“It’s a great hotel,” I said faintly. “Definitely. We did an ad campaign a few…” My voice trailed off.

Now, granted, Vermont is a tiny state with very few people, and cities—real cities, with things like hotels—are few and far between. Georgebury only boasted a couple of bed-and-breakfast places, so it wasn’t exactly shocking to learn that Charles deVeers, multimillionaire businessman, might choose this hotel if he was visiting the state. Especially if Mark had recommended it.

But it was shocking anyway.

“Daddy? Where are you?” Muriel came out of the bar. At the sight of me, her face tightened. Then she smiled an alligator’s grin, all teeth and carnivorous intent. “Callie. What are you doing here? Are you stalking us?”

I attempted a laugh. “Ian and I were at a wedding, actually.” I paused, wondering if I could take Ian’s hand. I didn’t. “You remember him from the hike, right?”

“Oh, right. Fleur’s friend,” Muriel said, smirking. “Hi, there.”

“Hello,” Ian said.

And then, of course, Mark emerged from the bar as well. At the sight of me, he jerked to a stop. “Callie!” His face flushed. “Uh…wow. Hi! Oh, and…Ian, is it?”

“Right,” Ian confirmed.

“Nice to see you again,” Mark said. “Small world.” He glanced at me, looking guilty as a shoplifting teenager.

“This is silly,” Charles boomed. “You two should join us! We were just having a little celebratory drink. Come in, come in!”

Mark’s gaze bounced between Muriel and me. He swallowed.

“They were at a wedding,” Muriel said. “And, not to blow the big surprise, but…well, you’ll be going to another one pretty soon.” She smiled broadly, then put her hand on Mark’s chest.

On her fourth finger was a solitaire diamond big enough to choke my dog. I felt the blood drain from my face. Blinked. Nope, it was still there.

“Congratulations,” Ian said.

“Come have some champagne with us,” Charles said. “It’s such a happy occasion!”

My eyes slid from the rock to Mark. Though he was smiling, he didn’t meet my eyes for more than a drive-by.

Mark was getting married. To Muriel. She’d be here forever now. He was getting married to that unhelpful, uncheerful, unfriendly…

Realizing that I hadn’t inhaled in some time, I sucked in some air. I tried to say something, but my vocal cords seemed to be frozen.

“We’re actually pretty soaked,” Ian said, and at the sound of his voice, I closed my mouth. “But thank you,” he added.

“Congratulations,” I said finally, though my voice sounded strange. “Best wishes. Um…well, I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

“Another time, then, kids. You have a great night.” Mr. deVeers, all charm and conviviality, waved us off.

Ian steered me to the elevators, his hand warm on my arm. The minute we got there, he let go, making me realize how cold I was. He pushed the button, then shoved his hands into his pockets.

I took a deep breath, my mind still reeling. “That was…wow. Small world. Small state.” I glanced at my companion, trying to recover. He didn’t look at me, and our kiss seemed like a year ago.

“Ian?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“Um…I’m sorry about that. The interruption.” Shit. I sure as heck was. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere, a huge sinkhole opens up in the damn road and breaks your axle.

The elevator arrived with a ding. “After you,” was all he said.

Our rooms were on the fourth floor, right across from each other. I opened my evening bag and withdrew my key card. He pulled his out from his jacket pocket. The mood from the car was as dead as roadside possum.

“Ian,” I blurted. “Um… Do you want to come in? Raid the mini bar, share a Toblerone? Maybe, um…talk? Or other things, too?”

He hesitated, but the answer was already written on his face. “I appreciate you coming to Laura’s wedding, Callie,” he said carefully, “and you really were…helpful. But maybe this isn’t the right time for Toblerones.” He paused. “Or anything else.”

I took a quick breath, mortified that tears were stinging my eyes. “Okay. Sure. Yup. Well, sleep tight, Ian. See you in the morning. Um, if we could leave on the early side tomorrow, that would be great. I have a lot of things to do.”

“Sure,” he said, and with that, he slid his card into the door and went into his own room.

“Shit,” I whispered. “Shit on a shingle, shit on rye.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GREEN MOUNTAIN WAS subdued the following week with the news that M&M were making it official. Mark avoided me, acting chipper and professional when we did have to talk and, on the two or three occasions when we happened to walk in at the same time, suddenly remembering he’d forgotten something, requiring an about-face. I heard him and Muriel laughing behind his office door one morning, and another day, the elder Rousseaus came in to take their son and his fiancée out to lunch. I still couldn’t believe it. Not that Mark was getting married…but that out of all the women on earth, he’d picked her. That he loved her enough for a lifetime.

Though I tried to stay out of any true gossip, it was clear the rest of my coworkers weren’t thrilled about the engagement, either. “He can marry her if he wants,” Karen said as we walked in together on Wednesday, “but I wish to holy hell that she wasn’t working here.” Yesterday, Muriel overheard Damien referring to her and Mark as M&M. “Oh, that’s so cute!” she said. “We should rename the company. M&M Media. What a great name, don’t you think, hon?” Mark had murmured an answer, and later that day, I’d seen Muriel playing with the words M&M Media in different fonts on her computer.

Muriel may have been a tad more pleasant, but the sight of her running our weekly staff meeting was off-putting. Apparently, she’d given up trying to be creative director and was moving into production.

“Callie, what are you working on this week?” she asked, her eyes giving me the customary scan-and-judge. She was clad in a winter-white wool dress, wide black belt and gorgeous black patent leather pumps.

“I’m working on your dad’s Web site and some of the downloads for—” I began.

“Please call the company by name,” she said mildly, ticking something off her notepad. Damien snorted and went back to studying his manicure. He used to run our production meetings and was making his irritation known through deep sighs and eye-rolling.

“Anything else?” Muriel asked.

“Yep. The hospital ad for the Globe and the pitch for that construction company in New Hampshire,” I said. “Tomorrow we’re shooting the fall footage for Hammill Farms, so I’ll be going to that, too.”

“Do you really need to? Mark and I will be on site,” she said, looking up with a fake smile.

I glanced at Mark, who was staring out the window. “Well, since I came up with the concept and wrote the script,” I said calmly, “I’d say the answer is yes, I do need to go.”

“Now, Callie,” she said in a placating tone. “You don’t need to be hostile. Everyone agrees that your commercial is wonderful. I’m just not sure if you really need to come, or if you can delegate once in a while. After all,” she added, “your boss will be there. I’m sure you can trust his judgment.” The insincere smile remained on her face.

“Mark?” I asked.

He snapped to attention. “Um…well, uh, I could use you here, actually.”

“Okay,” I said after a beat. “I guess I’m staying, then.”

“Great,” Muriel said, her diamond eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Fleur? What are you up to this week?”

Fleur straightened. “Muriel, those shoes… Prada, yeah?”

“Suck-up,” Damien muttered.

Fleur shot him a glare, but Muriel smiled. “Chanel,” she said.

“Right-o. Well, I’m nearly done with the copy for the BTR catalog, as you asked. Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“No, that’s fine, you keep at it. I love what you’ve shown me so far.”

My stomach knotted. Fleur was smart, and political, and if it felt a bit like she was a traitor, well, she was just looking out for herself. “And, Pete,” Muriel said, just as Pete was yawning hugely. “What are you working on this week?”

“I’m trying to get my USB into a certain port,” he said, nudging Leila who, as usual, was fused to his hip bone.

“Maybe you need a converter,” she giggled.

To my surprise, Muriel smiled, a real smile this time. “You guys are so cute,” she said. “I guess love is in the air.”

I LEFT WORK A LITTLE EARLY, and Bowie greeted me with his usual astonished joy that so great a miracle as my return had occurred. “Where’s Noah, huh, Bowie?” I asked. “Where’s your Grampy?” Noah’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, but my dog failed to elucidate. Noah must’ve had some errands to run, though he usually got me, his slave, to do that for him, as he wasn’t fond of “the great unwashed,” as he liked to call the public.

I wasn’t alone in the house that often, and I had to admit, it was kind of nice. I loved my grandfather, of course, but I missed living alone, too. The tiny apartment I’d rented before Noah’s accident had been a snug little space with sloping ceilings and big windows. My father had clunked his head every single time he visited, but I loved the coziness of it. And sure, I wanted a house someday. I didn’t want to be Noah’s faithful servant forever. Or, I corrected, I didn’t want to just be Noah’s faithful servant. I wouldn’t mind having him live with my husband and me.

Not that there was a husband on the horizon.

I hadn’t heard from Ian since our drive home from Montpelier last week, which had been a study in awkwardness and fidgeting. On my part, that is. Honestly. Me, reduced to inane chatter about the foliage. Sure, he’d responded, his answers all polite and brief. We hadn’t talked about anything real. Certainly hadn’t talked about that kiss, which I’d relived about three hundred times thus far.

You blew it, the First Lady said, shaking her head sadly.

How did I blow it, huh? I snapped back. I was surprised that Mark’s getting married, that’s all. Is that a sin? And isn’t there a kindergarten somewhere waiting for you to show up and read a book? Betty Boop was useless, sighing mournfully somewhere in a corner of my brain. But Michelle was right. Somehow, I’d blown it. From Ian’s perspective, it must’ve seemed like I wasn’t over Mark. Are you sure you are? the First Lady asked.

I closed my eyes and sighed. I knew one thing. I really wanted to breach the wall between Ian and me. Too uncertain to pick up the phone, I’d written, then deleted about thirty e-mails to him, but despite the fact that I was good at making people want stuff—and making people like me, as Ian had once pointed out—every word sounded wrong. I checked his “Ask Dr. Ian” blog…he was doing fine. Carmella and I ran into each other at Toasted & Roasted, and she told me things had been really busy since the pet fair. That was good, at least. The little nudge provided by the warm and fuzzy campaign had worked. But at the memory of the scene in the church foyer, I felt ashamed that I’d ever suggested that Ian McFarland needed to be any different from how he actually was.

I slipped off my shoes and went up to my own room, Bowie at my side, the unaccustomed quiet broken only by the sound of the rain pounding the roof. The Morelock chair sat in front of the window as if waiting. Waiting to be a part of that happily ever after I’d promised it. For a second, I thought about trying to get some comfort there, but I didn’t feel worthy today.

I lay on my bed, Bowie curled next to me, and wondered what to do. Work was sucky, Muriel wasn’t going anywhere and I’d ruined things with Ian.

Bowie’s ears pricked up suddenly. So did mine, figuratively speaking.

Any further thoughts on my romantic woes disintegrated. It’s just the rain, I told myself. But there it was again. A sound. A thud. Not rain at all.

Someone was here. In my house. Someone was upstairs with me. Hot, liquid fear flooded my veins. Silently, I sat up.

Someone was in my bathroom.

Could it be Bronte, maybe? It was possible…she came over once in a while, but without Noah here, she would’ve gone to Mom’s. Maybe it was Freddie, but what the heck would he be doing in my bathroom? Should I follow that train of thought? Maybe it was a mass murderer, on the run from the police, ducking into our perpetually unlocked home to hide, coldly delighted to find one more victim.

It’s probably a bat, dummy, the First Lady said. The thought was calming, despite Michelle’s disrespectful tone. She was probably right. Speaking of bats, well, I didn’t have one. Baseball bat, that was. But I did have an oar, this old wooden oar I’d bought at a yard sale a few years ago, which I’d hung up as a very cool decoration. Taking care to be quiet, just in case the noise was indeed caused by Jack the Ripper, I crept over and took the oar off the wall.

Picking up my cell phone, I flipped it open, pressed 9, then 1, then kept my thumb hovering right there. If there really was a person in my bathroom, I’d press the last 1, then toss the phone under the bed so the perp couldn’t pry it from my hand and hang up. The police could then track my signal and rescue me. And surely Bowie wouldn’t just twirl in gleeful circles as I was attacked, right? Surely he’d protect the woman who’d saved him from the animal shelter, right? I glanced at my faithful friend. He was sleeping. Super.