Dragging my Louis Vuitton with one hand and my collapsing mental stability with the other, I trudged back into the terminal. The stuffed moose head mounted over the information desk seemed to look down at me with smug satisfaction, as if to say, “I knew you’d be back.”
I briefly considered going back to Gate 3 so I could take Brie up on her offer to pour me a moonshine. Then I saw the sign that said, “Transportation.”
“You like pancakes?” asked Al, his eyes never leaving the road. Al was the driver of the faded yellow taxi I’d found parked at the curb. He’d been asking me random questions for the past twenty minutes, ever since we left the airport.
“Yes,” I answered. “I do like pancakes.”
“Hmm.” Al nodded sagely, as if I’d confirmed an important philosophical point.
I stared out the window, looking at nothing but dense forest and an empty road. The air streaming through the partially open window carried the scent of pine trees. We must have been miles from civilization, because for a long stretch, we were the only car on the road.
“Whadda bout waffles? You like them too?”
“Yes.” I wondered if I’d somehow stumbled into an episode ofTwin Peaks.“I like waffles too.”
Another five minutes passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe ten thousand.
“How do you feel about French toast?”
“French toast is good too.”
“Hmm.” Al made another noise that might have been approval. Or disapproval. Or something in the middle.
“I’m more of a flapjack man myself.”
Eventually, the taxi climbed a winding road that snaked up the mountainside, switchbacks twisting like a roller coaster. My stomach felt like I’d been trapped on the spinning teacup ride at Disneyland for three weeks straight.
“Now, your store-bought syrup is mostly corn syrup with flavoring,” said Al, navigating a hairpin turn. “Real maple syrup comes in grades. I prefer the dark robust. More mineral notes.” He whipped around sharp corners as if they were lined with feather pillows instead of a treacherousplunge off a cliff.
It’s a good thing I didn’t get in that Jeep with Noah, I thought to myself. Since the Jeep didn’t have doors, I would have been thrown out the side and bounced into a gorge. Plus, we would have been stuck together for the entire ride with him glaring at me and rolling his eyes the whole time. Literally next to each other. With nothing but a wolf dog between us.
My traitorous mind drifted back to Noah’s impossibly blue eyes and the way his flannel shirt had stretched across his shoulders. Even soaked in moonshine and coffee, he’d been gorgeous. Which made it all the more infuriating that he’d just tossed me aside.
Noah.
The guy who looked like a model on a protein powder canister and ate elk burgers. Like he didn’t have enough testosterone already.
Noah.
The guy who drove a doorless death trap and kept a wolf as a pet. Sure, I’d spit coffee and moonshine all over the guy, but that hardly warranted stranding someone in the middle of nowhere.
Noah.
The guy who accused me of being a LuxeLife lackey. What did that even mean? They were paying me to do a job. A job I intended to do. Because they were paying me. Which, okay, fine, technically made me a lackey if you were following the strict definition of the word.
But the way he said it. Such … disdain. Like I was just another cog in the corporate machine. A machine he clearly despised for some reason.
I gave my head a small shake. Altitude sickness. That’s all this was. Lack of oxygen to the brain, creating self-doubts and making me think absurd thoughts about flannel-wearing, beast-befriending jerks with perfect jawlines.
Noah and I weren’t just opposites; we were opposing species. I was homo sapiens influencerus, and he was whatever scientific classification covers “grumpy wilderness dweller who abandons women at airports.” Hopefully, I would never have to see him again, and clearly, the feeling was mutual. Good riddance.
I gripped the door handle as Al took another turn, my stomach jumping up into my throat. “…and that’s why birch syrup has more complexity,” finished Al, completely unaware of my mental detour. “Takes about a hundred gallons of birch sap to make one gallon of syrup, compared to forty for maple. More labor-intensive, but the flavor profile makes it all worth it. Notes of balsamic, with a minerality that maple just can’t achieve on its own.”
I nodded, having given up on contributing to the conversation long ago. The adrenaline from our white-knuckle ride had worn off, leaving me with nothing but exhaustion and an encyclopedic knowledge of batter-based breakfast foods.
“Course, there’s black walnut syrup, too. More of an acquired taste. But nothing beats a good birch syrup on a sourdough flapjack.”
By the time we finally turned onto a narrow, unmarked road, the sun had started to settle over the mountains. Crawling down the road through the trees, the taxi’s headlights swept across a wooden sign planted in a clump of brush, so weathered I could barely make out the carved letters: “Pine Ridge Lodge.”
