted behind the wheel.

“I’ll take this inside for you.” Remi gestured at the wheelchair. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Tony and Ms. Nora, and …” He paused and locked eyes with me. “You too, Miss Angie.”

Miss Angie? Who talked like that? Shoot me now and bury me in my grave. Second thoughts weaseled into my resolve.

I slammed the door on them and his beautiful face. Through the long years of being the chubby kid through my adolescence, I’d learned that boys like Remi were never an option.

Jiggling the key into the ignition, I turned it. The truck chugged to life … and died.