Endurance

Franklin reached for the phone. “That would be up to them. If you give me a name, I can connect you.”

“I don’t know anyone here. This is my first time at Iron Woman.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t just start randomly calling guests.” He put the receiver down and tapped his pale chin, apparently thinking. “You know, there is a bed and breakfast, forty miles out of town. It’s so out of the way, it probably has some rooms available. Would you like me to check for you?”

Deb took a deep breath, let it our slow. “Yes. Please.”

“I’ll need to find the number. I’ll be right back.”

Franklin waddled off. Deb turned away from the check-in counter and faced the lobby. It was crammed full of people. Some of them spectators. Several of them reporters, complete with video cameras and microphones. A few of the women were obviously athletes, and Deb considered approaching some of them, asking if they’d like to share a room. But she didn’t move.

Deb valued her privacy. Social situations were painfully awkward for her.

Which is why she quickly turned away when she saw the man staring.

Men stared at her all the time. So did women. And kids. Even animals did, somehow able to sense something was wrong with her.

But this man wasn’t gawking. He had a playful smile on his face, and his eyes crinkled when she caught him looking.

This wasn’t a gawker. This was a flirt.

Deb preferred the gawkers. She unconsciously glanced down at her cosmetic legs. They were covered by sweatpants. Unless someone was paying close attention, they couldn’t tell, even when she was walking.

“Hello.”

The voice startled her, and she turned around. Mr. Flirt was in her personal space, less than a foot away from her, a sly grin on his face. Deb noted his breath smelled like cinnamon, and he was even cuter up close. Strong chin with a bit of stubble. A roman nose. Neatly cut hair, dark and parted on the side. Sort of like a younger George Clooney.

“Can I help you?” Deb’s voice came out clipped, and a bit squeaky.

“Are you Debra Novachek?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Mal Deiter. Sporting Digest. My office has been in touch.”

He offered his hand.

So he’s not a flirt. He’s a reporter. Which means he knows about my legs.

Deb didn’t know if that made it less awkward, or more awkward. For some reason, she had pictured a woman interviewing her. Or some pudgy old man. Not someone good-looking.

Good-looking guys made her nervous.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Deiter.” She took his hand and shook it hard, businesslike, then quickly pulled away. “They seem to be having some trouble finding me a room here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“If you’re really sorry, you can give me your room.”

“I would, Ms. Novachek, if I had one. But I’m already doubled up with my photographer.” He pointed to a portly man with a very large camera in his hands, shooting people in the lobby. “That’s Rudy. Great talent, but a terrible roommate. He snores so loudly he can loosen your fillings. I’m going to wind up on the lobby sofa if I want to get any rest tonight.”

He smiled, and it was a dynamite smile. Deb wondered why he worked for a magazine when he had a face for TV. She decided against asking, not wanting to compliment him and risk it sounding like a come-on.

Not that Deb could even remember what it was like coming on to a guy.

The manager returned. “The Rushmore Inn does have a few rooms left for tonight. I took the liberty of making you a reservation and drawing you a map. We’re also covering the cost of your room there. It will be free of charge.”

Deb bit back thanking him, instead saying, “I have a GPS. I don’t need a map.”

He pushed the paper toward her. “It’s really out of the way. I doubt the Inn, or even the road, is on the GPS.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“An hour. Maybe an hour and a half at the most.”

Deb clenched her jaw. Her mood worsened when she saw the cute reporter furtively eyeing her legs.

She slapped her hand on the map and picked it up.

“Again, we really apologize for this inconvenience.” The manager smiled, but this time it seemed more cruel than sympathetic. “I hope to see y’all tomorrow, Miss Novachek.”

Deb raised an eye at the manager’s sarcastic tone. She let it slide, instead turning to the reporter.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deiter. This isn’t going to work.”

“Call me Mal.”

“Mal, I know we were going to do the interview tonight over dinner, but I won’t have time. It seems I just lost three hours.”

“You still have to eat, don’t you?”

“Hopefully I can pick something up on the way to the inn. I didn’t figure on an extra ninety minute drive tonight.”

The fat photographer, Rudy, had come over and was snapping Deb’s picture. This annoyed her. She hadn’t checked her hair, or her make-up.

Not that they want pictures of my face. My face isn’t the reason for the interview.

“Ms. Novachek, this is Rudy.”

“Ma’am.” Rudy held out a chubby hand. It was moist when Deb shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Rudy, but it looks like you guys will have to find some other subject for your story.”

“We’ve got other subjects,” Rudy said. “But you’re the big one. You came first in your age group in the Denver Triathlon, and third overall. You’re a tremendous athlete, Ms. Novachek. Especially considering the loss of your legs. I’ve heard you have different prosthetic legs for each part of the event. Do you have some with fins for the swimming portion?”

Rudy was talking loud enough to attract the attention of others in the room. Deb felt every eye on her, but managed to keep her voice steady.

“I don’t wear my legs for the swimming portion. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I had an unfair advantage. And now if you’ll excuse me.”

Deb shoved the map into her fanny pack and began to walk away from the counter.

“But we want you for the cover...” Rudy said.

She willed herself not to run. These weren’t her running legs, and it was easy to catch her toes on things. The thought of the fat guy snapping her photo when she was flat on her face was too much to bear.

“Ms. Novachek... please...”

The reporter was next to her, his expression concerned.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deiter—”

“Mal.”

“—I’m simply not going to have time.”

“I could ride with you to the inn. He said the Rushmore, right? I was actually going to take a cab there, anyway. That’s where the Pillsburys are staying. They’re my other interview.”

“I only have a two seater.”

“It would just be me. Rudy will stay here. He’s actually a nice guy. A bit blunt, but not a mean bone in his body. I hope he didn’t offend you.”

“Not at all.”

That was the truth. Nothing offended Deb these days. And she prided herself that she was also beyond embarrassment. Since she lost her legs, Deb had gotten so accustomed to her condition that she was mostly oblivious to other people’s reaction to her. Hell, when she jogged around town, she often stopped to let kids touch her running prosthetics.