CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rory
I t’s been four days since our almost-kiss in the Jeep and despite me asking Breck point-blank to kiss me again, he hasn’t. It’s understandable; Willow’s been around every minute we’ve spent together, but there’s a constant frisson of anticipation under my skin that I can’t shake. I go back to work tomorrow, and after two weeks off I’m struggling with the prospect of jumping back into the grind.
Anytime I haven’t been with Breck and Willow over the last few days has been spent on my laptop, knee-deep in edits. I love the pictures from Wes and Joss’s elopement so much. They’re personal, which makes holding these memories in my hands even sweeter.
Wes sent me a couple pictures of him and Joss in New Zealand, along with some videos of them bungee jumping and luge-ing down a mountainside, twin smiles on their faces. That’s what I want someday: a partner to go on adventures with, to share my life with.
My eyes bounce across the screen, over Breck’s face. In this one, Joss is slipping Wes’s ring on his finger. There’s so much tenderness in her eyes, but it also captured the look in Breck’s from where he stands just beyond them. I couldn’t place that look at the ceremony, but I can now—it’s longing. For the future he lost? For a love like Wes and Joss’s?
In the following picture, his handsome dimpled smile is back in place. It must be exhausting for him… trying to be “fine” all the time.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table and I reach for it, setting my computer aside. I have a perfectly nice desk in my guest room-slash-office, but I rarely use it—preferring the cozy couch with my legs under a soft blanket and a fire in the hearth.
Breck
Still coming over for dinner and a movie?
I glance at the clock and shoot off the couch. I was supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago.
Me
Yes, sorry, on my way. Got sucked into editing.
Breck
Bring your computer with you. I want to see.
Oh . An odd mix of emotions fills my chest—a little bit of pride but also wariness. The fear that I won’t measure up rearing its ugly head. I ignore that and slide my laptop into its sleeve before grabbing my backpack.
Five minutes later, I’m trudging through heavy snowfall toward Breck’s condo. The soft, picturesque flakes from earlier today have morphed into wet masses of white that coat everything I see. I clearly missed the turn of the storm while in my editing cocoon.
I knock on Breck’s door, tucking my gloved hands deep into my pockets. My head is down when the door pulls open and a hand reaches out, grabbing my upper arm and pulling me into the house. My down-covered body collides with a large, solid one. My cheeks instantly flame, Breck’s warmth permeating through all my layers. This is the closest we’ve been in four days.
He squeezes my bicep. “I’m sorry you had to walk here in that. I didn’t realize it was so bad until after I texted you. We could’ve rescheduled.” He cups my very cold cheek—I know it’s cold because his hand feels like fire against it. I lean into the touch and melt inside when he grazes his thumb across my cheekbone.
“I really like these freckles,” he says. Then he leans forward to dust the lightest kiss over them.
“Breck,” I breathe, my gaze scanning the space around us, on the lookout for little eyes.
“She’s in the bath.” He glances up the stairs toward the sound of running water. He pushes the hood off my head, sending melting snow falling around my feet. My hair cascades around my face and his fingers slip against a strand, pushing it behind my ear. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
“Okay,” I croak out, and a chuckle vibrates through him. He moves behind me to help me with my coat and my brain short-circuits with his proximity.
Once I’m bootless, coatless, and gloveless, I settle onto a barstool across from where he moves around the kitchen.
“So you cook too?”
“I do.”
“More than just shrimp on the barbie ?” I attempt to mimic his accent but butcher it horribly.
He barks a carefree laugh and bends at the waist, planting his hands on the counter and shaking his head slightly.
“You know? I think I’ve maybe cooked shrimp once, and never on the barbie .”
“Well, that’s disappointing. Here I’ve spent all these years imagining you working over the grill and it’s all a lie.”
Eyes alight, he says, “You’ve been imagining me for years, huh?” His smirk morphs into a grin that presses his dimples deep into his cheeks.
Oh shit. My cheeks flame and I duck my head. “I—Well, I, uh…”
I’m saved from the stuttering mess I’ve turned into by a squeal behind me. I turn to find tiny legs, in a pair of flannel pink pajamas and fuzzy slippers, running toward me.
“Rory!”
“Hey, Bug. I was trying to get your dad to tell me what we’re having for dinner. Maybe you can convince him.”
“Dad let me help make homemade pizzas. Mine’s shaped like a heart, and yours is too.” She looks so proud of herself, as she should be. I love pizza but can never get the dough right.
“What about your dad’s, is his a heart too?”
“No, he made himself a snowboard,” Willow says with an eyeroll.
Breck reaches across the counter and boops her nose. “Aka an oval. A little heart wasn’t going to cut it. I’m hungry.”
“Same.” I didn’t eat lunch, jumping straight onto my computer when we got back from our morning on the slopes. The snow started around eleven and we left shortly after for Willow’s sake. Breck and I could’ve gone all day, but she’s not there yet. She’s comfortable on several of the intermediate runs now and she doesn’t fall much anymore unless she’s trying to do something she probably shouldn’t. Like attempting a bunny hop over a bump in the snow or going faster than she’s ready for.
“What movie did you pick, Willow Bear?” Breck asks, opening the oven door and sliding a pizza onto an oversized spatula. It manages to get the whole thing out in one go, and I make a mental note to ask my parents where they got it. Once we’re on speaking terms again, that is. Thank goodness for this storm pushing them to cancel family dinner tonight. Not that I was planning to go regardless.
“ Frozen ,” she says matter-of-factly, and I chuckle.
“Because it’s snowing, right?” I ask, and she nods. The smile on her face is beautiful, just like her dad’s.
“But we’ve watched that one a hundred times… since we’ve been here,” Breck says, exasperated.
“It’s my favorite though.” She pouts, and I know he won’t win this argument.
His shoulders sag in defeat and he just nods. “Okay, go get it set up and I’ll bring in dinner.” He looks at me. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Whatever you’re having is good.”
He slides a bottle of red wine and a bottle opener across the island to me and then collects a couple of stemless glasses. He opens the oven again, pulling another pizza out, and slides it onto the counter.
“Those look fantastic. Thanks for cooking,” I say, pulling the cork free of the bottle. I relish the sound of the cabernet sloshing into the glass. The benefit of living less than a quarter mile away is I can enjoy it and have no issue walking home… assuming the snow isn’t up to my knees by the time we finish the movie.
Breck pulls out the final pizza and fishes a cutter from a drawer, ready to massacre their hard work.
“Wait.” I stop him and pull out my phone to take a picture. The hearts have expanded so they look more blobby than anything, but it’s the thought that counts. I also notice my pizza doesn’t match theirs. His is covered in red sauce, cheese, and every kind of meat imaginable. Willow’s is just cheese and pepperoni. But mine—mine has pesto and feta and sundried tomatoes and chicken… It’s almost identical to the Mediterranean one I ordered when we went out with everyone last week.
I look from the pizza to Breck and note a nervous smile playing around his eyes.
“Does it look okay?”
“It looks perfect,” I breathe. “I can’t believe you bought all the stuff to make this…”
It should be mortifying that I’m getting choked up. But… when was the last time someone remembered what I like well enough to make it from scratch at home? My ex couldn’t even remember how I took my coffee.
Breck remembered. Even though we were hardly talking then. Even though I was practically avoiding him.
I hand him his glass of wine and we toast over the pizza while I attempt to get my thoughts and feelings about this small kindness under control.
Willow fell asleep about thirty minutes ago, leaning heavily against Breck’s side. After muting the movie, he asked me to grab my computer while he took her up to bed. We’ve been sitting close on the couch ever since, slowly scrolling through them. With each new image, his interest grows. He asks me questions and smiles as he remembers certain moments. I love hearing pieces of the experience from his perspective.
“These are incredible,” he says, and I squirm under his startling blue gaze. I’ve never met a compliment I haven’t tried to bat away. “Why aren’t you doing this for real, Rory?”
The question startles me, but I answer the way I always do. “Because it’s not a real career.”
“Is that you talking or your parents?”
I bristle. “That’s not fair. They just… they want me to have a steady job. One with a salary and benefits. They don’t want to see me fail.”
“Why do they think you’ll fail? You have all the skills to start a business and be successful. So why don’t you?” Breck holds my gaze. His words pelt me like hail, leaving stinging discomfort in their wake.
“I don’t. I mean, yes, I can take beautiful photos. But the rest? I don’t know how to do any of that. I can’t run a business. I wouldn’t know the first thing about starting something like that.” You’re getting defensive, Rory . I take a deep breath through my nose. “I’m good at my job at the resort. I’m capable. I can live with that.”
“Stability is great, but not if you’re unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy ,” I say, and he lifts an eyebrow at me. “I’m not. I like my job.” The protest sounds feeble even to my own ears.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t light you up like this does.” Breck’s voice softens with a nod toward my computer. I can feel his eyes searching my face, but I refuse to look at him.
“Yeah well, getting lit up doesn’t equal success. I have responsibilities. I have bills and people who rely on me, and—”
“And your parents,” Breck interrupts.
“Yes, them too. They want what’s best for me. Deep down, I believe that’s true.” I need to believe it’s true. Otherwise, what the hell is all this heartache for?
“Rory. If they wanted what’s best for you, all they’d want is for you to be happy. Have you ever thought about how they built their own business? They started from the ground up, right? That’s what Wes told me. They didn’t have salaries and benefits when they got started in property management and investment, but they got there.” His fingers tilt my chin so I have to meet his gaze. “I know how much work it is—I spent years of my life pouring my heart and soul into Adventure Chasers. But it’s worth it. Your parents keeping you from doing the same is just, well, selfish.”
“Just stop, okay?” I pull back and move farther away on the couch. “I don’t have time to do this as more than a hobby anyway. I have a full-time job that keeps me plenty busy.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change.”
“Like what? I should just quit my job and start taking pictures? Hope people hire me? Yeah, that’s a great idea.” I scoff, a little frustrated sound that feels childish.
“No, I’m not saying that.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You could start considering what it might look like if you wanted to though. I could help you.”
That catches my attention and I whip my head to look at him instead of intently staring at the fire. “What do you mean?”
“You need help with the business side of things, which is something I happen to excel at.” He smirks. It’s a little bit cocky and a whole lot sexy. I’m stunned by his words, by his proximity. When did he move so close? “I know a good idea when I see one, Rory. You could take this ‘hobby’ and make it into something really cool. It’s a niche that’s underserved, especially in this area.”
“Wait. Did you research this?” My eyes go wide. He cups my jaw and his thumb traces over the warmth of my cheek, over the freckles he said he liked.
He nods. “I did. Like I said, I know a good idea when I see one, and this is a great idea. Let me help you choose yourself for once. Please.”
His words, his desire to help me—not for his own gain, not for his own purposes, but because he sees me and sees what I really want—makes me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Worthy.
I press forward, my lips finding his. They’re soft and warm, the taste of red wine still lingering. I melt into him, wanting more… wanting him.
Then the lights flicker, and everything goes black.