A Date with Danger Read online

  Cover image Lost in Blues by 101 Dalmations, Night City by Peshkova, Salt Lake City, Utah, USA by Chris Hepburn.

  Cover design copyright © 2016 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2016 by Kari Iroz

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: June 2016

  For my family. You built my road here.

  For my Zach. Every love story I write pales compared to ours.

  For my girls, Mina and Talia.

  You’re my greatest dreams come true.

  And for all the Mormon girls who think you’re nothing special. Your adventure is coming.

  Acknowledgments

  If I thanked everyone who has made this happen, the list would be longer than the book itself. Forgive me in advance for not thanking by name all those who’ve helped me on this journey.

  First, I must thank my mom and dad. My greatest supporters from day one, you’ve spent thirty years believing I could do it. Thank you for keeping faith in me even when I had none. This never would’ve happened without you. Thank you for also teaching me the truths that have anchored my life. I know Heavenly Father because of you.

  Thank you to my siblings and scores of nieces and nephews. You’ve helped me become who I am. You were my first readership, and your love and support sustain me. Sisters, I sure hope Damon meets with your approval.

  Thank you to my husband, Zach. You healed me. You strengthen my faith. You make me better. You’ve put your own dreams away for so many years to fulfill mine. You’ve slaved over every book with me and are my unabashed groupie. Thank you for the husband, the father, and the man of God you are.

  Thank you to my beautiful daughters, Mina and Talia. The world is so much brighter with you in it. Being your mom is my greatest honor. I hope someday to make you proud.

  Thank you to dear friends who will see themselves in these characters and our misadventures in this story. You’ve been such a support and an inspiration. I love you all!

  Thank you to beloved teachers and professors who have tried so hard to make something of me. Carpy, I finally got here!

  Thank you to my editor, Stacey, for holding my hand on this road and finally bringing my words to the page.

  And thank you to my Father in Heaven, who has given me everything and carried me all my life. I will try to deserve it.

  1

  Kill me now.

  Seriously, if I have to stay at this wedding reception five minutes more, I’m going to bludgeon myself with a glass centerpiece.

  Cause of death? Well, the centerpiece, obviously. Compounded by exposure to inappropriate questions (“Why aren’t you married yet, Jacklyn?”), constant critique from the jealous singles (“Did you see the colors? Orange, pink, and yellow is so last year.”), and an overdose of cake—because binging on junk food is the Mormon equivalent of getting drunk, the only way to survive these receptions.

  It’s inevitable. The second any single Mormon girl opens one of those fancy taupe envelopes with the hearts and roses postage stamp, she thinks, Yup. I’m going to get cake-faced.

  In fact, if the average, single Mormon girl is anything like me, she probably gets started early by mooning over the invitation with a tub of ice cream. She picks out the cookie dough chunks and cries, “Look how cute this engagement picture is. See how he hugs her while she sits on a fence? I could sit on a feeeeeence . . .”

  But we show up anyway. Gluttons for punishment? Maybe. Perhaps we see it as painful but necessary motivation, a reminder that we have to work hard to get here: the winner’s circle, the reception hall (or the church gym depending on your budget).

  And it is hard work to make it here. Gone are the days when you could just be your sweet self and expect that in due time you’d be picked out of the lineup by some cute RM.

  These days LDS women seem to outnumber the men so drastically the competition is as fierce as getting into the Ivy League, maybe worse. At least when you apply to Harvard you get to send in a résumé, list your credentials. As a single woman you have to walk around as your résumé. It’s like you’ve got to be five seven, size two, blonde, beautiful, Relief Society president, state soccer champ in high school, play the harp and the piano, dabble in modern dance, speak three languages, be employed at a shelter for blind orphans, and have your bachelor’s degree in homemaking before you merit a second glance.

  Do I sound bitter? I guess I am a little. Probably because my personal dossier reads nothing like what’s expected. My dating résumé would look something like this: Jacklyn Wyatt (“Jack” to everyone but my mother), twenty-five years old (which is roughly 103 in Mormon years), five five, size N/A, brunette, choir director’s assistant in my ward, no language skills (unless you count ordering at Taco Bell), working the sales counter at Forever 21 (or Forever Minimum Wage, as I call it), studying literature with no graduation date in sight, and perhaps the worst homemaker on the planet (ingredients run from me in fear).

  So you can see, my prospects are grim. When I recently turned the big two-five, it was like tattooing spinster on my forehead. I’ve never had much luck with guys in the past except for my lasting romance with Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. If only he knew about it—and was a real person—we’d be very happy together.

  The other reason for the cake binge is because I’ve become resigned to the fact that this square of sugary denial is my date for the evening. It wouldn’t be such a blow if I hadn’t fallen victim to the idea that maybe a wedding reception would be a good place to meet guys. We all do it; it’s part of why we go. Despite our loathing of the event, we think, But maybe it’s the place I’ll finally meet him. So we curl our hair in that loose “I wasn’t even trying” way and wear our most strategic lavender dress that makes us look simultaneously classy and fun. Then we breeze in, trying to appear effortless and glowing.

  That glow carries us down the reception line, shaking hands with total strangers and clocking the groomsmens’ ring fingers. It wanes a bit at the gift table, where we deposit our regifted toaster, and gets thin at the guest book, where we debate whether we have it in us to put an exclamation point on “So happy for you!” And the glow finally sputters out as we stagger to the refreshment table.

  Which brings me here—a corner table off the dance floor sucking the candy coating off the Jordan Almonds and glaring at the dancing couples. And eating cake. Sometimes, no lie, I turn up just for the cake. Because I’m a poor student and it’s free cake.

  Tonight the cake isn’t quite lifting my spirits like it usually does. The atmosphere is nice enough. It’s uncharacteristically warm for a spring evening in Utah. The reception is a backyard affair with ivy and roses climbing trellises along the fence line. Candles float in the swimming pool, casting rising and ebbing shadows across the faces of the guests. There are white lights strewn in the trees and pink and yellow petals dappling the stone walkway. With a man on your arm, this stupid place would be downright magical.

  On the dance floor the bride and groom are swaying, lost in each other’s eyes. I watch them—hi
s hand on her cheek, a tangle of black and white in gown and tuxedo—and lick the frosting flower off my dessert. Oh, that’s good. Real roses should taste like that.

  “—dress is so predictable,” says one of the girls at my table. I didn’t know her name or any of the others. We all sort of landed here like we were beckoned by Sad Single Girl beacons. Despite their general consensus that this reception “lacks imagination,” the girls look as miserable as I feel. Their curls are going flat, their heels have been cast aside, and one girl keeps sniffling noisily into a cocktail napkin. We’re a pathetic lot.

  “Cap sleeves, really?” the fashionista continues. “I mean, would you wear that dress?”

  It’s a minute before I realize their bleary, mascara-smudged eyes are all on me. “Me?” I ask. The critic nods, and I surreptitiously spit an almond into a napkin before answering. “Tough call. Cap sleeves are overdone, but really, what’s the alternative?”

  There are nods all around.

  “I’d kill to wear strapless,” one girl mutters.

  “Garments limit the options,” I agree. They continue nodding, and after a moment I add, “But really, why should I have an opinion? Sure, maybe I like the tulle skirt look better, but should I even think about it? It’s probably safer not to have an opinion. I should throw out my shoe box full of color swatches and dress ideas I’ve cut out of magazines because really that’s just setting myself up for disappointment. You know? In case it never happens for me, it’s probably better not to . . . hope.”

  They all stare at me for several seconds. Then the sniffler bursts into tears.

  “Well,” I say, gathering my keys and purse as the others halfheartedly try to console her, “I guess my work here is done.” Muttering an apology, I slip my heels on and totter toward the dance floor. Made someone cry. Fine work, Jack.

  Candace, the blushing bride, and I were in choir together in high school, and I feel like I should say good-bye—even though she’s too blind with bliss to notice.

  Halfway there I’m intercepted by a short woman wearing a cloud of perfume that nearly gags me. “Jack, dear!” she gushes and embraces me, nails digging into my arms. “How are you enjoying the party?”

  “I’m fine, Sister Daniels,” I say. It’s Candace’s aunt, who I met a couple times at concerts. “And you?”

  “Oh, it’s lovely.” She glances around dreamily and then clasps my hands in her overly soft palms. “I do so hope to see you married, dear. Why haven’t you?”

  The dreaded question. Honestly, how do they expect you to answer this question? Like you have some control over it? Like you receive an annual form in the mail: Would you like to be married this year? Mark the box: Yes or No.

  I sift through the usual answers: a) Just focusing on school. b) I want to be really ready so we can start a family right away. c) Waiting for the Spirit to tell me it’s time. But for some reason, tonight I’m tired of pretending. “I don’t know,” I answer with a smile. “I guess something’s wrong with me.” I cross my fingers. “Maybe next year!”

  Sister Daniels looks so gobsmacked I feel a little bad, but when I step back to retreat, I topple into the person behind me. A steadying hand on my elbow keeps me from falling, but both my ankles turn, and I stagger, trying to regain my balance.

  “Sorry,” I say, still leaning on the catcher as I bend to retrieve my shoe. “I, uh . . .” I look up and momentarily lose my words. “I didn’t mean to—”

  The guy still holding my elbow is looking at me so intently I nearly draw back. It’s not a look of attraction, just extreme focus—like he recognizes me. I don’t know him, but I’m still a little stunned. Not by his looks exactly, he’s not that much of a looker. He’s cute enough, with a strong jawline and features and dark eyes. His hair is dirty blond and a little unruly but not in a brooding, disheveled way. More in an “I’ve got no time for product” way. He’s only a head taller than me and not super muscular. There’s something about him that makes me not mind leaning on him. As I scrutinize him, he raises both eyebrows in question.

  “Sorry,” I stammer and shove on my shoe. “I’ve got two feet.”

  His mouth twitches. “Isn’t it two left feet?”

  My cheeks blaze at the blunder. “Yes, that’s the saying, but I’m unsteady enough with them exactly as they are.”

  His lips twitch again and crack at the edge in an almost-smile. “I see. Well.” He lets go of me. “All right now?”

  I nod even though the toes on my right foot are bent under. “Sure, sure.”

  “Okay then.” He nods and turns, headed for the refreshment table. I watch him dither for a moment, select a plate, and sprinkle on a few peanuts before he glances back in my direction. I swivel toward the exit, fighting not to limp with my foot curled wrong inside the shoe.

  No good-bye to Candace, I realize when I reach my car. But it’s too late now. I wouldn’t go back in there for the whole cake, no matter how good the roses were. I unlock my rusting car, step out of my shoes and toss them in the backseat, and slide behind the wheel. There’s a blister on my left ankle, frosting on my skirt, and the slimy decoated Jordan Almonds I was hoarding in a napkin have spilled inside my purse. “Another successful evening in good old Provo, Utah,” I grumble and start the engine.

  It’s only eight forty-five, so there’s still time to salvage the night. In my book, that means Chinese food and an old movie. Something classic to reinforce the illusion there are still gentlemen in the world.

  I snake my way through downtown Provo, where the storefronts lining the main avenue are already beginning to darken. Despite being a college town, most places in Provo close at roughly nine o’clock. Any late-night entertainment must be found in the dining hall of fast food franchises or at the dollar movie theater. Established around Brigham Young University, Provo is a hodgepodge of the old and the new. The ancient malt shop where my own parents courted over a banana split is now neighbor to modern crazes like Café Rio and JCW’s. Beautiful relics of architecture like the Provo tabernacle stand between an Abercrombie here and a Fitch there, but these symbols of progress operate within a sheltered setting. The familiar ridgeline of mountains encircling the valley reinforces the feeling that there is no world beyond this place, at least no world I’ve ever met.

  Leaving Provo behind in mere minutes, I enter Orem, Provo’s younger sister. Also a college town, Orem is centered on Utah Valley University. My own mom didn’t hear a word I said about UVU’s excellent English program or the growing school. She was in mourning about having to attend football games in a new color. When I told her UVU didn’t yet have a competitive football team, I learned the definition of the scriptural “wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

  This time of night, the Panda Express parking lot is sparsely populated. The strong, hot aroma of spices greets me as I open the door, and for a moment I revel in it. That is the smell of happiness. In my case it’s also the smell of being single.

  I bend to examine the dishes behind the glass case, but I always get the same thing. “Yes, chow mein, please,” I say. Creature of habit. Before the Blockbuster next door went out of business, every Friday night found me here—orange chicken and a chick flick. My wild, wild party life.

  Just as I’m pointing at the orange chicken, I notice a blond head near the far door. A guy is standing beside the garbage can with the collar of his dark jacket popped around his face. He’s typing on his phone and is turned slightly away from me, but I’m almost sure it’s the same guy from the reception.

  I straighten, trying to get a better look, but he stays turned away, focused on his device. Isn’t that the same guy? I could swear . . .

  “What entrée?” The girl behind the counter is talking to me.

  “Uh, double orange chicken, please.” I smile apologetically and finish my order, the hair prickling along the back of my neck. When I get my cup and move toward the soda machine,
he’s gone. No sign of him beyond the window in the parking lot either.

  “Excuse me.” I approach the counter again, and the dark-haired woman behind the register looks up. “Did, uh . . .” Now that I’ve started into this I feel ridiculous. “The guy who was just standing here by the garbage can, did he order anything?”

  The woman, whose name tag reads Lupe, narrows her eyes. “Yes?” she asks, her voice slightly accented. “He order.”

  “Can you . . .” I laugh self-consciously. “It sounds so strange, I know, but can you by any chance tell me what he looked like?”

  She blinks at me. “Beijing beef.”

  “No, I mean”—I motion toward my own face—“what he looked like? Did he have like, dark eyes and blond hair? A pretty, uh, strong jawline? You know, like the kind from classic literature?”

  She blinks again. “Cream cheese rangoon. Three.”

  “No, I—never mind.” I smile awkwardly and turn away, embarrassed by my own weirdness. So what if the reception guy was here? Is he not allowed to get Chinese food too? Panda is a popular place.

  Walking back to my car, order in hand, I check my phone. Two texts from my older sister Jen, the first an hour and a half ago: Do you have my blue cardigan?? Then fifteen minutes later: I know you have my cardigan, filthy sweater thief. And an angry-face emoticon.

  Three voice mails from Mom. She knows about the wedding and no doubt wants a status report. My mom is an amazing, kind, giving woman of faith. Her vocabulary is also strangely limited to the phrase “When are you getting married?” With my two sisters happily wed, Mom’s entire world revolves around hustling me to the altar.

  And before you say, “Oh, my mom’s just as bad,” hold your tongue. No matter how bad you think your mom is, mine takes the cake. And by that I mean she literally takes the cake. She steals wedding cake from receptions. Of course, she would strongly object to the word “steal.” Her version is that she “borrows a few extra pieces” for research.