On the Slopes of Tahoe (Love Along the Way #2)

CHAPTER TWO

Rory

T he walk to my condo is brisk after leaving Breck and Willow to get settled at their place. I stayed just long enough to watch him—big, sturdy man that he is—extricate his little girl from the back seat and carry her like precious cargo into their new home. She didn’t stir, safe in his arms. I think my ovaries nearly exploded at the sight.

I’m glad I’m only a quarter mile away from them in case they need anything. Wes asked me to help them get set up, and I feel somewhat responsible for making their time here as stress-free as I can manage. I know it wasn’t Wes’s intention to add their happiness to my plate, but I’m determined to try.

Getting home, I have just enough time to swap my fleece-lined leggings and hoodie for dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater before running out to my car. I know Mom will comment on what I’m wearing regardless, but at least I tried, and that might be enough to get through dinner unscathed.

Pulling into Capisce, my favorite little Italian restaurant, I take a deep breath and hype myself up. The fact that my parents pulled the plug on their marriage twelve years ago yet still insist the three of us sit down like this once a week baffles me. Erica James and Dean Anderson are nothing if not pragmatic though, and this is the easiest way for them to keep tabs on what I’m doing and dole out their combined disappointment at my failure to meet their expectations. Maybe Breck and Willow’s arrival, or Wes’s impending Christmas trip with his girlfriend Joss, will give me a reprieve from the standard questions… but I’m not counting on it.

My fur-trimmed snow boots catch on black ice and I’m glad for their impressive tread. Pulling my braid over my shoulder, I straighten my spine and walk into the lion’s den.

In actuality, Capisce is heaven on earth. Their homemade ravioli is out of this world. Add in their family “gravy”—aka red sauce—and I could die happy. I hang my coat by the front door as the savory aroma envelops me, and then follow the hostess to a booth in the corner where my parents sit on opposite sides of the table. Lovely . Now I’m tasked with choosing who to sit next to. Dad’s back is to me, but Mom stands and walks the last two paces to give me a peck on each cheek, guiding me to her side of the booth.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice.

Dad stands before I sit and pulls me into a side hug. I don’t think he’s given me anything different in… well, years. Maybe at my college graduation four and a half years ago? Did he hug me then? The hug Breck gave me this afternoon was more affectionate than this.

What I wouldn’t give for an embrace like that from my parents.

Once I’m adequately trapped on the bench seat, I sense Mom’s eyes roving down my body and I know without looking that her eyebrows are pinching together. I tuck my chin, hating the way my cheeks heat under her scrutiny.

“Did you not have time to go home after picking up the Kylies?” she asks, the disdain for my outfit right there, but only if you know where to look. And I’ve had years of practice. “Breck and… what’s his daughter’s name again? Aspen?”

Breck Kylie. It’s the first time I’ve really put his full name together in my head, and I find that I like the way it sounds.

“Willow. Her name is Willow. And yes, I went home first; I had to get my car,” I tell her, not taking the bait. Even though I made the attempt to dress up a bit, considering it’s thirty degrees outside and there’s ice on the ground, I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

She’s in an evergreen cashmere sweater dress with black heeled boots that come to her knees, and I can see her full-length wool overcoat hanging on the coat rack next to my puffer jacket. Always immaculately put together. Her long red hair is pinned up in a severe bun that makes my head hurt just looking at it. Her makeup is flawless even at eight o’clock at night, whereas I hastily swiped on mascara and blush before I left to pick up Breck—almost four hours ago.

“That’s right, you took Wes’s Jeep.” Dad breaks into the conversation. “Did it run okay? I was worried having it sit idle for six months might’ve caused some issues.”

“It was great. I drive it once a week just to keep the fluids moving and everything.” I love driving that car, and I’m going to miss it while Breck and Willow are in town.

“You got them settled in all right, then?” Mom asks, sitting up a little straighter, business-mode activated.

“Yeah, the place looked great when I went in earlier today. I picked up some basics at Safeway so they should be covered for the next few days. I think the bunk beds in the guest suite are going to be a big hit when Willow is a functioning kid again and registers them. She was zonked when we got there.”

Mom nods, looking bored, and changes the subject. “How’s your condo? Any issues we should know about?”

This is her way of ensuring I never forget my condo is really their condo. That my home is something they provide, not something that’s truly mine. I hold back the immature desire to roll my eyes. Our parents don’t just own my and Breck’s condos, they own properties all around the lake. Their business is the one partnership that’s always worked between them. Even when their marriage fell apart, Stateline Properties never faltered.

“It’s fine. Nothing new to report.”

“You know, it’s been a while since we’ve come by to inspect it,” Mom says, addressing my dad as though I’m not right here. “Dean, maybe we should schedule that for this week?”

“Really, guys, it’s all good. If there was anything that needed work, I’d let you know.”

“Oh, we know, dear. I just want to ensure we’re keeping up with it.”

“How’s work been? Gone viral or whatever you kids call it these days?” Dad interjects, saving me from having to respond, but my jaw clenches at the condescension in his voice.

Working in content creation for our local ski resort, Empyreal Mountain, isn’t exactly what my parents had in mind when they paid my way through a journalism degree from the University of Nevada. They assumed I’d work for some sort of publication—front page dreams and all that. I wanted so badly to make it happen for them, but the reality is there aren’t all that many jobs here in traditional journalism. So, when this opportunity presented itself shortly after I graduated, I went for it. I wouldn’t say it’s what I had in mind for my career either, so I guess nobody’s happy.

Not that I don’t enjoy my job. It allows me to photograph the most beautiful place on earth, and it gives me unfettered, year-round access to my favorite mountain and all its amenities. Did I mention I get to snowboard as much as I want? So, yeah. It’s great. I just wish I could spend all my time on the photography aspect and let someone else do the rest. Unfortunately, the “rest” is the most time-consuming part of the job.

“Work is fine,” I say simply.

No matter how many times I explain what I do, they’ll never understand how “posting to a bunch of apps” is a real career. They do their best to keep their passive aggression low-key(ish) about it though, unlike when I told them I wanted to go into photography full-time at the beginning of my junior year of college. They were not low-key about that. Not in the slightest. To them, photography will always be something I do as a hobby, not a feasible career path.

“Did you see the article Jamie wrote last week? The one about his parents’ work with the whisky distillery down in the valley?” Mom lifts her wine to her lips. “I was really impressed. You know, you could write freelance articles like he does, Rory. You never know where it might lead.”

“Yeah, Jamie doesn’t write freelance. This was a special case because of his proximity to the subject. And he’s between books at the moment, so he had some extra time.”

“Well, if he has extra time on his hands, he won’t be too busy to have dinner with us next week, will he?”

Shit. I walked right into that.

Jameson Liam Murray has been my best friend since freshman year of high school, when his family moved here from Scotland, and my parents adore him. Of course they do; he’s amazing. The problem is, because they adore him, they want nothing more than for us to be a couple. Unfortunately for them, he’s never been my type—even if his Scottish and Irish roots blessed him with deep auburn hair, a beard to match, and startling green eyes. We’ve never felt anything for each other beyond friendship, which is just one more thing in my life for my parents to be disappointed about.

“I don’t know what his schedule looks like,” I say, trying to walk back what I said, even though I do know he doesn’t have anything major going on for the next few weeks. He always takes time off after he publishes, and his third book came out last month.

“Maybe if I call him, he’ll make time in his busy schedule to see us,” Mom says, the threat clear. She’s persistent, and Jamie’s too nice to say no.

“I’ll talk to him.” I sigh, defeat pressing down on my shoulders.

We’ve officially covered the two main reasons why they insist we get together on a weekly basis—to needle me about my job and to ask about my love life, or lack thereof—and we haven’t even ordered our meals yet. This is going to be a long night.

Walking into my condo what feels like hours later, I’m completely deflated. Sunday nights with my parents are a killjoy, and that’s saying a lot when I have very little joy in my life to begin with these days.

I slip my boots off and trudge up the stairs to my bedroom. Flopping onto the bed, I type out a message to Jamie.

Me

Soooo, don’t kill me, but you have to come to family dinner next week.

Jamie

What have you done?

Me

I might’ve implied you’re between projects. Mom latched right on to that and threatened to call you herself.

I’m sorry.

It’s not like Jamie doesn’t like my parents. It’s more that he’s indifferent to them. He doesn’t like the way they treat me, but the man was raised to be respectful, and he’s nothing if not a perfect gentleman. Plus, they’re always on their very best behavior when he’s around.

Jamie

I do always like it when you owe me a favor…

I laugh out loud. The last time he was forced into one of these dinners, I got us tickets to see Imagine Dragons at the outdoor arena to make up for it. If I remember correctly, he went home with a girl he met at the bar afterward, so I understand his enthusiasm.

Me

Fine, I’ll owe you one.

Jamie

Excellent. Now to come up with what said favor will be.

Me

I can practically see you wringing your hands and cackling maniacally.

Jamie

You know me too well. What are you up to tomorrow?

Me

I’ve got work, but I thought I’d make it a half day and take Breck and Willow to lunch if they’re up for it. You could join us.

Jamie

Sounds good to me. Night, Rory.

Me

Night.

I hurry through my nighttime routine, ready to put this evening behind me. When I sink into my bed, pillows cradling my head and blankets cocooned around me, my mind wanders down the street. To a man with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. Did he get Willow to bed okay? Is he sleeping, or is jet lag keeping him up? Did he eat the pizza I stashed in their freezer? Is he happy to be here, or is he just relieved not to be there ? The questions swirl around in my head as I slowly drift off to sleep.