Chapter 14 Talk To Daddy #2
“You have, Mabel. Look at you; you’re a foodie.
Whenever we travel somewhere, the first thing you want to do is find something delicious and new.
You immerse yourself in different cultures through your food, because you’ve developed a palate refined enough to appreciate the nuance in different sweet treats.
It’s a skill you’ve honed. I do the same thing through language.
My brain is good at processing words and phrases and dialects, so I use that skill to absorb the cultures of the world when we travel. ”
I think of all the small shops we’ve gone to all over the world.
The pastries, the gelato, the chocolates and delicacies I’ve eaten because Ryder either ordered them for me or brought them to me as gifts.
Wherever we go, he seems to know what food I want to try without me having to tell him, and how he always manages to make sure I get it, no matter how busy we are or how quick our turnaround in any given spot is.
“Well, your skills come in handy,” I say as servers bring sizzling plates of meat, beans, and rice to the table. “You might like ordering for me so you can show off your mad, mad language skills, but as much as I hate to admit it, you know what you’re doing. This all looks amazing.”
Am I deflecting? Sure. It’s unsettling to realize that your best frenemy knows you better than you know yourself.
And besides, who amongst us can focus on realizing how closely their accidental husband, who they might be crushing on, has been paying attention to them when there are steaming piles of delicious-smelling Mexican food in front of them?
I dig in, loading my plate with warm tortillas and piling them high with chicken and rice. I moan around my first bite and when I look up, Ryder is staring at me with his chin in his palm, watching me eat like I’m his favorite TV show.
“I’m not peacocking, Mabel. I order for you because I know what you like, and I like knowing that I had a hand in putting that beautiful smile on your face.”
My sharp intake of breath surprises me, even as I feel my face heat from the blush spreading across my cheeks.
With his free hand, Ryder reaches across the table and draws small circles on my arm with his fingertip.
The touch lights me up, and even though I can see the not-so-subtle phone cameras being pointed our way in my peripheral vision, it’s too easy to fall into the fantasy where maybe, just maybe, my frenemy-turned-husband could become something real.
“This is a terrible idea, Rye Bread.”
“So you’ve said, Marshmallow.”
“We could get into so much trouble.”
“Were you or were you not bugging me just this morning about leaving you out? And besides, I think you and I have already reached the limit for how much trouble we can get into this year, don’t you, Mrs. Finch?”
“Do you know how annoying you are?”
“No, but if you hum a few bars, I can fake it.”
I elbow Ryder in the side, making the lift seat rattle from the force of the hit and his accompanying laughter.
The Resort at Blue Mountain is powered by a local wind turbine, so the lights on the slopes are year round, but Ryder definitely paid off some operators to allow us to use the ski lift after hours.
“Don’t call me Mrs. Finch, Mr. Quinn. If we die on the side of this mountain when we’re supposed to be on a no free-ride ban before Milan, Trina will bring us back to life just to kill us again.
” The lift clanks away, slowly dragging us up the mountain.
In the light of the moon and the bright poles illuminating the slopes, the Colorado skyline glistens.
It’s cold enough that I can see my breath, but even in the frigid temperatures and the anxiety of doing something I’m not supposed to do, I feel like I can fill my lungs for the first time in days.
“I like that,” Ryder murmurs, and I turn to him. “Mr. Quinn. It makes this feel real, you know? Maybe I should change it.”
“You’d change your name to Ryder Quinn?”
Ryder places one gloved hand on top of mine, and I swear, even through the layers of weather-resistant fabric and my snow pants, I can feel the heat of him on my thigh. The casual touch burns through me, the knowledge that there are no cameras to capture the moment ricocheting in my brain.
“Well, yeah. We’re married, so we should have the same last name. And since you don’t want to be Mabel Finch, Ryder Quinn it is. I’ve always wanted to be different from my parents.”
I wait with bated breath for the punchline that never comes.
The lift approaches the top, and I push the bar up, the two of us sliding off the seat with one foot each strapped on our boards.
When we’re both on our asses in the snow strapping in our other feet—Ryder working on his right foot while I work on my left, since I ride goofy—I find myself speaking my inside thoughts out loud.
The mountain is quiet, save for the sound of the wind whipping through the trees.
Snow falls, so light that it almost feels like a mist around us, and I’m overcome with the feeling of rightness.
I belong here. On the mountain. In the snow. Next to Ryder. Married to Ryder.
It’s weird, yes. A little deranged, even.
But it’s also really fucking beautiful.
“I think Quinn-Finch sounds better. For both of us.”
Ryder looks up and wraps his arms around his bent knees.
“You’d change your name too, Marshmallow? That’s a lot of paperwork.”
His smirk tells me he’s teasing, but I shrug.
“I mean, yeah. It’s only fair. I wouldn’t want to drop Quinn completely, but Finch isn’t so bad. We’d both get to keep our parents’ legacy but also be a little different, since it’s always been the Finch-Quinn dynasty. We could switch it up.”
“And we’d get to expand on the legacy we’ve been building for ourselves.”
“Exactly,” I nod. “So, if this were real, then yes. I’d change my name if you would.”
“I would. If this were real, of course.” Ryder’s emerald eyes bore into mine, sparkling under the light of the moon and the reflection of the bulbs in the snow, and it’s all too much. Popping up, I hop and let the momentum of the incline pull me down the slope.
“Race you to the bottom,” I call out, and throw caution to the wind as I take an illegal run down the double black diamond slope.
The air bites at my skin, the snow shooting up in all directions as I slice back and forth down the steep incline, feeling the burn in my core as I weave left and right.
At some point, Ryder passes me, whooping as he glides by, but I take the lead again when he misjudges the drift around a tree and falls to his knees.
That right there is exactly why we shouldn’t be doing this. It was a soft fall. I don’t have to turn back to know he’s already back on his feet. I can hear his chirping in the wind behind me, but the risk of injury so close to the Games isn’t something we should be fucking with.
But damn, the feel of the fresh air in my lungs and the way my hair flows out underneath my helmet and catches the snow as we shred down the mountain makes it all seem worth it.
Still, I take it easy, never letting myself go too fast or jump too high the few times I catch some air.
At the bottom of the slope, I kick back on my heels, slowing down and pulling a 180 as I come to a stop.
Ryder is right there behind me, holding out a gloved palm for high-fiving as he slows next to me.
I’m overcome with a rush of emotions—adrenaline, nostalgia for the days when Ryder and me were just kids, hopping along the bunny hills and make-believing we were in competition like our parents, the freedom I only seem to feel when it’s just me and the mountain, my snowboard like another limb, an integral part of my being I don’t know how to live without.
But mostly, I feel gratitude that I let Ryder drag me out here tonight, and to the wishy-washy, zodiac, universe, destiny crap he so believes in that led us to this moment, this place, together.
And it’s that gratitude that has me ripping off my helmet and launching myself at my husband, wrapping my arms around his neck while my feet—still attached to my board—kick up behind me.
“Thank you, Rye Bread. I needed this,” I murmur into the place where I’ve burrowed my face into his neck, inhaling the pine and cinnamon scent of him.
Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him.
My subconscious chants at me like it’s the freaking crab from The Little Mermaid, begging me to yank off Ryder’s helmet and put my lips on his, while the stubborn, bratty part of my brain screams at me to let go, make a joke, call him a name and challenge him to another race.
But Ryder makes the decision for me, setting me back on solid ground but not breaking the hug.
“Best two out of three?” he asks, and I nod, feeling both relieved and pissed that we let the moment pass.
And later, when I’m lying in bed alone and exhausted after what turned into a best out of seven, I regret the rule that says Ryder has to sleep on my couch. And even more so, I regret that the couch seems to be the one rule Ryder isn’t determined to break.