Into Their Woods (The Eerie, #1)(2)
“Oh, okay,” I reply somewhat awkwardly. “I’ll see Dr. Jindra at ten then.”
“You’ll be with me to sort out your paperwork and take your drug test that morning. I don’t tolerate tardiness or standing around if you’re early, so be prompt.”
With that, she hangs up and it almost feels like she snapped her fingers in front of my face like I’m some sort of peasant and then shoulder checked me on her way out of this conversation.
I stare down at my phone for a moment and shake my head.
“Well, she seems like bestie material,” I snark before I sigh.
I think I know now why the pay is so good for this job. I initially chalked it up to the vet clinic’s remote location, thinking maybe that meant good techs were hard to come by. But I now have the sinking suspicion that the pay has nothing to do with locale and everything to do with bitch-face Patrice. She’s probably Dr. Jindra’s damn wife too. The office manager shrews always are.
Ugh.
One of my glittering new-start butterflies flutters off. Cowardly fucker. Or maybe it’s the smart one here.
Usually, a new beginning sparkles for a few months at least before the rust starts to peek through. Before the discontent and need to roam hits me and I start looking for opportunities elsewhere. The good thing about being a vet tech is there are lots of clinics all over the country. It’s easy for me to bounce around. I guess we’ll see how long this one lasts.
Maybe Patrice was just having a bad day. Doubtful. But I’ve worked with know-it-all assholes before. It won’t be the first time and certainly not the last. Maybe if I show up with coffee the first day, I can score some brownie points.
I settle into my seat and try not to worry too hard over what’s going to be waiting for me at the new clinic in a state I’ve never been to. That’s tomorrow’s problem. Today’s is dinner.
In the distance, I spot buildings nestled in a narrow valley. They aren’t the high-rises of a big city that I’m used to, but they’re signs of life and that feels like an achievement. The buildings are small, cutesy, one-and two-story structures with steeply pitched roofs. I don’t see any indicators of familiar fast-food chains, but I can make do with a grocery store. A good PB&J sounds downright gourmet at this point.
Sporadic houses begin to fly by as I draw closer to the town and, before I know it, I slow down to safely cross into what looks to be the main part of Howling Rapids. There’s a large park in the middle with all kinds of colorful, cheery shops bordering its edges. Some of the roofs even sport charming carved eaves. The small town has a very Stars Hollow vibe, including a large gazebo that sits dead center in a beautifully landscaped park.
People mill about, walking from shop to shop or enjoying the last of the sun’s warmth before it threatens to dip behind the gargantuan snowy peaks.
I watch a young girl playing fetch with a massive dog in the middle of the grass. I can’t identify the breed in the dying light, but he’s huge. The little girl makes a sloppy uncatchable throw that reminds me of my own pitching skills. But her dog is determined and chases after it, jumping and twisting until he pulls off the nearly impossible catch. Her giggles carry right through my window, bringing a smile to my face. Aw, this place is adorable.
To my left, a large neon sign flashes the word Diner.
Hell yes!
I’m drawn to it like a moth to flame. I park in the first empty curbside spot I find and sling my bag over my shoulder as I climb out of my car. A chill immediately kisses my arms, but my hunger demands that I abandon any plans to forage for a jacket in the back seat. Instead, I rub my arms and speed walk toward the diner.
The name Droolies is hand-painted on the glass panel at the top of the door. Beneath it is a metal sign attached that reads No Skin, No Service.
My brow furrows at the odd statement, but just then the delectable smells from inside reach out and take me by the throat. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, cornbread…any scent that could be associated with a grandmother’s kitchen wafts over me. I bite back a groan as I’m lured in.
“Grab a menu and sit wherever,” a smiling woman wearing an apron calls out to me as she pushes through a pair of double doors and disappears into the back.
I pull a folded plastic menu from a stack sitting on a podium by the front door and scan for a seat. There’s a rustic motif going on, wood tables and chairs, and even a polished wooden bar top. The lighting is soft, with hanging lamps surrounded by white paper shades giving off a moonlit glow. All in all, the effect is calming and the temperature just right—my goose bumps recede—and I lick my lips in anticipation of feeling the same food coma that I can see on a few patrons’ faces as they stare bemusedly at one another.
That most definitely needs to be me.
I drop down into a booth near a window and am greeted almost immediately by a waitress close to my age with gorgeous pale ginger hair and bright, friendly blue eyes.
“Well, there’s a face I haven’t seen before. You must be new in town. I’m Zara,” she tells me, her smile wide as she takes me in. She’s got the kind of grin that’s as refreshing as lemonade on a hot summer day, sweet with just a little bit of kick. I immediately like her.
“Noah,” I offer. My answering smile is a touch dimmer than Zara’s, but hers grows even brighter as she takes me in. She just seems so…nice.
“Great to meet you. Are you here for the Hunt tonight? I mean, of course you are. That’s why everyone’s here. We’ve had a huge rush, so I hope you weren’t craving mashed potatoes, because we literally just ran out. You didn’t want those, right?”