Page 8 of Even After This
Molly
Did you survive your night?
I roll my eyes. The woman has a husband, a ten-year-old, and a fourteen-year-old. Surely she had something better to do tonight than to wait for my call.
Yes.
As I sit down to soothe my ankles, I come to the disturbing realization these shoes might be easier to walk in than remove.
I worried about you all night when I didn’t hear from you again.
If she only knew. Risking injury on the dance floor worried me too.
Even though she can’t hear me chuckle, my lack of answer must have stressed her out because my phone vibrates with another text.
Are you drunk? You should remember that your typical half glass of wine is more potent in the altitude of the mountains.
“No, I’m not drunk.” I grunt as I pry off the right high heel. The left shoe removal requires the same unfeminine sounds. I roll my ankles in the air, and once circulation returns to my feet, I text my answer.
Not drunk. Impeccable service, amazing food, and I danced with Harlan Holcombe.
That should get a good reaction.
Dress still on my body, I crawl into bed, pull up the covers, and enjoy my smug moment.
Harlan Holcombe?
You are drunk.
Sleep it off. Proud of you.
My life hasn’t afforded me many secrets over the last four years. I revel in keeping my death-defying dance with Hercules the Hometown Hero just for me.
Eyes drooping, breathing slowed, I glance at the new message.
Can you imagine? The thought of you meeting him is disastrous. You’re on Famous People Probation.
Snuggling into my pillow, hands nestled under my chin, I close my eyes and grin like an idiot. I am. I am one hundred percent on Famous People Probation.
Which is perfect because I won’t see him again.
2
Falling asleepwhile wearing Spanx was not one of my better decisions.
As I sit in the hotel spa waiting room this morning, I’m thankful for my upcoming eighty-minute hot stone massage. With a considerable amount of pampering, my body should forgive me for dozing off in the spandex vise.
I’m hoping my masseuse can also work out the giddy memories of last night dancing through my head.
The purpose of my trip to Colorado Springs is to find a charming investment property, not fall for a charming actor with a killer smile and dangerous dancing skills.
But my reality taps me on the shoulder, and I release a weighty breath.
Not even Hercules can carry the baggage I travel with, despite his disarming smile.
Clamorous laughter across the room disrupts my sobering thoughts.
The plump woman on the chaise lounge next to me rests her elbow on the arm of her chair and leans in my direction. “Whothinks cackling in the quiet room is okay?” She nods toward the loud talkers.
