Page 9 of Blame it on the Bet
I’m so busy looking that I’ve actually stopped hearing, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she’s just asked me a question.
“Excuse me?”
“I asked if you’re hurt,” she informs me as she wipes her hands on a half-apron wrapped around her waist.
“What? Oh no. No…just my pride,” I say with a sheepish grin. “I appear to be stuck.”
“So I see.”
“I…I guess I should’ve gone around to the corner instead of trying to climb Everest here,” I kid.
“I suppose you should have,” she says with a smirk. “Would you like some help, maybe?”
Hmmm. On the one hand, I’m embarrassed. On the other, I’ll get to touch this snow bunny. Oh yeah. Plan B it is. “That would be great,” I say, offering up my most sincere, earnest smile. “Would you mind taking this for me?”
I hold my leather briefcase out, and she comes forward to take it from me. There, that’s better. Now I can use both hands to…to what?
“Here,” she says, coming closer and turning to her side. “Put a hand on my shoulder and see if that gives you enough leverage to pull your foot out.”
She doesn’t have to suggest it twice. I put a hand on her delicate frame and try to extricate myself. Unfortunately, the only thing I succeed in doing is sinking my other foot into the snow bank—though, not nearly as deep. That’s when I feel strong hands around my waist, pulling me backward. And up. And out. My feet slip and slide—first against the snow, and then on the slick road.
“Whoa! Hey…!”
“Hold on there, son, I’ve got you,” a deep voice says from behind me. Once I’m stable again, I feel his grip on me relax, and turn to thank the Good Samaritan, already speaking as I do.
“Thanks, man, I was good and stuck there… Jesus Christ!” I gasp in surprise, startled to find myself staring at a very tall, imposing figure. He’s got dark hair and eyes, and he’s wearing all black. That is, except for his white collar. A priest’s collar. He throws his head back in a loud laugh that echoes on the pavement and down the quiet block.
“Not quite, son, but you’re getting warmer!” he howls at my exclamation.
I think I’ve stepped into a David Lynch film.
“I–I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to be offensive, Father…I was just…” The words tumble out of my mouth and he just smiles at me kindly, clearly amused.
“Tell you what,” he says, taking me by the elbow and guiding me around a patch of black ice, “let’s you and I take a walk around onto the nice salted and sanded sidewalk, shall we?”
I nod and allow myself to be led down and back around until we’re standing in front of the pub. In front of the hottie. She looks down at my hand-tooled Italian leather loafers, then back up at me again.
“I know those are some spendy shoes,” she comments, “but you might want to get yourself a pair of boots if you’re going to be in town for more than a day or two. Otherwise, you’re likely to do a header every time you hit a slick patch.”
Spendy?
“Ah, thanks,” I reply, feeling unexpectedly—and uncomfortably—nervous.
What is that about?
“I don’t plan to be in town more than a night or two. I live in Los Angeles, and there’s not much call for snow boots there…”
Something in her smooth, delicate features changes, hardens. Her brow furrows just a touch.
“I’m Bryan Truitt,” I say, stepping forward to offer her my hand.
Now the brows go up as if she recognizes me. Or my name. Before I can ascertain whether or not that’s the case, the priest jumps in.
“Aha! I didn’t think you were from around these parts. Much too tan, don’t you know.” He chuckles. “What is it that brings you to Mayhem, Mr. Truitt?”
“Please, call me Bryan. Uh…I’m here to see a guy by the name of Hennessy. Hennessy O’Halloran. I think he’s maybe managing the pub here…” I gesture toward the large plate glass window with O’Halloran’s painted in large green and gold letters.
“I’m Hennessy O’Halloran,” the blonde cutie informs me.
