Rhonda Nelson - Unforgettable

Furthermore, she’d made him so damn good that no real guy could ever compare. Or at least if one did, Faith had yet to find him. If someday hell froze over and he did happen along her path, Faith knew he wouldn’t be the type to be interested in her.

Men like that—or any man, for that matter—rarely gave her a second glance.

Regrettably, she seemed to blend in, like a part of the scenery.

Most of the time, Faith preferred being unremarkable. She liked order—her childhood had provided enough chaos, thank you very much—and moved through her daily routine without any glitches. She got up every morning, ran a couple of miles, came home, showered, ate breakfast, then sat down at her computer and worked on her work-in-progress until her belly rumbled. She’d eat lunch, then work until another hunger pain struck, heralding the end of that day in front of the computer.

Occasionally the routine would vary—she’d go wild and use her laptop—but for the most part, one day looked the same as another. She liked it that way. She really did. There was a strange sort of comfort in the monotony.

Until a new book came out—then things went to hell in a handbasket.

Faith had a new release every September, spent that entire month as well as the two following on tour to promote the book. She enjoyed meeting her readers, hearing their thoughts about her books, and she liked seeing new cities—but she hated the interviews and she hated when perceptive readers realized that her whole I’m-just-like-Zoe act was just that—an act. She swallowed, felt a smile tug at her lips as she watched a couple of squirrels argue over an acorn. No amount of success, no amount of money made up for those momentary feelings of inadequacy.

This year, she’d decided to offer something a little different—a To Catch a Thief contest—in which ten lucky fans got to spend the weekend with her and solve a mystery. Faith had run the idea past the powers that be at her publishing house, and they’d loved it. Once she’d gotten the official go-ahead, she and Trudy had designed a whodunit mystery and assigned each winner a specific character. Dossiers with instructions and a list of suspects had been sent to each guest. They would all arrive in character, ready to play.

Faith would play the part of Zoe, of course. One of the perks of being the author, she thought. Trudy was right on one score—Faith knew Zoe Wilder better than she knew herself, and to be brutally honest, she’d been equally thrilled and intimidated by the idea. A rogue wave of excitement bubbled through her, then was washed away by a monsoon of dread.

She was literally going to step into the spiked heels of her kick-ass heroine.

And if she could get over the fear of making a complete and total fool of herself, she’d think it was cool.

“Okay,” Trudy said, and from the brisk tone of her voice, she was gearing up for another verbal checklist. “Let’s run over things once more, just to make sure that we’re covered.”

Faith suppressed a small smile. “Okay.”

“Do you have a copy of the character dossiers?”

“Check.”

“The winners list and accompanying information?”

“Check.”

“A master copy of the mystery?”

Faith nodded. “Check.”

“Your ‘Zoe’ wardrobe?”

“Check,” Faith told her.

In fact, she’d shocked the crap out of her personal shopper at the local mall. Faith’s tastes tended to lean toward soft neutrals and earth tones—her closet was a sad sea of beiges, browns and rusts. Adding Zoe’s bright, slinky wardrobe had been like adding a tie-dyed T-shirt to a rack of tan turtlenecks. She’d undoubtedly look ridiculous, Faith thought—she’d gotten a wee bit carried away with sequins—but then who wouldn’t? All the characters had been exaggerated, so she wouldn’t be the only one who looked as if she’d just stepped out of a mental hospital.

She’d even gone by a local spy shop and picked up a few handy little gadgets, as well as a convincing-looking piece, though the only way she could defend herself with that gun would be to conk someone over the head with it.

“And John will be here Friday?”

“Right, and he’s outfitted as well for his part.”

Trudy chuckled. “I can’t wait to see that.”

“Me either,” Faith replied with a reluctant smile. Her editor, John Wallace, would play the part of Nash. Faith’s lips quirked. He resembled her hunky Nash about as much as she resembled Zoe, so they were even on that score. Faith heaved a small sigh.

Bears, bobcats and big scary teeth aside, she didn’t doubt for a moment that the whole experience would be exciting. Though she was anxious, she still looked forward to stepping into her alter ego’s shoes, at least for a little while. Of course, she would look forward to it more if she could shake this curious sense of foreboding. For reasons that escaped her, she felt…weird. Braced. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Which was ridiculous, when she had Type-A Trudy along. Faith cast her good friend and assistant a covert sidelong glance.

Trudy—while she had to be one of the most melodramatic people Faith had ever known—was profoundly efficient. Trudy wouldn’t stand for any sort of chaos, any flaw, any wrinkle. She was a short, spunky dynamo in pumps, and could bark orders better than a drill sergeant when the need arose.

She was worrying needlessly, Faith decided, forcing the tension from her limbs. Everything would be fine.

“Well, I think that covers everything,” Trudy finally said, having deemed them suitably prepared. “This is going to be fantastic. You’ll be fantastic.” Her lips curled in a knowing little grin. “You’re more like Zoe than you think, you know.”

Faith grunted, directed her gaze out the window. Not hardly, but she wasn’t going to waste her breath arguing the point.

After what felt like several more miles up the winding mountain, past beautiful vistas and rocky meandering streams, Trudy pulled the SUV through a stacked-stone-and-cedar arch that bore the name Oak Crest Lodge. “Ah, we’re here,” she said needlessly.

The large A-frame stacked-stone-and-cedar building blended in so seamlessly with the surroundings it gave the impression of sprouting from the ground, much as the trees did. Colorful leaves dotted the roof, lined the gutters and spilled over the long, weather-beaten front porch. Mossy patches and mushrooms grew along the foundation, crept up through the fissures in the broken rock.

Potted ferns and mums in varying fall shades were planted in old washtubs, barrels and watering cans, and sat in no particular order on the porch. Grapevine wreaths graced the huge, rounded, rough-cut cedar doors.

Faith undid her seat belt as the SUV rolled to a stop, and quietly considered the place. A funny feeling, not easily read, tingled in her chest, making her shift in her seat. Beside her, Trudy rambled excitedly.

Though she’d never been here before in her life and this lodge didn’t remotely resemble her modern, two-story brick home back in trendy Brentwood, Faith had the strangest feeling of homecoming, for lack of a better description. That same feeling one got when seeing an old, treasured, but seldom-seen friend.

Which was equally impossible and insane.

Though she’d led a nomadic life during her childhood—her late parents had thought moving was a grand adventure and never stayed in one place long enough to put down roots—Faith knew they’d never traveled to this part of the state, much less stayed at this particular lodge. Honestly, Faith thought. What was wrong with her today?

Feeling ridiculous and out of sorts, she shook the feeling off, got out of the car and stretched. Her muscles had bunched in the small of her back, and her legs felt like lead.