Rom-Com Collection (Part 2). Kristan Higgins

glanced at the clock on the wall … 12:30 p.m. I had time.

      Noah tapped, swore, hopped (he was going one-legged today), swore. It had been a long while since I’d helped my grandfather in the shop, and it was lovely, the smell of wood smoke and cedar, my grandfather nodding in approval, whistling tunelessly. Time seemed to stop out here, since so little had changed over the years. Ever since we were small, Noah had put us to work out here. He was a good teacher, explaining how wood fit together, why he did things a certain way. I’d always felt so safe when I helped him. Still did.

      I checked the time again. 12:47 p.m.

      “Go get me a C-clamp, darlin’,” he said, in a rare and fine mood today. I went to his workbench and scavenged around ‘til I found it, then returned.

      “Okay, hold this again,” Noah instructed. We were on the other side of the kayak now, and after a few minutes, my hands tingled from staying in the same position. Noah then needed another bit of wood sanded, and I obliged. After a while, I glanced at the clock again. 12:51 p.m. But that couldn’t be right.

      “Noah? Is that clock broken?” I asked, once more holding a piece of wood in place.

      “Oh, yeah. Been broke for a while,” he said.

      “What time is it? I have to pack! I haven’t even showered!”

      He pulled out his pocket watch. “Five of two.”

      “Noah! I have to go! Ian’s coming in five minutes! Can’t you call Freddie and have him come over?”

      “You cahn’t just stop, Callie! I’m almost done.”

      “I have to—”

      “Shush, child! You let go now, I have to start over, and you don’t want that, do you?”

      “I don’t want to be late, either …” My voice broke off as Bowie exploded into barking. Sure enough, I heard a knock.

      “We’re in the shop!” I yelled.

      “Christly, you’re loud,” Noah muttered.

      The door to the shop opened. Sure enough, it was Ian, wearing khakis and an oxford. At the sight of my flannel pajamas, his face tightened.

      “Ian, I’ll just be two minutes,” I said. “Noah,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “We’re going to a wedding.”

      “Fine! One more nail … there. You can go, Princess, for God’s sake.” He looked over at Ian. “Afternoon.”

      “Hello, Mr. Grey. Nice to see you. Callie, we need to leave.” His jaw was clenched.

      “Yup! I know! Two minutes! Come on, follow me. You can carry my, um … my bag.” Which I hadn’t packed, thanks to my grandfather’s broken clock. And let’s be honest. I wasn’t exactly the “Let me just grab my toothbrush” type. I flew up the stairs, Bowie leaping excitedly next to me, Ian following without so much joie de vivre. “Come on in,” I said, flying into my room. “Or no, just stay … well. I’m sorry. Noah needed … forget it. Two minutes!” Leaving him scowling on the catwalk, I flew into my room, then into the bathroom.

      Okay, I needed a shower, that was clear. I threw the faucets on and, while I waited for the water to heat, yanked open the drawer and took out my overnight makeup bag. Foundation, concealer, powder, blush, eye shadow (three shades of course, this was black tie), eyeliner, mascara, not this stuff, the good stuff, where was my eyebrow brush, ah, here it was, tweezers, lip gloss … no, lipstick … no, both … okay, and which shade …

      “Callie! We need to leave.”

      “Two minutes!” I lied. Razor. Shampoo. Conditioner, voluminizing mousse, styling cream, finishing spray, gloss.

      I tore off my jammies, jumped under the spray and soaped up, washed my hair, slapped some conditioner on it. “We’re going to the hotel to change, right?” I called.

      “I can’t hear you.”

      I winced, knowing he was pissed off. “We’re stopping at the hotel before the ceremony, right?” I bellowed.

      “Yes.”

      I jumped. His voice was much closer. “Are you in my bedroom?”

      “Yes.”

      The latch on my bathroom door was broken … a minor inconvenience, unless there was a man in one’s bedroom. All he’d need to see me buck naked would be a little breeze … Wait a sec. Ian. My bedroom. Of course, I hadn’t made my bed today, and about eight dresses, several bras and panties and … blerk! My Dr. Rey’s Shapewear, in plain sight. Shit! Shit on a shingle, shit on rye.

      I slapped off the slower, toweled off and jumped into my robe. Scooped every makeup and hair care product I had into the bag, grabbed a few clean towels and opened the door. “Hi! Sorry, I’m just running a teensy bit late,” I said, throwing the towels over my unmentionables on the bed.

      Ian was standing with his arms folded, staring at my Morelock chair. He turned to me with a look that would restore the polar ice caps. “Your two minutes were up eleven minutes ago,” he said.

      “Ian, I’m just … I just have to throw these things into a bag—you know what? I’d be a lot faster if you weren’t here. So out! Out you go! You, too, Bowie. I’m going as fast as I can.”

      Basically shoving Ian out the door, I once again closed it on his face.

      “I’m leaving here in five minutes,” he said.

      “Hush, you! I’m coming.”

      Nineteen minutes later, I opened the door. He was still there, glaring.

      “Thank you for waiting. But we have plenty of time, right? The wedding’s at five—”

      “The ceremony starts at five, Callie. It will take us an hour and a half to get to the hotel, where we have to check in, get changed, then go to the church, which is another twenty minutes out of town.” He fixed me with a look that said very clearly I can kill you with my pinkie.

      “Well, it takes that long if you drive,” I said. “Let me drive, and we’ll get there in plenty of time.”

      “You’re not driving,” he said.

      “Well, try not to stress,” I said, glancing at my watch. “We can still make it if we leave now. Don’t be so tense.”

      “I wasn’t tense an hour ago,” he said through gritted teeth.

      “Oh, wait, I forgot something,” I said, dashing back into my room. He may have growled, but I emerged seconds later with a CD. “I made us a playlist for the ride.”

      “Get in the car before I strangle you,” he said.

      “Is that a romantic thing to say to your date?” I asked, heading him down the stairs. “It really isn’t.”

      “You’re not my date,” he said, completely serious.

      “Bye, Noah! Thanks for ruining my day!” I called through the kitchen door.

      “You’re welcome. Have fun,” he said.

      Ten minutes later, Ian pulled onto the interstate.

      “Sorry I was late, Ian,” I said contritely, since he hadn’t spoken since my house. He didn’t answer, so I took it upon myself to fiddle with the CD player. A disk slid out. “Mahler’s Symphony #1? My mother plays this at the funeral home. Yikes, it’s worse than I thought.”

      His mouth didn’t even twitch.

      “Ian, please don’t be mad at me,” I said. “I’m really sorry I lost track of time.”

      “I’m not mad, Callie. I’m preoccupied.” He cut his eyes to me, then back to the road.

      “Well, here’s what I picked