Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

MOLLY

A train full of commuters can be overstimulating, as is currently the case. The woman across the aisle is filing her fingernails so aggressively, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard, not to mention the acrylic dust filling the air—gack. The guy next to me is so disheveled, he looks like he's recovering from a days-long bender. He's hogging our shared arm rest, and is slumping in my direction, so that his head is nearly on my shoulder. If that's not bad enough, he reeks of garlic and regret. The topper is the little kid in front of me who is standing on his seat trying to burp the alphabet as loudly as humanly possible. It's times like this I wish I owned a car.

I have another hour before I reach my destination, so I pop in my earbuds, close my eyes, and try to escape my current reality by listening to a crime podcast. There's nothing like murder and mayhem to settle the nerves.

When the train pulls into the Elk Lake stop, I jump to my feet and practically run for the exit. Unfortunately, I don't see the foot blocking the aisle. As such, I wind up making a spectacular display as I trip up the aisle for several yards. My performance is akin to a vaudevillian physical comedy routine. Luckily, a hand reaches out to steady me before I hit the ground. "Whoa there. I've got you."

I take a moment to catch my breath before turning to thank my rescuer. One look at his hazelly green eyes and chiseled jaw renders me nearly speechless. Is that a tan? I finally manage to say, "Thump queue."

The Adonis stands up and reaches toward his overnight bag. "Excuse me?"

"Thump queue," I repeat before forcing my mouth to form proper words. "I mean, thank you."

His lips curve ever so slightly before he responds with a wink. "You're welcome."

I know I just told my sister I wasn't interested in dating and that she was crazy to suggest I might be about to embark upon my very own cheesy movie experience, but for a split second, a wave of possibility washes over me. Before I can stop myself, I ask, "You aren't a lumberjack by any chance, are you?"

His eyes widen. "No."

Feeling foolish, I try to think of something to say that will make me seem less weird. I decide to go with, "Me neither."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Good to know. I hear it's hard work."

I'm going to be single forever. While I claim to be fine with that outcome, I secretly want to find the man of my dreams, get married, have two point five children, and then adopt a Bernese Mountain puppy or three. The house in the suburbs and white picket fence are a given.

Turning around, I continue to make my way off the train while chastising myself for being such an idiot. I step down to the ground before lugging my suitcase to my side. The gorgeous stranger is behind me, but he doesn't stick around to continue our inane small talk. Instead, he veers to the right and exits the platform.

I don't move as quickly. I simply look around at my charming surroundings. There's nothing like a small-town train station decorated for the holidays. The depot windows are strung with colored lights. The old-fashioned streetlamps lining the walkway are festooned with flocked wreaths, and Christmas carols are booming from the speakers against the side of the building.

Laughingly, I tell myself, "You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy." Not that Chicago is at all comparable to Kansas, but a certain Wizard of Oz magic seems to have overtaken me.

I appreciate my surroundings for long enough that by the time I turn around, I'm the only person left on the platform. The text I received from the Elk Lake Lodge said they would send a driver to pick me up. As such, I make my way through the depot to the other side of the building.

The sidewalk is covered in fresh snow, so I'm careful to step into the footprints left by others. I look around for a van with the hotel's name on it, but the only vehicle at the curb is a dark blue Suburban. Before I can approach it, a gaunt middle-aged man wearing a gray parka steps out. "Molly Anders?"

I throw a hand up in the air and reply, "That's me!"

He walks over and takes possession of my suitcase before putting it in the back hatch. Then he opens the door for me. "Name's Paul. You're my last pickup which is good because we're expecting more snow." I'm glad I decided to come tonight and not wait until morning.

Getting into the back of the truck, I'm greeted by a familiar face. "Hey, there." It's the hottie from the train.

"Hey, hi. Fancy meeting you here."

The driver gets in and asks, "You two know each other?"

Before I can answer, my seat mate explains, "We met on the train. Neither of us are lumberjacks." Kill me now.

"I'm Molly," I tell him hoping he'll forget that whole lumberjack fiasco.

"Blake," he says.

"You're staying at the lodge, too?" He nods his head, so I needlessly tell him, "So am I." Duh, Molly. Obviously, you're both staying at the lodge, or you wouldn't be in this car .

Blake remains quiet which is my cue to ramble on like a lunatic. "Do you live in Chicago?" But before he can answer, I decide, "You must. I mean, why else would you have been on the same train as me?"

"I might have come in from the suburbs to catch a train that goes to Elk Lake," he suggests.

I hadn't thought of that. "Did you?"

Another pained smile. "No. I live in Chicago. I just moved there."

"Really? Where are you from?"

"I'm from Chicago, but I've spent the last ten years in Los Angeles," he says.

"Winter is a crazy time of year to come home."

As Paul pulls out onto the road, Blake explains, "I got sick of all the beautiful days in LA. I missed real weather."

Neither one of us says anything else as we turn onto a road that leads through the woods. I don't mind snow so long as it doesn't stick around for months on end—which it tends to do. Yet, the current scenery replaces my disdain for an endless winter. The vision of huge evergreen branches laden with its white bounty is better than any of those calendars nature photographers shoot. I feel like we're driving into Narnia or something.

By the time Paul turns onto the road in front of the lodge, I'm lock, stock, and barrel in love with Elk Lake.

Paul pulls around the circular drive leading to the giant log-style building. When he gets out, cold air that makes me shiver fills the cab. Blake and I take this as our signal to exit our warm confines and retrieve our luggage.

We both thank Paul for the ride before wheeling our possessions through the expansive double doors leading inside. The interior of the lobby is a warm honey oak from floor to ceiling. Roaring flames leap in a giant fireplace and the overhead chandeliers are fashioned from elk horns. My eye is drawn to what must be a twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree in the great room beyond the lobby. The whole scene is stunning .

Blake doesn't appear to be quite as impressed as I am, but he still says, "Nice."

I walk toward the front desk and am greeted by an affable-looking older man. "Welcome to the Elk Lake Lodge," he says.

"Thank you. My name is Molly Anders."

He clicks away on his computer. "I have a suite that just opened up if you and your friend would care for more space."

I turn around and lock eyes with Blake which causes my heart rate to pick up speed like I just ran a 10K in under thirty minutes. I know my face turns bright red because I can feel the heat. The reasonable side of my brain says, Turn around, Molly, and tell the man you're here alone.

The devilish side has other ideas. Think of the fun you could have with this smoke show. Go, girl, take the suite!

As I juggle the possibilities of staying in the same room with a total stranger, Blake announces, "We're not together. I have my own room."

The clerk nods his graying head. "Very good, sir."

I belatedly spin around and confirm Blake's statement. "Yes. Right. No, I'm alone. All alone. Not here with anyone. Just me." I briefly wonder if I always sound like such an idiot when talking to members of the opposite sex. I'm not flirty by nature, but my visceral reaction to Blake has rendered me positively stupid.

The clerk reaches into the drawer in front of him and takes out a plastic card. He runs it through what looks like a credit card machine before handing it to me. "We have you in room 214," he tells me. "Would you like someone to bring your bag up for you?"

While I love the perks of staying in five-star accommodations, I only brought one suitcase with me. "No, thanks, I've got it." But instead of moving along, I just stand there blocking the path.

Blake looks over my head and tells the clerk, "Name's Blake Walsh."

I tell myself to leave but I don't listen. Instead, I take two baby steps to the side and lean against the counter. Then I scan my phone with the same intensity the president might while reading a message from the Pentagon.

Yet, my messages aren't quite so impressive. There are two and—surprise, surprise—they're both from Ellen.

BS

It's your big sis! How is it? Are you there?

And …

BS:

Where are you? Call me!

I type a quick response letting her know I've arrived and promise more details once I get settled. Glancing at Blake, I watch as he takes his keycard. I'd better get moving so he doesn't think that I've been waiting for him—which obviously, I have been. I stop short when the clerk announces, "The first singles' event takes place tomorrow night at five, Mr. Walsh. Make sure you're in the great room on time. Miss Rockwell has a lot of fun activities planned."

Singles' event? He's here for a singles' event? Not only does he not look like the type who needs help dating, but I didn't sense any "bachelor on the prowl" vibes from him. And believe me, I would have noticed.

"Thank you." Blake sounds like he couldn't care less. Then he maneuvers around me and walks toward the elevator.

My feet finally start to move until I'm nearly sprinting after him. I follow him into the elevator and watch as he pushes the button for the second floor. I want to ask about the singles' event, but I don't want to come across as nosy. Also, what would I say? I'm single, too! I'm sure that wouldn't come as a shock.

I nearly giggle out loud as another possible comment comes to mind, but there's no way I'm going to say it out loud. At least that's what I tell myself. So, imagine my surprise when I declare, " Look at us, two single, non-lumberjacks, staying at the same hotel."

Blake turns his head slowly until he's looking down at me. With what appears to be bionic effort, he forces a smile, but the overall impression is not one of joviality. It's more of a constipated grin. "Yes," he says. "Look at us."