Whirlwind Read Free

shorts. No, as the only freshman on the staff, and a city girl to boot, I was sent to cut my teeth on the “real world” of newspaper reporting in the hot, smelly, dirty hell of the rodeo circuit.
     
    I ran into champion steer wrestler Mitch McAlister at my first rodeo—literally—and ended up on my ass in a pile of horse shit. “Road apples” he’d called the green muck, picking me up off the ground like a discarded penny. At six foot two, Mitch was tall, but it wasn’t his height that had me withering in my Levi’s. Built like a wrestler, the guy was two hundred and ten pounds of muscle, topped with closely cropped dark hair and matching ebony eyes. It was no wonder he’d tied the school record for bulldogging wins. I was pretty sure he could bench press most of the steers he dragged to the ground.
     
    When I introduced myself as a reporter, I thought he was going to push me right back in the crap.
     
    Dubbed the Mistakes Daily , the campus newspaper didn’t have the love and respect of the rodeo team. I spent most of the day trying to overcome a reputation I had no hand in making. Quoting statistics and obscure rules didn’t help. Only when I admitted I really didn’t know anything about horses did Mitch finally consent to an interview.
     
    “It’s about damn time,” he’d said. “Why come all the way out here to ask me about numbers you already know? Isn’t the real story what you don’t already know?”
     
    Almost three years later, those words still adorned the cover of my notebook.
     
    I reached in the car and grabbed my purse, hiding my glum face from the parade of arriving guests. Get a grip, Melissa! It wasn’t as if Mitch was an ex-boyfriend—he and I were never that close. I had no right to expect anything from him. He’d found his soul mate and would have a wonderful life with her. How could I not be happy for my best friend?
     
    A cold ache grew in my chest, a void I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Was I jealous? No. Envious, I decided. Mitch, Beth—all my close friends, really—had found someone with whom to share their lives and with hardly any effort. In Mitch’s case, it was as simple as offering to drive his roommate, Chase, home for Labor Day. Chase introduced his sister and that was it. Mitch proposed only a month after meeting her.
     
    I couldn’t keep a plant alive for a month, let alone a relationship.
     
    In my case, love—or what I’d thought was love—had been unable to withstand the slightest of tests. Perhaps that’s why I felt so maudlin. Mitch’s wedding highlighted my social ineptitude. Looking down at my dark blouse and black pants, I realized I’d even dressed for a morbid occasion.
     
    No, I’d worn this same outfit to a job interview last week. I could have worn brown slacks, I guess, but what’s the difference? As for the blouse, well, pastels did nothing for my complexion.
     
    Yeah, keep up the excuses. Your nose is rivaling Pinocchio’s.
     
    Setting my jaw, I locked the car and started toward the church. What I wore or how I felt didn’t matter. I didn’t need a date to celebrate Mitch and Ann’s happiness; I just wished I could share it.
     
    Marching with new purpose toward the ribbons and balloons, I was halfway across the asphalt when two tuxedo-clad men stepped out of the shadows near the foot of the stairs.
     
    One I recognized. At six-and-a-half feet tall with straight blond hair that constantly hung in his eyes, Chase Linwood was hard to miss. He said something I couldn’t make out, pointed at his collar, then lifted his chin.
     
    His companion, several inches shorter, turned his back to me and went to work on Chase’s tie. His identity was a mystery. Slowing my approach, I tried to paste on the appropriate I’m-so-happy-for-the-bride-and-groom face.
     
    Held up by another passing car, I inspected Chase’s friend. Not a strand of his thick, wavy brown hair was out of place, and the tailored fit of his suit coat