“Oh. My. God.” I murmur into the speaker.
“What?” Barrett hisses.
“Let me call you back.”
“Are you OK? Are you in danger?”
“No, just let me call you back.” I mutter.
I end the call and drop my phone into my lap, “Um, yeah,” I stammer, narrowing my eyes in disbelief.
“Wow,” he grins, “this is pretty wild.”
Quickly pulling myself together, I give a half shrug, “Yeah, but I guess you’re staying here, too, right?”
“No, actually,” he shakes his head, raking his hair out of his eyes, “I’m camping. I just came in here for the vending machines.”
“Wow,” I scrunch up my nose, “that is wild.”
He takes a few steps toward me and extends his hand, “Bowen Garrison.”
I reach up and shake his hand, “Brett Sorensen.”
Bowen takes a seat in the leather chair across from me and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “That’s a serious name.”
“Thank my mom, she’s a big Hemingway fan. My full name is actually Brett Ashley, from The Sun Also Rises.”
“What about your last name?”
“My dad’s Norwegian.”
Bowen raises his eyebrows, “So, what are you doing here?”
I smile and brush a stray curl away from my eyes. “Work was hellish yesterday, so I’m taking a few days off. And…” I pause, deciding whether to elaborate as a pair of dark brown eyes wait intently for an answer.
Fuck it.
“I’m writing a book.”
“Seriously?” Bowen leans back in the chair and grins. “That’s cool. What’s it about?”
I take a deep breath and look to the side, trying to figure out how to explain my own plot, “Revenge in a creepy mansion,” I bob my head from side to side, “with lots of murder.”
“Sounds dark,” Bowen grins.
“That’s the plan.”
“Are you a Stephen King fan or more of a Lovecraft type of girl?”
He knows who Lovecraft is?
I pause, chewing the inside of my cheek, “More like Shirley Jackson,” I cock my head, “low-key horror that gets under your skin.”
“Damn…” Bowen chuckles in a song-song tone, seemingly impressed.
I shift my eyes to the side, “I’m not as good as her, though.”
“Well,” he shrugs, “Shirley Jackson had to start somewhere, too, didn’t she?”
This guy has a point.
“So, you said you’re camping?” I ask, crossing one leg over the other.
“Yeah,” Bowen glances around the empty lobby, “me, my parents, my sister, and her family go camping for a week every year, so I’m here ‘til Sunday. How long are you here?”
I press my mouth together, stifling a smile, “Until Sunday.”
He arches his brow in surprise, “Are you serious?” His eyes wander to the window for a moment before returning to me, “You want to go on that hike you told me about?”
Plot twist.
“Now?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” he says with a shrug.
I hesitate. This is not part of the plan. Normally, I don’t deviate from my plans, but Bowen’s very attractive. And although I’m usually a cautious person, I’m also not a fucking prude. Even with the innate knowledge that I, as a woman, should not go on an impromptu hike with a strange man, my sixth sense also isn’t alerting like it does in other situations.
Something about Bowen is incredibly intriguing. Maybe it’s that he pulled Lovecraft out of thin air. But while I’m engaging in a silent argument with myself, Bowen is looking at me, waiting for a response.
