Chapter 11
Owen
I spun around, facing the opposite wall. I bent over and grabbed her outerwear and the hat and gloves, tossing it all back in her direction.
“Get dressed,” I said.
“I sort of want to burn these, but okay.” There were more shuffling sounds, and she added, “Sorry about the nip slip.”
I cleared my throat aggressively. “We don’t need to talk about it.”
I had seen women in bikinis before. I had seen breasts, of course. But not Bee’s. Her breasts were full. Her hips flared out. Her smooth skin begged for a hand to run all over it. I would never shake the image of her standing there with that perfectly delectable breast on display, except for the neon green pieces of fabric that barely covered her. Or in fact, didn’t cover her at all.
Those breasts, so soft yet heavy and begging to be pushed together and played with.
I balled my fists, trying to take control of my mind that wanted to go down that path further. I tried not to think about kissing and touching her. I wanted to make our own heat in this little box until the windows steamed. Until nothing else but her pleasure was on my mind. My attraction to her had always been there as a low-level simmer in the background, but now, it boiled over. I was never bold enough to act on my crush. I never felt good enough for her company, never worthy enough to talk with her.
But this night, chatting with her, laughing with (and at) her unique way of seeing things, the attraction roiled out of control, demanding more of my attention, more than the fear or anything else that might be on my mind.
I swallowed and shifted. These feelings for her were too strong, too fast. It didn’t make any sense. I had to get a grip. I needed to get it together. She might not be afraid of me, but that in no way gave consent for all the dirty images in my mind.
I could lift her onto me so easily …
I was here for a job.
“Are you decent?” I asked, an edge to my voice.
“As if I ever stopped.” There were more shuffling sounds as the tram shook with her movements. “But yeah, I’m dressed.”
When I cautiously spun around, she was back on the bench, shivers wracking her small frame again. I sat next to her but gave her space.
Time to get my head on straight. It wasn’t smart to think of her as anything other than the package to be delivered to Benny. I was here to get paid, not drool over Bee. I tilted my head from side to side, finding relief in the cracking.
There had to be an explanation for all of her actions leading to this moment, and it was time she delivered.
“Now,” I said. “I think it’s time you explained what the hell you’re doing in a bikini and why you are so desperate to get back up that mountain.”
“You don’t even want to know.” She sighed and looked away.
“I guess if you’re too chicken, you don’t have to.” I had a feeling that might be a more fruitful approach to take with Bee.
Bee’s mouth dropped open before it snapped shut, pinching as tight as her narrowed eyes. “I am not a chicken.”
That much was obvious. There were many words to describe Bee in our short acquaintance—rambunctious, precocious, life-threatening—but chicken was not even close. If she was so eager to talk, let her talk. I’d finally crack this mysterious little nut yet.
Seeing her in that bikini unlocked a new neural pathway. Bee and her neon green bikini were now linked in my mind like peanut butter and jelly, but sexy.
I’d noticed her figure before today. Of course, I had. Those vibrant outfits she wore always drew my attention her way. The fact that she kept herself buttoned up in thick fabrics and chunky layers made me wonder what was concealed underneath.
There had been this one time as I passed her café. She was up on a step stool, a brown corduroy skirt lifting over bright purple tights, and reached up to a top shelf to grab what appeared to be a troublesome cat. I watched a moment too long before I realized what I was doing. When I glanced up from her legs, our eyes met through the glass. A slow smile began to light up her features, but I tucked my head and walked away before I could see it at full wattage. I had no idea what to even say to her. That night, I had a very inappropriate dream about her, where she was my librarian, and I had to be quiet.
She shifted.
“It’s a long story,” she mumbled, anger staining her cheeks and ears red.
I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.
“Lucky for us, we have nothing but time.” I opened my arm to welcome her back into the cocoon of warmth we had created.
She shimmied herself back up next to me so I could wrap us in the foil heat blanket. I took a long, deep breath of cold air to distract from focusing on how her soft curves fit perfectly against mine.
“You know that statue in town? Outside the plaza, between the yoga studio and the newer weed shop, High Altitudes?” she asked.
It took me a second to locate the statue in my mind because that had been so far from what I expected her to say.
“Laura Ingalls Wilder?”
Bee gasped and turned toward me. “That’s her name?” Hope shone from her big brown eyes.
“No.” I chuckled. “That’s just what I call her. Because of the author of those Little House on the Prairie books.”
“Damn. I thought that name sounded familiar.” She sat back, deflated, and let out a long sigh that pursed her lips. “Do you know her actual name? Or anything about her?”
I shook my head slowly, still waiting to understand the connection to the bikini. And not just because I enjoyed contemplating the bikini.
“Dangit. You’re not alone.” She fidgeted with a Velcro pocket, not meeting my gaze. “I walk past that statue every day.” Here, she hesitated, and her shoulders rolled forward as though she were protecting herself. “I sort of became obsessed with her, my Jane Smith. There is no information on the statue. She’s terribly overgrown and neglected, and nobody in this town can give me a single answer about who she was or why she’s been memorialized. Here is this larger-than-life memorial for a woman who has now been lost to time.”
Her eyes crinkled with a frustrated sort of disbelief as she spoke with more genuine sincerity than I’d seen from her yet.
“My fixation began slowly enough. I asked Mel, my boss, first. She hasn’t lived in Slippery Slopes her whole life, but as the owner of the cat café, she knows a lot of the town lore. She didn’t know anything about the statue. Neither did the town manager, Jean Sparks, Deckard’s mom. Neither did Samuel Clemens?—”
“You were really desperate. Talk about a Twain in the ass.” I cut in, trying to break the tension, and she huffed a soft laugh.
If that was even his real name, Samuel Clemens touted to know everything about everything and dressed suspiciously like Mark Twain. He was a wealth of knowledge but had a hard time stopping once he got going.
“I know. I lost an hour of my life talking about the history of the printing press.” She shrugged. “Actually, it was pretty interesting, but he didn’t know about Jane. I also asked the oldest man in town, Ned Fled. He said he might have an idea, and we were supposed to meet again to talk more about it, but he forgot about me or rather our plans.” She flicked a look at me and laughed, but I didn’t think it was funny. How could anyone miss a chance to talk to her more? She hedged on before I could say something.
“Anyway, I even asked the head librarian, Connor Finkle. My questions began here and there at first, and then I became more focused. I looked online. I studied old newspaper clippings. But nobody knows who she was or why we have her in our town. And nobody seems to care or notice besides me. An important fixture diluted to a PokéStop for those still playing and nothing more.” She let out a long sigh.
“Nobody knows anything about her,” Bee went on. Her pale hands twisted in her lap. “I don’t understand it. There isn’t a single document. It’s a big statue! At least twenty GPs tall. Shouldn’t there be some sort of registry for that stuff? It feels so reprehensible that somebody with such an important role in life—worthy of being immortalized—can still be forgotten.”
As she spoke, her eyebrows twisted with worry. For all her fiery, impassioned persona, she was a deep well of vulnerability that only became more apparent in time. I was starting to understand why she might feel an affinity for the statue, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Sharing this story of her Jane Smith statue felt like a confession she wouldn’t share with just anybody. I wanted to support her and say the right thing.
“I think that’s the nature of life. We’re all eventually destined to fade into oblivion,” I said, then winced internally.
“Wow. So comforting.” She poked the back of my hand with her gloved finger playfully.
I ground my molars. Why did I think I could be her confidant when I never said the right thing? Why did I think I could make her feel better and not worse? She didn’t want to talk to me about important things.
She groaned in discontent. “But doesn’t that scare you?”
“It doesn’t matter when I think,” I said, feeling ashamed, knowing she wouldn’t want to talk philosophy with me.
“Of course it does,” she said. I sat still, looking forward until her hand moved to gently touch my chin. I let my head be turned in her direction until I looked down into her curious, dark eyes filled with sincerity. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know,” she said. “I want to know more about you.”
I studied her features, feeling a sensation like looking over the edge of the tram. Something was shifting in me too quickly to track.
She wanted to know more about me. I wanted to share. I took my time to form my thoughts. I felt pressure to get it right, but for once, not because I thought she would judge me, but because I wanted to be understood by her more than anybody else.
“I guess if I think about our lives, our relevance in the grand scheme of things, it can be scary.” I put an arm around her when she shuddered. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the cold or the vast, unending nihilism of our existence, but I held her just the same. Our faces were just inches apart as I spoke softly, watching her expressive eyes take in my words. “I also think that there’s a sort of freedom there. That if we are from stars to the stars, there’s really no reason to let things hang over us so much. We are less than a blink in the cosmic grand scheme. So who cares about the little stuff?”
I did think that, on some level, I tried to live that way, but was that true? Or was I hiding just as much as anybody else from monsters in my closet I didn’t want to acknowledge?
She leaned into me. “From the stars to the stars …” she whispered softly. “I like that, Owen.”
“I didn’t come up with that,” I mumbled, flushing under her heavy gaze.
We stared at each other as that feeling of tripping over the edge intensified. My palms sweat despite the cold. My heart thumped wildly against my chest. Was she leaning forward? Was I?
Another heavy wind whistled, causing the track lighting to flick on and off. It was enough to break whatever connection had been pulling our mouths closer together. We both turned to look in the opposite direction, but she shuddered and moved closer when there was already almost no space between us.
“Wait.” I shook my head. “We’re talking about you and that bikini.”
“Ah, damn.”
“Nice try, Nietzsche.” I pulled her closer, her head tucked under my chin. The scent of her shampoo tickled my nose, closing my eyes …
“I’m going to ski down The Slope tomorrow in that bikini. In only that bikini.”
My eyes widened. I could feel my brows creep closer to my hairline. I waited. Any second now, that sentence would make sense.
“There’s this journalist with a cute blog and video channel where she travels all over the country and interviews big characters in small towns. I’m going to be one of them. Though, to be fair, she has plenty of fodder to choose from here in Slippery Slopes. She’s coming tomorrow with her boyfriend. They drove down from Cozy Creek, Colorado. I got in contact with her and told her my plan, and she agreed to interview me. So I have to get back up there. That’s the only time they’ll be there.” Her head tilted in the direction of the peak.
“You’re skiing down the slope in a bikini because you want to be in an online blog?”
“Yes. Well, no. Kind of. That’s just extra.”
“That’s why you were hiding out with an overnight bag?”
“Yes. I planned to hide until tomorrow and ski down in the morning, hopefully with a big New Year’s crowd. Until you caught me.” She flicked a worried glance up at me. “And now I don’t know if I’ll get back up there in time.”
It was a reflex to promise to help her get back to the top, but I wasn’t about to get involved. I couldn’t get involved. Not if I want to help Ivy. Not my circus. “Wait. What does the statue have to do with this?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked with the lift and drop of her shoulder. “If I can get some attention to Jane Smith, then maybe somebody will know something. Clearly, my going around asking isn’t getting me anywhere. People forget me the second I walk away. This will get some real eyes on her. Her life won’t have been wasted. She won’t just fade into nothing.”
There was more to this that she wasn’t sharing, but this confession already cost her so much that I wouldn’t push.
“I want to make a difference. I want to be somebody who makes an impact,” she said, her brow pinched with ferocity.
“And that’s what you want to be remembered for?” She glared, and I was quick to add, “It’s an interesting idea. Memorable for sure. I just mean, why that ?” My eyes flicked to her chest and back up.
She chewed on her lip. “I thought it was a little sexy and provocative. It just popped into my head, and I thought it was a good idea. I just went with it. I’m not one to overthink.”
“I got that.” I softened my tease with a smile.
Her gaze flicked to my mouth, and her eyes widened. “There it is.”
“What?”
“Your smile. I haven’t seen it in a while.”
“Oh.” I guessed that was true. I didn’t know she’d been paying attention. Bee was up here to try to change her life, and I was doing everything in my power not to change.
“And I won’t be talked out of it. I will find a way to get back up there,” she said determinedly.
“Your new year, your choice,” I said. But even as I said it, I wondered how true that would be. Even if we could get out of here, Benny wanted me to bring her to him. Was I still on contract with him at this point, or did the whole getting stuck thing negate all that? I needed to get paid and make sure that Ivy had a home for another month. But I also …
She huffed with a nod.
“Is that your New Year’s resolution?” I asked.
“I guess so. I didn’t put it like that in my head, but sure. New Year, New Bee. But it’s not about attention,” she explained after a moment. “Well, I guess that’s exactly what it is. But attention defined my way.”
“You’ll never be able to control how people see you,” I said more fiercely than I meant. I could tell because her gaze faltered on me for a fraction of a second.
“But I can control that they do see me,” she said.
I let her words sink in. This was really important to her. This lovely woman, so determined, so funny and strange in the best way. I never could have imagined this was her plan when I found her cutting her hair tonight, but she continued to impress me. She had a plan to change.
At least she wasn’t content to hide who she was.
There was a freedom being stuck up here. I liked talking to Bee. I hadn’t liked talking to anybody in a long time. But I liked it here. With her. I felt free to be heard and was actually listened to. She didn’t see me as a big dumb lug.
“I’m not sure what it says about me that this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” I said without thinking.
She tensed and turned toward me, slow and menacing.
“Is it surprising that you’re having fun with me? Did you know I existed before tonight?” I opened my mouth to defend my comments, but she wouldn’t let me speak. “Why would anybody think somebody dressed like a kindergarten teacher could be a good time?” She sat up straighter, her brow furrowing as she found fuel for her speech. “And tell me, why is that the epitome of an insult? That I dress like a stereotypical kindergarten teacher? Teachers are patient and kind and put up with more crap than most people. So what if pretty colors make me happy? So do clothes that are comfortable while stylish. I like rainbows and sparkly things. Do I have the temper of a toddler on a good day? Yes, I do. But that doesn’t make me unintelligent. I feel things quickly and deeply and move on. It’s better than repressing everything like most people. Just because I like simple things or pretty things doesn’t mean I’m not complicated. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel hurt when I’m looked over or brushed aside. I like who I am and how I dress.”
“Bee.” I couldn’t take any more. I wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her just to stop the defensive rant.
“Society hates a contented woman.” She shook her head. “No. Worse than that. They don’t even see her.”
“Bee!” I yelled to be heard.
I was equal parts terrified and turned on.
“What?” she yelled back.
“I see you,” I said, setting my hands on her shoulders slowly. She had been breathing heavily, but when I said that, her whole body froze. She went statue-still. I lowered my voice and rubbed my thumbs in soothing circles on her shoulders. “I like you. I’m having a nice time with you. That’s what I was trying to say. I meant even though we are trapped in a tram, verging on turning into human popsicles, I’m enjoying myself with you. That’s why I said that.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips. “Sorry. I think I need a snack.” She took a deep breath in and relaxed again. “I like talking to you too.”
“Good. I don’t talk to people much.” I pushed some hair back that got stuck to her lashes when she went off on her rant. She watched my action with wide, hesitant eyes.
“Really?” Surprise was written on her features. “I don’t either, truthfully. Outside of work.” She gauged my reaction as she spoke.
This was the first time I felt myself wanting to talk . The first time I felt like there weren’t enough hours in the day for everything I wanted to say to her and hear her talk about in return. There couldn’t be enough time, not when I was also desperate to occupy her lips.
But what did she feel? What did she want?
“All things considered, I’m having a nice time.”
“Me too,” she said. She rubbed her lips together, straightening so our faces were close again. It would be so easy to lean in and test the softness of her mouth.
With each passing second, I forgot why I shouldn’t be kissing her.