Chapter 4
Ransom
“Let’s go into town,” Calypso pleads.
Some of our party are going skiing, which is my plan, but others, including Ember, are heading into town for lunch and the Chamonix-Mont-Blanc Christmas Market.
Before I can tell Calypso that she can go on her own, I hear Ember laugh as she pushes her brother away, who’s doubling over in laughter.
I realize I haven’t heard her laugh—really laugh—around me since us.
The first few times I saw her after we ended, she kept her distance, her smiles tight, not reaching her eyes.
Now, there’s none of that residual hurt, and….
That’s a good thing because she and I were never going to last.
But it bothers me that she doesn’t think of me any longer, that I’m just a man from her past.
“I’m going to get you when you least see it coming,” Aksel cries out.
“That’s what they all say.” Ember picks up some snow in her gloved hands and makes a ball.
While Freja and Aksel are blonde and blue-eyed like Margot, and have definitely inherited her Norwegian ancestry, Ember is petite, barely coming up to Aksel’s shoulder, who is as tall as I am.
“Am I hurting you, Sweet Em?” I ask as I push into her velvet heat that very first time.
“No.” Her hips flex.
“You’re so small, tight.” I worry because I’m six-three. I have ten inches and over a hundred pounds on her.
“Ransom, harder,” she moans.
I slam into her.
She explodes around me, her orgasm catching her and me by surprise.
Her cheeks are flushed, and even though I can’t see her beautiful amber eyes as they’re behind her sunglasses, I feel an urge to spend time with her, learn how she has grown in the past five years.
Ember throws the snowball she just made at Aksel, who picks up some snow and hurls it back in her direction. He misses, and the snow explodes harmlessly behind her boots.
“Oh, come on, old man,” Ember teases, bending down to make another weapon to attack her brother with. “That was pathetic.”
“I’m giving you a head start, baby sister.” Aksel scoops up a handful of snow with calculated precision.
Freja joins in, shrieking as she flings a lopsided snowball at both of them. It smacks into Aksel’s chest.
The war is officially on.
I watch from the edge of the scene, my hands in my coat pockets, unable to look away. The siblings are spinning and ducking like kids, laughing without restraint. Ember is radiant, her voice high and light with joy.
Everything inside me tightens.
She used to be like that with me. Happy. I used to be like that with her. Content. She brought a childlike enthusiasm to everything we did, from cooking to watching a movie to making love.
A rogue snowball sails wide, I move out of its way, and it lands on Calypso’s shoulder. She lets out a sharp, indignant yelp, brushing snow off her Moncler coat like it’s toxic powder. “Hey, this is cashmere.”
She’s dressed to the nines like she walked off the cover of the December issue of Apres-Ski International. Her boots are Chanel. She’s mentioned this a couple of times.
“I got them especially for this trip.”
They don’t look comfortable.
She’s wearing woolen pants that were made by her dear friend, a famous designer whose name I didn’t catch.
In contrast, Ember’s in a black coat that cinches at her tiny waist. A red, probably no-label, scarf is knotted loosely at her neck. It matches her hat. Her glossy auburn hair is braided. She’s in jeans and boots.
She looks immensely comfortable.
She looks radiant.
Calypso looks pissed.
“It was Freja’s ball that hit you,” Aksel says, utterly unrepentant.
Freja laughs. “Consider it a Christmas baptism.”
Calypso looks between the three of them, sputtering. “I just got this coat. This is not funny.”
“It’s a snowball fight, Calypso,” I say lightly. “There are casualties.”
She gives me an accusatory look that says, “Et tu, Brutus,” and mutters, “I didn’t know I signed up to be in a war zone.”
“It’s a little snow,” I remark, aware that her behavior has dampened the mood, which was bright a second ago.
The Rousseau siblings trade glances, their laughter barely contained. They don’t seem to care what Calypso thinks of anything as they walk up to Aksel’s Range Rover.
“It’s my car, I’ll drive,” Aksel protests when Freja takes the key from him.
“No way, you don’t know how to drive in the snow,” she fires back, already sliding into the driver’s seat.
“It’s my—”
“Aksel, I think we’ll all be safer with Freja driving.” I grin and tug his hat down his face. He splutters.
Ember chuckles, cheeky and amused. “Aksel, you’ve got the reflexes of a banker, not a driver.”
Jonathan comes rushing out then, his scarf flapping like a flag. “Don’t leave without me!”
“Like I could.” Freja blows him a kiss through the windshield.
I open the passenger-side door and hold it out. Calypso climbs in with a dramatic shiver, her coat free of the snowball incident, though her mood still seems frosty. She slips into her seat, phone in hand, scrolling before the buckle even snaps shut.
The rest of us pile in.
Ember slides into the middle seat of the second row, wedged between me and Aksel, who’s still grumbling about Freja hijacking his vehicle.
Jonathan takes the third row, solo.
“Everyone buckled in?” Freja turns on the car.
“Yeah,” we all call out.
“Then, off we go.”
We’re driving for two minutes when Aksel complains about the music. “Seriously? Mariah Carey?”
“All I Want For Christmas is tradition,” Jonathan protests.
“In America,” Aksel says, as if it were a crime.
“Stop whining, A, or I’m gonna play Taylor Swift.”
Aksel visibly shudders.
“Oh, Aksel.” Ember chuckles. “Shake it off, will ya.”
And so everyone, to Aksel’s chagrin, starts singing Taylor Swift’s hit song, with Jonathan being the loudest. Even Calypso joins in, cracking a smile, loosening up.
It’s a memory in the making.