“You didn’t stalk Boyd here from New York or anything?” Rose clarified with some rising alarm.
“We’re in school in Boston, but Snowy’s from here,” said the Great Puffin. “After we saw the pictures from yesterday, someone in our Discord used Google Earth to ID this nasty hotel. So Snowy and I came over to figure out what’s going on.”
“It’s not nasty,” Rose immediately told them. “The pool just hadn’t been cleaned in a few months. It’s fine inside, where Boyd’s staying.”
Snow Wolf scoffed. “He isn’tstayingin this shithole, obviously. We’re trying to figure out if Tom or Boyd are doing some test shots for the Greta Gerwig zombie project that’s supposed to start this fall.”
Rose narrowed her eyes, mentally uninviting them from the inn if they couldn’t say anything nice about it. They could practice for a career in the Pinkertons somewhere else.
“Oh my God,” said the Great Puffin. “Wait. Are you the lady Boyd saved from drowning yesterday?”
Both girls gasped dramatically and scrolled through their phones to compare Rose with whatever horrible photos Boyd’s camera crew had now put online forever.
“Boyd did notsaveme,” Rose said, crossing her arms and glaring.
“How do you know him?” Snow Wolf demanded.
“She’s probably just the pool cleaner,” the Great Puffin said.
“I own this place,” Rose told them. “And you should probably leave.”
They scoffed.
“Nuh-uh,” said Snow Wolf. “I did my research. This inn is owned by Maxine Kelly Steagall, and the online property taxrecords say she’s claiming a senior citizen exemption. You’re not, like,thatold.”
“If you’re this good at research, shouldn’t you two be, I don’t know, violating someone’s civil liberties for profit instead of stalking a movie star?” Rose demanded. “Pictures of him can’t be worth that much. Iamin charge of this place, and I’m not letting any paparazzi in.”
“We’re not paparazzi. This is just our hobby,” Snow Wolf said, taken aback.
“We’re just Tomboy fans,” said the Great Puffin, big brown eyes going earnest and impassioned. “Do you work here? Could you let us in?”
“I wrote a 150k hockey AU longfic about Tom and Boyd. We just want to give it to them,” said Snow Wolf.
“I did the art and the binding,” said the Great Puffin, blinking at Rose beseechingly.
Rose softened at this. Tom didn’t seem to think much of Boyd’s fans, but Rose had written a very embarrassing letter to Orlando Bloom as a tween and not sent it only because she didn’t have the spy skills of these two and hadn’t known his address. And the way the Great Puffin was clutching a large binder to her chest did remind Rose a little bit of her younger self.
“Maybe I could give your…longfic?…to him. And see if he wants to come take some selfies later,” she offered.
“Tell us who you actually are first,” the Great Puffin demanded.
Rose wrinkled her nose at the suspicion and lack of gratitude.
“So I’m…well, I don’t know Boyd. Yet.”
“Ugh!” The girls threw up their hands, disgusted at Rose as a waste of their time.
“Wait,” Rose protested. “I do know Tom. I’m his ex-wife.”
But this only made them roll their eyes in disbelief. “Like you could pull Tom Wilczewski,” said the Great Puffin, unaware that Tom had at one point promised to have several babies with Rose. “And anyway, he’s out here with Boyd. His true love.”
Rose gave her a flat stare. Even allowing that the two fangirls were not going to be receptive to any information suggesting that Tom and Boyd were not themselves headed for domestic bliss, this wasn’t flattering to Rose.
“You got me. I’m actually here for Boyd too. He pays me to hit him with a sweep broom and tell him he’ll never be as buff as Adam Driver,” she told them disdainfully. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
That sent the girls into fresh fits of eye-rolling and demeaning glares.
“Funny,” said the Great Puffin with maximum scorn. “You should be on Wattpad.”
