Cloud Nine (Snowy Peak #1)

Chapter 1

HANNAH

Dear Hannah,

Thank you so much for taking your time with our family, especially little Jonah. The photos came out great, and they’re hung up in our living room. We get so many compliments from friends and family, and we recommend your services.

The reason I’m emailing you again is because I was wondering: do you offer private sessions? Your technique is hard to find, and I would love it if you could do some nude—

Deleting emails from the fathers of the family photos I take who ask for nudes never gets old.

In three out of the six sessions, the men decide to email me, straight up asking for explicit content.

Emails usually start with a thank-you, compliments on my work, and a note that they’ve recommended me to others, praising my skills.

Then they dive right in, asking if I offer other expertise.

One guy showed up in just a bathrobe, and I never ran so fast in my life.

If you checked the trash tab on my email, you’d find countless more.

Maya suggests I post them anonymously on Reddit to get a good laugh, but I’m afraid it’ll somehow trace back to me.

It’s disgusting and not at all surprising at this point.

Unfortunately, I lost clientele, had to ghost previous wives because I couldn’t tell them their husbands were ruthless pigs.

And now I sit cross-legged on my black, leather sofa, eating hot Chinese food from my local restaurant down the street while I upload today’s work on my laptop. Keeping my phone propped up, I listen to my best friend ramble on about her shitty date from last night.

“And then, oh my god, Hannah, he pulled out a gift card from his wallet!” she shrieks, the phone’s speaker crackling.

I drag files across the screen, organize them by date, then start to upload the photos in Photoshop. “How much was on it?” Nothing revs Maya’s engine more than a man paying the whole meal with a gift card, especially on a first date.

“It paid for the whole meal!” Bingo. Guy number…

six? I lost count at this point. I swear, these types of men have a radar out for Maya.

It’s quite comical. Maya cares for the wads of hundreds he can carry in his wallet, but the minute he busts out a gift card, Hell freezes over, and she instantly gets the ick.

“Maybe Tinder isn’t your app,” I tease, tagging photos my client had asked me to edit.

“Nobody uses Tinder anymore,” she states.

I shrug. “Then how are you finding them?”

“Hinge.”

I laugh, then take another bite of my pork fried rice. When one app dies of popularity, you bet Maya will find the next hot thing to catch some male attention.

“Ugh! It’s so annoying! I swear I have a tattoo on my forehead that says ‘cheap.’” A loud purr echoes through the speaker as her giant orange tabby, Simon, makes his appearance, loud and proud.

Then a cork pops, and a red wine is poured into one of Maya’s ever-growing collection of wine glasses.

“Thank God for this.” Her glass is about empty when she pours herself another.

“Slow down, you’re going to wake up with a hangover again,” I advise.

She snorts, another chug down her throat. “After last night, I’m surprised I didn’t drink more.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Says you.”

I’m careful not to over-edit, smoothing out harsh lines, adjusting each layer accordingly. The process is tedious, but I do love it. Each photo takes some time to edit, but I finish the first batch while Maya pours herself a third glass of red wine.

At least she’s enjoying herself.

Another loud purr catches my attention, and Maya smooshes her face against his fur, then he lovingly licks her nose. “So, what about you?”

I internally groan. I love Maya with all my heart, and she means well, but I can’t date right now, not after how things ended last time. Instead, I choose to fuck with her. “I did have a date last night.”

Her face covers most of the screen. “Shut up!”

“Yeah, I mean, if he was honest with me from the beginning, I wouldn’t have cared,” I fib. I use my best convincing voice to really pull this off. “If he’s hiding a bald spot, odds are he’s hiding more skeletons in his closet.”

She raises her glass, then sips it. “Like what? Dead bodies?”

“Dead exes. Tax evasion. Maybe he’s secretly a part of the mafia?” I raise my eyebrows for dramatic effect. “We went to Chili’s and he was balling on a budget when it came to the three for 11.99 deal.”

Her silence has me checking my phone screen.

Maya flips me off when I look. “You’re a lying sack of shit, Hannah Rose St. Pierre.”

I’m trying my best not to laugh as I start fussing with the exposure and contrast. Once I get the perfect balance, I crop it to what the client specifications. “And you ate it right up.”

I hear Simon meow-yelp, finding Maya giving me a look, the orange tabby nowhere in sight. “Girl, it’s been two years.”

Here we go again. “And?”

“And?! Don’t let that stupid fuck—”

“Maya, I’m not NOT dating because of him.” Well, sort of.

“Oh, please, you can’t even say his name!”

“Yes, I can.”

“Prove it.”

Damn, this pill is going to be hard to swallow. “Liam, see?” I feel it getting stuck halfway down my esophagus. Even with therapy, saying his name is like tasting a hot, steamy, pile of garbage that’s been sitting out in the August heat.

Curse her for being right.

Maya smirks, catching me in my lie. “That sounded painful.”

I flip her off, continuing to sift through different layers of the photo before moving on to another set. “If our friendship didn’t span over thirteen years, I might’ve killed you already.”

She touches her chest dramatically. “I’m wounded.”

“If you only called me to talk about dating…” I love her dearly and enjoy all our conversations, but I’m piled under with work, and my deadlines are creeping up faster by the minute. The first week of November is always chaotic when it comes to last-minute Christmas photos.

“Yes, actually, I have one more thing to ask you. My parents' ski resort is looking for new photos for their website. Want to shine with your expertise and take them?” Maya folds her hands like she's about to pray—mostly to a god she never believed in—hoping I say yes.

I stop editing, tapping some of the keys on my keyboard, looking everywhere but at her.

A place I love so dearly—yet I skipped last year because of him.

Things ended before our trip, but is it so wrong to go back to a place I considered a second home?

He never set foot on the property. I still have a claim to it.

“When?”

“Yes!” she cheers.

“Well, give me a date.” I go back to my editing.

“First weekend of December, okay with you?”

Of course, it’s okay, she knows that. I know that. So, why the hell am I hesitating?

“I can see the wheels turning in your head,” she comments.

I give her a dirty look. Maya holds up her hands, backing away from view.

Glancing at my shelf, I take in my snowboarding trophies, letting my eyes drift to the picture frames.

Some gold, others black, where memories are encased forever in a set of four by six frames.

One of my mom and me at high school graduation, another of Maya at my eleventh birthday party, sticking two fingers above my head.

But my favorite is the family portrait in front of Snowy Peak resort—the very last photo with my dad.

They gave him four months to live, and he demanded we take him one last time.

I know he wants me to go and stop making excuses.

I need to get out of this rut.

“Yes, that works perfectly.”

Maya dances back on screen, shaking her hips, drinking her wine.

“All right, bye!” I end the call, watching her dive for her phone before it goes back to the home screen.

Taking my last bite of dinner, I work another two hours on edits, making sure I’ve checked off everything on my client’s list, then upload them into a gallery, emailing her a link to access it.

Blowing air from my lips, I shut my laptop and prepare myself for a nice hot shower. In my shoebox apartment in Boston, I scour through an overflowing hamper, half-dirty, half-clean clothes, sniffing every pair of underwear until one gives off a floral scent. Ah, yes, clean! Score!

My room is starting to showcase signs of being a possible candidate for a feature on Hoarders. Usually, it’s around this time when I get my act together and clean before my mother drops in unexpectedly.

One time, it happened, and she nearly had a stroke. Then she hired a cleaning service for the day, and they were paid double just to endure the smell of rotting pizza I accidentally left under my bed.

Can I blame her? No, but I also have the habits of someone who is barely home but also gets overwhelmed if my tasks pile up too quickly.

I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, shower running at the hottest temperature, creating steam that wafts past the curtain.

I hold my midsection, staring at faded stretch marks and the slight stubble of a two-day-old shave below my belly button.

The area that, even after losing forty pounds, still won’t disappear.

My scale mocks me from underneath the sink, even with the door shut; it laughs at my weight, having hit a rough plateau.

It’s been two years since my diagnosis of PCOS.

A diagnosis I had a hard time accepting until it was everywhere on social media, with people trying to sell supplements.

Because nothing makes it more legitimate than Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome being added to your health history on your medical records, laughing at you.

From skipped periods to painful ones, along with an unexplained, extreme thirst for water, right down to excessive body hair, it all makes sense after a series of blood tests were run two summers ago.

It’s also been two years since I told my ex that there was a chance of my getting pregnant, might be difficult or nonexistent. It’s been two years since we left each other's lives, and some of his words still stain my thoughts.

I never break, but lately, inside, a crumbling weight of wanting perfection is starting to show.

The tips of my fingers graze along my chin, finding a few hairs coming back in their stubborn spots. Other hairs barely pierce the skin, creating dark specks. If anyone looked closely, they would see only a portion of what I struggle with.

Stepping into the hot shower, scalding water hits my skin, and I lean my head back so it soaks my red hair.

I hate this part of my shower. The part where I run my fingers through my thick waves to make sure every strand is wet, only to pull out what amounts to chunks, sticking them to the shower wall to gather after I’m done.

Although I’m lucky to inherit thick hair, it didn’t take away the side effects of PCOS showing near my temples.

After my forty-minute everything-shower, I wrap myself securely in a thick towel, leaving my hair dripping wet down my back, and stalk off to my bedroom. Kicking my sneakers out of the way, I pull out a purple suitcase that was tucked in the back of the closet and covered in a mound of sweatshirts.

I really need to clean out my closet; otherwise, a tsunami of sweatshirts is going to bury me alive.

My phone buzzes where I left it in the living room, right next to the empty Chinese takeout container. Maya sent me a string of messages with tons of exclamation points, instructing me to pack my sexiest dresses and heels.

I text her back with the middle finger emoji, and she responds minutes later.

Maya: We’re finally single at the same time. Pack your best shit, or I’m forcing you to go shopping when you arrive.

Me: I never agreed to date while I’m there.

Maya: Doesn’t mean you can’t flirt?

Me: Ew, I’ll pass.

Maya: Buzz kill.

Me: Horndog.

She sends me a GIF of Robert Downey Jr. rolling his eyes. I laugh and throw my phone on the couch, shaking my head.

I love my best friend.