Triple Threat - James Patterson Page 0,76

she needs to lose a few pounds, although I found her curves quite sexy. What struck me about Hannah that other guys might overlook were her dark-brown doe eyes and her genuine, heartfelt smile.

But this girl next to me has an incredible smile too—shining and bright, like a sunrise. I’ve always felt you can tell a lot about a person from her smile.

When the class is finished, I dismount my bike and wipe my face. My shirt is soaking with sweat. My hair feels like I just stepped out of the shower. The girl is sweaty too, her arms slick with perspiration, her hair damp at the temples.

“Wow,” she says, “that was fun.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak, and I love the soft elegance of her voice.

“I’m Claire,” she says, extending her hand.

“Logan.”

Her hand is small and smooth, and holding it is like touching electricity.

We wipe down our bikes and start talking. She’s lived in Tahoe for a only few weeks now, having moved from Ohio.

“Getting away from a bad job,” she says. She hesitates, as if unsure whether to be this forthcoming, then adds, “And a bad relationship.”

I tell her I’ve lived here for two years and love it: hiking, swimming, skiing. It’s an outdoor enthusiast’s paradise.

“That’s why I moved here,” she says.

I feel a pang of guilt, like I’m cheating on Hannah. But, I tell myself, we’ve never gone out. And, besides, something about Hannah was telling me to be cautious. Maybe I should listen to that voice in my head.

As Claire looks up at me with eyes as blue and deep as Lake Tahoe, I can’t help but marvel at my good fortune that, after two years of being alone, I’ve met two good-looking women in two days.

I’ve been told I’m handsome, but I have a tendency to be introverted. And my previous line of work always compelled me to be antisocial and paranoid, to never let anyone get too close. So I wouldn’t normally make the first move. But today I feel emboldened, and I ask her if she wants to exchange numbers.

“Maybe we can go for a hike before it gets too cold.”

She smiles, and we program each other’s numbers into our phones. We walk together as we head toward the door.

I figure I’ll walk Claire to her car, but as we’re passing by the front desk, one of the employees, a teenager in a San Francisco Giants ball cap, says to me, “Hey, man, I saw your picture in the paper. That was totally awesome. Way to go, dude.”

“What?” I’m thinking the kid must have me mixed up with someone else.

“Yeah,” the young guy says, pointing to the stack of Lake Tahoe Gazettes by the door. “Front page.”

I grab one of the papers and stare at it. There’s a huge photo above the fold of me coming up out of the water with the girl in my arms. My hair is wet and my expression is serious—but my identity is unmistakable.

The headline says, HERO SAVES DROWNING GIRL.

The byline says, BY HANNAH RYAN.

Claire crowds in next to me and looks at the picture. Her mouth turns into an O.

“Oh, my God,” she says. “That’s you. You’re going to be famous!”

Chapter 7

Hannah is sitting at her desk trying to write about an uneventful city council meeting when she gets a call from the receptionist telling her that a man named Logan Bishop is in the lobby for her.

“He’s cute,” the receptionist whispers into the phone, then adds, “Holy shit. Is that the guy on the front page?”

“I’ll be right there,” Hannah says.

The newsroom is a large open-air office space, with the reporters wedged into cramped cubicles. Hannah strolls over the gray stained carpet as if she’s gliding on mist.

When she opens the door to the lobby, the receptionist points outside and says he’s waiting for her there. She can see him through the glass double doors, pacing as if nervous. His hair is damp and his T-shirt is sweat stained, as if he came straight from the gym.

Hannah steps outside with an enormous smile on her face. She can’t help it. But then she looks at him more closely—his face pinched, his teeth clenched, his skin strangely flushed—and her smile vanishes.

“You’re mad?” she says.

“Hell, yes, I’m mad,” he says, holding up the paper and pointing to his picture. “What the hell is this?”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just doing my job.”

Logan can barely contain his anger. “Your fucking job?”

Hannah feels suddenly very defensive.