The Tourist Attraction (Moose Springs, Alaska #1)(12)

Chapter 3



Less than twenty-four hours into her dream vacation, Zoey became a bobblehead.

There was something particularly discombobulating about waking up in a hotel room and not having any idea how she got there. Equally discombobulating was the pounding in between Zoey’s ears, like an anvil hammer beating directly on her brain.

She’d been discombobulated. She was a discombobu-head, her skull five times larger than her body, vision bobbing back and forth no matter how hard she tried to remain still.

Groaning, Zoey rolled over and fell straight onto the floor.

The distance between the couch and the carpet was only a foot and a half, but the unexpected drop was enough to land her on her back with a thump and a groan of misery. The worst hangover of her life hadn’t been part of the plan. She hadn’t scratched this down in her favorite moose-themed notebook, tucked in a bag she hoped was still in her possession.

“I’m going to die,” Zoey told the ceiling.

It didn’t answer.

“The last thing I remember is a gummy bear.”

Again, no help.

Some people could see without their glasses, but Zoey was not one of those people. Everything around her was a smudge of browns and creams and one darkish blob she thought was the coffee table. Fingers scrabbling hopefully at the top of the blob, she found what she was looking for, folded up next to a bottle of water she accidentally knocked over. Stuffing her glasses onto her face, she blinked, hoping to bring her surroundings into focus.

Even with the glasses, the world continued to spin.

Groaning again, Zoey pushed herself up on her elbows. “Lana? Please tell me you’re here. I don’t have the functional brain cells to track you down this morning.”

“Please, as if I’d ever let you wake up alone in your condition.”

Wrapped in a silk robe, Lana appeared from her bedroom, bypassing the couch for the suite’s modest kitchen. Poking around in the refrigerator, she emerged with two tomato-red drinks filling her hands, bursting with vegetables and bacon, an entire crab leg, and several violently speared cocktail shrimp.

Eyes and legs. The shrimp still had eyes and legs. At eight thirty-five in the morning.

Zoey shuddered.

“Did we have fun last night?” The enjoyment on Lana’s face grew. “Whenever I wake up your shade of green, it’s usually because I had too much fun.”

“I have no idea. Do you have to be so cheerful? Shouldn’t you be miserable too? I’m not the only one who made questionable choices last night.”

Lana shook her head. “Trust me, the first thing one learns in the Montgomery household is to hold one’s liquor in public. I’ll rent the Tourist Trap for us one night and show you the difference.”

“You mean that, don’t you?”

“Of course. Graham would love it. He never passes an opportunity to shirk his workload. Does your head hurt? I’ll get you a cold compress.”

Clutching her face in agony must have clued Lana in.

Setting the drinks down far too close to Zoey’s head, Lana disappeared into the bathroom. Shrimp and tomato smells wafted Zoey’s way, making her gag. She nudged them farther away with her fingers, trying not to look directly in the cocktail shrimp’s terrified little face.

“Call room service for a pickax,” Zoey suggested. “Anything sharp and heavy will be fine.”

Lana reappeared with a wet washcloth, carefully arranging it on Zoey’s forehead with motherly care. “Sorry, dearest, I’m all out of ways for you to cudgel yourself.”

Did she have to look like she’d slept for a month, rested and alert, without a hair out of place? Since Zoey loved her, she didn’t begrudge Lana her luck. But as someone who was certain an animal had died in her mouth in the last twelve hours, Lana’s lack of so much as a stray eyebrow hair disturbed Zoey. Deep in the dark parts of her primitive brain, she knew it was wrong.

So very wrong.

“Why are you glaring at me?” Lana sounded amused. “I put the Growly Bear in your hand, but I’m not the one who poured it down your throat.”

“People who wake up happy aren’t to be trusted.” Staying on the floor and squashing the pillow on top of her washcloth was far easier than crawling back up onto the couch. “Or people with hair like yours.”

“Hmm? Oh, that’s my new sleeping scarf.” Hermès, not that Lana would ever be gauche enough to say the brand. “Just wrap and tie, and you wake up smooth as silk. There’s aspirin on the coffee table.” A teasing tone entered Lana’s voice. “A secret admirer left it for you.”

“Sure they did. I don’t even want to know what room service is charging for painkiller delivery.”

Lana sat on the end of the couch that Zoey’s nonsilky, far less cheerful body had recently vacated, her expression smug.

“Trust me, no one in this place would dare bring almost expired aspirin made by—” Lana leaned over, peering down at the worn packet. “Dr. Sue’s Discount Drugs. Hmm. Maybe you shouldn’t take those after all. I have—”

“Nope. Nope nope nope. None of your ‘pick-me-ups’ or ‘right-as-rains,’ woman. You need a better labeling system. I don’t think your baby aspirin last night were baby aspirin.”