Chapter 2 "Six weeks." Molly's voice, filled with unwavering finality and a dash of hopefulness, comes through my headphones. "That should be plenty of time for you to interview him, get through edits, and still be able to enjoy a little summer fun at the lake." "Here's hoping," I reply as I make my way through the small Montana airport. "You don't need hope. You've got this." I can almost see her, sitting at her desk, covered in books and coffee mugs, pumping her fist into the air. Fueled by too much caffeine and a competitive spirit. She's the single hardest working person I know and on top of it, somehow a constant ray of sunshine. We're a lot alike, actually. Only my optimism is on a temporary hiatus. She's one of the best agents in the business with more than fifteen years of experience in publishing. It's not a world for the faint of heart. I've questioned if I'm cut out for it more times than I can count. Including every second since I got on a plane in Arizona to fly thousands of miles to learn hockey and rewrite my book. If it weren't for Molly's belief in me and the lure of hiding away to lick my wounds, I'd still be curled up on the couch in my apartment binge-watching another reality dating show. Instead, I'm in Montana, weaving through men in cowboy hats to find baggage claim. "Ruby?" "Yeah," I say. "I'm here. I will get it done." "That's the spirit! Did you look at the videos I sent you? He's cuuuuute." It probably says something that my immediate reaction to a guy being cute is to wrinkle my nose. I'm having a hot girl summer, and a cute guy isn't getting in the way of that. "No, not yet. It's on my to-do list." Fly to Moonshot Meet Mike at the cabin I'm renting for the summer Research the hockey expert I'll be interviewing Interview said hockey expert to learn sports puck stuff Spend a week editing the hell out of my manuscript Come up with new, fabulous book idea Sell fabulous book idea Easy peasy, lemon squeezy or whatever. I've got this. "I better go," I say as I swivel around, realizing I've walked the wrong way. "You have Mike's number?" "Yes," I confirm with more sureness than before. I'm hesitant about my ability to finish this book, but I distinctly remember putting Mike's contact information in my phone. Plus, the dozens of emails Molly has sent over, confirming and reconfirming all the details. Six weeks in Moonshot, an adorable lake town in Western Montana, working with a local expert to edit the book that will hopefully reignite my flailing career. At worst, I'm going to spend my summer reading with a killer view. But I don't say that to Molly. She'd fly out here to hold my hand and that would be beyond pathetic. I'm a grown-ass woman and I need to pull my shit together. Just...not quite yet. I need to figure out how to write again first while editing a book I never thought would see the light of day. I really must be desperate. And is hockey really all that different from baseball anyway? I mean, I know they're different. One has a bat, the other a stick. Hmm...now that I think about it, aren't those sort of the same thing? I'll add that to my list of questions to ask my hockey guru. "Great!" Molly's unending enthusiasm keeps me going. "I hope the cabin is as great of a find as it looked in the pictures." That makes two of us. "I just know it's going to inspire so many great, romantic stories. Who knows, you might get your next book idea while you're there." "I'm sure you're right," I say because dammit I can do this. My steely resolve won't let me throw in the towel, only toss it into the corner and let it collect dust. And isn't that almost worse? If I were the type of person who could walk away and get a different job, then I already would have done it. I love putting words down, creating characters, and weaving stories. I know that I can do this, but that fact doesn't make it any easier to do the damn thing. "Text me when you get there and send me the new first chapter at the end of the week." "Will do," I say as my stomach dips. One chapter. Totally doable. Probably. Maybe. Fingers crossed. After saying goodbye and ending the call, I let out a long breath. "As if the first chapter isn't the most important," I mutter quietly. I try really hard not to go all tortured artist, locking myself away and existing on coffee and angst, but the first chapter is so important. I usually save it for last. After I've written 'The End' I go back and rework it ad nauseam. The idea of sending it to Molly and the publisher without knowing the new ending of the book is incomprehensible. Unless I can somehow figure out how to work a grand slam victory kiss into the grand gesture of my hockey book. It needs charm and excitement. Sparkle. Three things I've felt very little of lately. My steps slow as I approach a bookstore. Like all airport bookstores, it has a table display in the very front with bestselling authors and popular books stacked artfully and strategically to drive people inside. It's an occupational hazard, noticing books everywhere I go. I love seeing what people are picking up on shelves or flipping through while they wait for their flight. The first time I saw someone reading one of mine, I hid like I'd been caught doing something terrible. It was so surreal. I smile, pride zipping through me, when I see my friend Lily's newest release stacked up on the far-left side of the table. I snap a picture and text it to her. Seeing friends' books in the wild is way better than seeing your own somehow. Less debilitating imposter syndrome perhaps. Before I've repocketed my phone, my gaze lands on another book. One I'm far less happy to see. The familiar white cover with red foil details is impossible to miss, unfortunately. Since the first edition of the book sold out, the second edition has the words, "An instant NYT Bestseller!" proudly stamped across the top, along with splashy praise from well-respected media. Adjectives like 'refreshing' and 'genius." My stomach sinks and my cheeks warm with embarrassment or possibly rage. Yes, definitely the latter. I turn on my heel, like fleeing as fast as possible will erase that book and that author from my mind. Unlikely. In my haste, I nearly collide with a man walking in the opposite direction. I screech and somehow manage to run over my own foot with my roller bag while he gracefully dodges me, sidestepping to the left as his brows rise in a confused, startled way. Whether at my ear-piercing vocal range or the frazzled, clumsy reaction, I'm not sure. I'm not known for my grace. Okay, fine, that is a gross understatement. I'm easily the klutziest person that I know. And the klutziest person that most anyone who knows me knows. My sister Olivia blamed it on me being top-heavy once. She was going through her preteen mean girl phase and was pissed that I got boobs before she did. Regardless of intent, her words, stuck with me. I often wonder if I would be less accident prone if I had smaller breasts or perhaps a bigger butt to even things out. "Sorry," I wheeze out as I lift my gaze to his face. He's taller than average, easily over six feet tall. His hair is tussled, possibly from travel, although he has that look about him that suggests he's always a little bit unkept. It's working for him. From the dark, wavy locks to the scruff on his face paired with black athletic pants and a gray T-shirt that hugs his broad chest and muscular arms. There's something about his clothes or the way he stands that refuses to be categorized as disheveled. It's so annoying how men can roll out of bed and put on whatever clothes they find lying around and still look this hot. I'm still staring at him when the backpack slung over my left shoulder slides off and throws me off-balance again. The heavy weight of it hits the ground next to me with a thunk, thankfully not on either of our feet. I packed way too much. I flash an apologetic smile that I hope comes off cool and collected despite all other evidence. My hot girl summer is getting off to a shaky start. Green eyes lock onto me. His lips are pressed in a distinctly annoyed line, but he lingers like his manners won't let him walk off before assuring that I'm not a danger to myself. Fair, I suppose. Slowly, he leans down and picks up my bag. His brows arch, possibly in surprise or judgment as he realizes how heavy it is. "I promise it's not a dead body," I say with a nervous chuckle. "I mean, not that an entire body would fit." The way he stares at me is so impassive, like I could literally tell him anything and it wouldn't faze him. It must be for that reason that I keep babbling. "I guess it could be just the head, but I'm too squeamish for dismembering bodies, let alone transporting them through an airport. I'm more of a 'plot your demise but never act on it' kind of girl." Hmmm. There's an idea. "A woman flees thousands of miles from home with a head in her backpack," I say like I'm pitching the story concept. If this man were in charge of judging my idea, his face just told me "that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Regardless, I make a mental note to give Lily this story-nugget idea when I text her next. In the world of suspense and horror novels, dead bodies-even dismembered ones-aren't anything new, but I still like to pass on plot ideas anytime I have one. You never know what will strike a writer at any given moment. Plus, she'll be impressed by my depravity. My brain is way too Pollyanna for her liking. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it's okay to be pissed or mad or anything other than happy. Toxic positivity is a real thing. Even still, it's my default mode. Like right now I'm already wondering if the woman in the story will have a happily ever after. Another occupational hazard, I suppose. Maybe she's been set up. I snap my fingers and point at the man as I share another brilliant nugget. "A handsome stranger in the airport swapped out her bag!" "What's happening right now?" he asks, looking over his shoulder like he expects cameras and a celebrity host to jump out and say, "Gotcha! You're on America's Most Awkward Encounters!" "Nothing," I mutter, shoulders slumping. My optimism is on a teeter-totter, and he just sent me plummeting back to the bottom with his apathetic demeanor. "O-kay." He has this deep, sexy voice, but his tone is all boredom. He extends my backpack toward me. "Here you go." "Right." I take it from him, struggling a lot more with the weight of it than he had. "Thank you." I get a nod instead of 'you're welcome' or 'no problem" or even "I'm calling security." Why is indifference the most frustrating response to be on the receiving end of? He steps past me and rejoins the steady flow of foot traffic. I watch him retreat, head and shoulders above the crowd, until he turns a corner. Jerk. Sure, he was nice enough to stop and help me, but would it have killed him to pretend I'm hilarious and charming instead of awkward and klutzy? Whatever. Hot girl summer, take two. My next stop is the car rental line. The guy working behind the counter moves at an impressively slow pace and everyone shifts their luggage from shoulder to shoulder, inching forward with heavy sighs. When I finally make it to the front, his lips curve slowly. "Hello. Welcome to Moonshot Lake," he says like I'm the very first customer he's had all day, and the greeting is a novelty. "Thank you. I have a reservation⁠-" "How are you today?" he asks, leaning forward with something like genuine curiosity on his face. He looks like he's in his early twenties. His light brown hair is cut in a fade that reminds me of Billy Matthews's second-grade picture and sends a wave of nostalgia over me. The friendly smile he continues to aim at me takes me by surprise, while also making me feel like an impatient asshole. "I'm doing well. Thank you. How about you?" I summon a little patience as I set my backpack on the floor between my feet. "Not too shabby." With that same slow, unrushed pace he stands straight. He's a big guy. Tall, although to be honest everyone feels tall to my five feet three inches, but it's more than his height. He's wide shouldered and sturdy. He looks like the kind of guy who could wrestle a calf to the ground or block a doorway by simply crossing his arms over his chest. Admittedly, I may have binged one too many episodes of Yellowstone in preparation for this trip. "Do you have a reservation?" No hint of an accent and didn't call me darlin'. Pity. "Yes. Ruby Madison." "Ruuuby." He draws it out, finally hitting me with just a little of that Montana charm I was anticipating. He grins at me as he begins to tap on the keyboard. "Cool name." "Thanks." I glance at his nametag. "Curtis." One side of his mouth lifts higher at my use of his name. "I've got you in a mid-size for..." He pauses. "Six weeks?" "That's right." "Cool. Cool. Plenty of time to see all that Moonshot has to offer. You're in luck, it's beautiful this time of year. It's a little hot now that we're in July, but better than shoveling snow, am I right?" "I wouldn't know. I'm from Arizona. We don't see a lot of snow." Certainly not enough to shovel. Once, when Olivia and I were both still in high school, we got almost two inches at my parents' house, and we were able to make snowballs and a very short snowman. "Then you should feel right at home here." He continues tapping as he adds, "I am going to hook you up with my favorite car on the lot." "Wow. That's so nice." "I know," he says in a matter-of-fact tone as he grabs a set of keys off a hook on the wall beside him and drops them on the counter in front of me. "You're all set, Ruby. I hope you have an amazing time in Moonshot." "Thanks, Curtis." A wave of fresh excitement washes over me as I pick up the key fob and flash him a grateful smile. He leans forward over the counter. His dark eyes twinkle with amusement as he says, "My name isn't really Curtis." "It's not?" I feel my forehead crinkle as the guy stands tall again, still wearing an expression that is all boyish humor with a tinge of arrogance. He shakes his head, then holds one hand up to cover the side of his mouth so no one can read his lips. "It's Bobby but can't have angry customers reporting me." For a change, I can't think of a single thing to say. So, I wave the key fob, pick up my backpack, decidedly not filled with a human head, and leave the airport. The first thing I notice in the rental car lot is that it is not, in fact, hot outside. Maybe it's Montana hot, but it's Arizona sweatshirt weather. Cool wind whips across my bare shoulders. I'm not sure if I'm excited or stunned by this development. I don't exactly love summers in Arizona, but I'm rethinking all the tube tops I packed. I stop and let my hair out of its ponytail. The long strands cover my back and shoulders, and I lift my head to the sun. A smile spreads across my face at the clouds dotting the sky. Big, fluffy white clouds that look like they've been crafted out of cotton balls and placed lovingly amidst the painted blue sky for aesthetics. A car alarm beeps somewhere in the lot, bringing me back to the present. It hits me then I have absolutely no idea what car I'm looking for. I glance down at the key fob. Attached to it is a plastic keychain with the words "Mini Convertible" scribbled in permanent marker. I look up and scan the lot. "No," I say at the exact moment I spot the vehicle that I am certain is mine for the next month and a half. I hit the unlock button and beam as the lights flicker on the car. Curtis, aka Bobby's, favorite vehicle on the lot is a lime green MINI Cooper with black stripes down the hood. In a sea of mostly black, white, and the occasional blue or red vehicles, it most definitely sticks out. It screams summer and fun and adventure, carefree days, fun nights. It's over the top. It's flashy. It's the kind of vehicle that is impossible not to notice. In any other situation I would be horrified, but not today. And not this summer. It feels like a good omen. The perfect car to turn things around - metaphorically, although I bet it turns like a dream too. "I think I misjudged you, Bobby," I say quietly as I approach the vehicle. Somehow the closer I get, the more in love with it I fall. Even as I struggle to fit my large roller suitcase in the trunk. If I had to choose between all my packed essentials (tube tops are absolutely an essential) and this car, I'd...pick my essentials but I would be sad about it. Once my luggage is stowed, I pull out my phone and snap a selfie of me standing next to the vehicle, then fire it off to my sister with the words, "Hot Girl Summer Has Commenced!" Discover our latest featured short drama reel. Watch now and enjoy the story!