Page 7 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

I’m tempted to tell her to stay here. That’s my payment.

I don’t. “There’s no charge,” I say. “But keep the cat inside. Next time, there might be a fine.”

I slam the ladder into place on the truck and hurry to get in.

Andrea Flores belongs in this town, but far, far away from me. She makes me nervous.

I never wanted to look at a human so much before in my life, and that probably means something is wrong with me. My chest feels funny, and it’s all her fault.

It might be better if she left, just so I could prevent myself from ever seeing her again—but I’m not that selfish.

Chapter Three: Andrea and Gordon

Lt. Rockland said there was no charge, but he saved my cat. That’s up there with saving my baby, if I had one, even if my cat wasn’t in danger. It was still horrible. And my day is still ruined. And my phone is still blowing up. I send a group text telling everyone my cat is safe and that I’ll start arguing with airlines and cruise lines tomorrow.

“We’re going to bake him some cookies and take them to the fire station,” I tell Chopin. “Hey, Rimsky!” I yell at my smart hub, “Play my Rainy Day playlist.”

Soothing, flowing piano starts to pour from the little globe of a speaker in my living room. Chopin plops onto the couch and begins a thorough grooming, no doubt trying to get the nature out of his fur.

I ignore the mess on the floor. The luggage that’s wildly unpacked and unzipped. The things I knocked over in my haste to go search for him.

I’m ignoring it all in favor of baking cookies to take over to Lt. Rockland first thing in the morning as a thank you for saving my cat.

And for the pep talk, my inner voice reminds me, but I’m iffy about that. I thanked him for it at the time, because I know it’s good advice. If I were back in my college days (oh wow, so long ago, a whole year), I would have given that same speech to every girl in my dorm who was sure she needed to drop out, sure she was too homesick to go on. As an R.A., I literally did give that same speech a dozen times. Stick to it, make friends, join clubs, find activities, use the community/campus resources.

“It was good advice from that big firefighter. I mean, I know he’s right. I gave girls in my dorm that same advice all the time, and most of them made it to graduation. But I don’t know if I want to take it, Chopin,” I inform the cat, getting out butter and eggs, now glad that I didn’t discard the rest of the dozen before I went on my trip.

Chopin looks at me, one leg above his ear, head busy bathing the back of his thigh.

“Oh, you’re going to remind me that you’re better than me, yoga god?” I tease. “Well, you suck at climbing down from trees, buddy.”

“Mrrr,” Chopin gives me a quizzical stare before yanking on the fur at his ankle, contorting himself further into a pretzel.

“Okay, okay. I’ll be nice to you. You are my only friend in town,” I sigh.

Which brings me back to the problem, and Rockland’s advice, and the pity party I’m throwing myself because my besties are cruising to the tropics without me.

I thought I’d make friends in my teaching community, and it’s not that I haven’t met wonderful people; I have! Kelly Lupescu, the new strings teacher, Cathy, one of the second-grade teachers, and Mr. Joe, the janitor, are so nice and friendly—but they’re not my dance-the-night-away buddies. There definitely isn’t any chance for romance in the tiny little school community or the slightly larger town.

Romance... That’s not even a thing that was on my radar until Pine Ridge. This stupid little town is covered in happy couples, like everyone here was personally shot with Cupid’s arrow. My parents (the original love-at-first-sight couple) are big on my brother and me getting married to “solid citizen” types. If it were up to them, I would only ever get the warm fuzzies for doctors, lawyers, accountants, and hedge fund managers who already have fat tax shelters. Since I’m not ready to book myself into boring bridal-hood, I thought some fun dating experiences, a few casual little flings—and a shipboard affair to remember— would be good.

Nope.

“But a boyfriend to go out with a couple of times a week would be a good distraction,” I tell Chopin. “Like, bowling and wandering around that Night Market place wouldn’t be terrible if there was a hot guy holding my hand. It might even stop me from dwelling on what a stupid mistake I made, moving here. And I’m cute, right? I was even cuter before some four-legged felon ruined my new dress!”

Chopin doesn’t even look guilty. He flops out of his pretzel and stretches on his side, the picture of contentment, not a care in the world.

“I’m not even going to tell you what Tita Carla said about you,” I mutter darkly.

Tita Carla.

She’s going to look so damn smug if I come home after only one year. She’s going to tell everyone I couldn’t hack it as a teacher, or I was homesick, or that I should have listened to her. Yeah, definitely that last part. She’s going to say everything everyone is thinking—and to be honest, what all of them will get around to saying at some point.

“Hey, Rimsky! Play ‘Bad Mood Playlist!’” I shout. I look at my disaster of a living room and the ingredients on the counter. I’m going to have to make a double batch, because I’m going to eat half of the dough before it ever gets to Lt. Rockland.

“These are for you, to thank you for saving my cat. And the pep talk,” Andrea Flores says, smiling at me with an outstretched platter of cookies.

The little human pianist and teacher stands in front of me at the station. It’s a much cooler afternoon, warm and sunny, and the big sliding doors are open to let in the breeze and make it easier to get the trucks (Big Red, Screaming Stever, and Mean Janine) out in case of a call. She’s in a pink t-shirt that shows a piano keyboard spiraling around a series of planets. Words above it say, “Piano? I like the sound of that!”