Page 2 of The Triple Play

“…gonna join us for dinner.”

My focus snaps back to Kyle just in time to hear him say that. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah. They told me about the pub and I asked if they wanted to meet us there.”

I swallow, my throat suddenly feeling dry. “Okay.” There, that was a normal, appropriate response, right? “I’m just going to get changed.” I hurry from the kitchen with Trip hopping behind me before Kyle notices the heat creeping up my cheeks.

As soon as I close the door to my bedroom, I sink down to the floor. Trip climbs into my lap, once again pretending he’s a small dog, not a fifty-pound pit bull. I bury my face into the scruff of his neck.

“This is fine. Everything’s fine.” I get a lick on my upper arm in return.

It’s not entirely logical that I’m freaking out like this, but the thought of seeing two men I had a very inappropriate crush on a decade ago has me feeling anything but logical.

However, there’s no time for an existential crisis. I know I don’t have long before Kyle starts harassing me to hurry up. Growing up as the only female in our household made me a pro at getting ready quickly. There’s nothing quite like battling two brothers for the bathroom to make you hustle. Not that I would know what to do with more time, anyway, seeing as the only makeup I wear is mascara on my blonde eyelashes and clear lip gloss.

Standing up, I strip out of the clothes I’ve worn all day. I sniff my armpits and briefly debate if I have time for a shower.

“Hurry up, Oli, I’m starving.” Kyle’s muffled shout answers that question for me, and I resign myself to only adding some deodorant and changing into clean clothes. Kyle clearly doesn’t care about going out stinky and gross, but I’d rather not have that be the first impression I give my new town.

It definitely does not have anything to do with seeing Griffin and Denver for the first time in almost a decade. Nope, most certainly not.

I open the nearest suitcase full of clothes and pull out a clean pair of jeans and a deep green sweater that reminds me of Punctelia rudecta, or shield lichen. One of the most beautiful types, if you ask me.

Not that anyone does. A slow-growing organism that is a partnership of fungi and algae isn’t exactly a common interest.

“Oli! I’m gonna leave without you.”

I fling open my door. “Oh my god, relax, would you? You’re not exactly going to waste away into nothing.”

Kyle groans dramatically, pretending to faint as he slumps against the wall. “I might.” Trip goes over to him and barks. “That’s right, buddy, she’s starving me.”

“You’re fine, you big baby.”

Trepidation fills me as I let Kyle drive us to wherever we’re meeting his friends. I may have spent the majority of my life surrounded by men, both at home and at work, but that doesn’t mean I feel confident in my social skills in this type of situation.

Talk about fungi and old-growth forest conservation? Sure, no problem.

Make small talk? No thanks.

“This town’s cool, Oli,” Kyle remarks as we drive through downtown Cedar Creek. “You hit the jackpot with this job.”

“It’s the opportunity of a lifetime,” I agree, feeling a flutter of excitement. It’s not like biodiversity and conservation are booming fields of work, so jobs are not plentiful. I’ve spent the last several years bouncing from one research project to another. But this? Running my own lab, controlling my own project, it’s a dream come true. Okay, so I’ll have to teach a course or two and supervise some grad students. That’s fine. The university campus is close by and gorgeous, if a little small compared to other schools. And best of all, there’s a massive old-growth forest just down the highway.

If there was ever somewhere I’d want to settle in and stay long term, it’s Vancouver Island.

And I’ve been given a chance to make that my reality. All I have to do is prove that my research has value and secure enough funding to continue for years to come.

It’s not long before we’re pulling up in front of a beautiful log cabin-style building. The parking lot is about half full, mostly big trucks splattered with mud, courtesy of the dirt road we took from the highway.

I take a few deep breaths as Kyle pulls open the door, and I’m assaulted by the noise of a crowded restaurant and the overwhelming yet delicious scents of pub food.

“KJ!” A booming voice carries across the space. Kyle’s face lights up and then he’s being pulled into a back-slapping hug by a tall man with an undeniable presence.

Denver Foxx.

“Foxxy, dude. So fucking good to see you,” Kyle replies, pulling back with a grin, “Where’s Griff?”

“He couldn’t come.”