Chapter 7 Presley #3
“Sorry, I can never resist that little side run. It’s short and mainly just a leadup to that jump, but it’s my favorite.” He was panting from the adrenaline of it all as we unclipped our skis. “You’re a great skier, by the way,” he said under his breath.
“Thank you. That was probably the best I’ve ever skied.
Turns out I just needed to pick up the pace all of these years.
Going behind you really got my butt in gear.
” He slid his tiger mask back up over his jawline, his mouth still exposed.
His lips were almost begging me to kiss them, I thought to myself.
Ugh! Lord, please keep my feelings—and my thoughts—platonic and honoring You.
As we walked up to the cafe, I considered the current forced-roommate situation.
In the very least, if I couldn’t fend off my feelings that were growing for this man by the second, let me at least keep my wits and dignity.
The last thing I needed was another let down.
Every bone in my body was telling me to not date again because every man I’d ever been involved with had hurt me in one way or another, and just recently, I had made the decision to swear off dating.
But my heart yearned for love. To be a wife.
To have children. In a world that glorified sin and all things that lead to a life of unfulfillment, it was a tough spot to be in.
“What would you like, Presley? My treat.” Ford looked at me as I glanced at the menu.
“If they recognize you, do I get extra marshmallows?
" I asked, to which he cracked a smile. “How about a vanilla mocha and a triple chocolate scone?” He nodded. “Or, actually, I’ll get an apple cider with that pumpkin fritter right there. That glaze just looks heavenly,” I said as I pointed at the dessert case, while my eyes darted to the over-the-top cupcake next to it.
As the woman had her tongs out to grab the fritter, I stopped her.
“Wait! That one. The cupcake. And, a peppermint tea. Thank you.” Ford chuckled.
“And I’ll take a peppermint tea as well.
Thanks.” He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
“Want to go find us the right table? Figure it might take you a minute to pick the best one. I’ll wait for our drinks.
” I picked up the cupcake and nodded, but I didn’t know what he meant by that.
I found a table immediately—the place was practically empty other than a few random ski patrollers.
But the second I sat down, I noticed the table had an unfortunate wobble.
Ford wasn’t looking, so I quickly moved to another table before I realized that one had a really unflattering spotlight above it.
Ford might not have been here on a date with me, but I didn’t need him to see the micro peach fuzz that may have been all over my face.
Finally, I settled on a table between the door and a heater, which worked out great for privacy if he had his back to it.
Ford sat down a moment later, smiling and handing me my tea.
“What?” I demanded, to which he broke out in a laugh.
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything,” he shrugged.
“So, I like to find the best table. I’m living intentionally. It all matters, you know,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Where you sit matters?” he asked.
“Well, sure it does! Our time is limited. For all I know, this could be my last day on earth, and I want it to be right. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but I don’t want to waste it on a wobbly table that needs a few coasters squished under that third leg or lighting that makes me look like a troll living under a bridge.
” His eyes widened. “I mean that in a non-conceited way. Life is a gift. I want to enjoy it the best I can, is all.” I took a bite of the indulgent cupcake with its double-tiered frosting. Ford laughed. “What?”
“You have a little frosting on your nose.” He motioned to his own.
“I know. Maybe I’m saving that for later,” I said, playing it cool before I wiped it off with a napkin from the holder on the table.
“You’re different.” His words dropped on the table like an anvil.
“How so?” I asked, suddenly feeling very insecure in my own skin.
“I can’t quite put my finger on that,” Ford trailed off.
“Is it a bad thing?” My words were like a whisper.
“No. Definitely not in a bad way.” Hmm. I’d been told I was different before by men, all of whom didn’t want another date with me. Honestly, this pattern was tiring. Was something seriously wrong with me? What if I didn’t WANT to be different?
“Okay,” I said back, losing my appetite for my cupcake. I only ate half of it when I set it back down on its plate.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been told I don’t communicate very well,” he admitted. I nodded.
“That’s apparent,” I smiled, trying to smooth things over.
“And I’ve been told I’m overbearing. Too much.
Annoying,” I said sheepishly. Yet, saying it out loud, I felt emotion bubbling up inside of me.
I had a habit of oversharing, but this made me feel small as the slideshow of hurtful comments in memory took over my brain.
Lord, I know these feelings are not coming from You.
Please protect my mind from the one who is sending them.
“I’m sorry. People can be so mean. I’ve experienced it, too.” His words struck a chord in my heart. Was this quiet, brooding cowboy opening up to me? I wanted to do anything I could to keep it going.
“Really? Tell me about that.” Okay, maybe that wasn’t it. Was I writing a book? Interviewing him for a late-night talk show? Ford shrugged.
“When my ex and I broke up, half of my friends stopped communicating with me. People I’d known for years.
They kind of took her ‘side’ so to speak, before they even knew that she left me for another man.
” I nodded, knowing how hurtful that must have been.
“And growing up, I was treated as though I was a burden. It’s not something that you can just get over that easily.
” I was blown away by the revelation from Ford.
“Exactly! It’s more challenging to forgive people who make you feel small.
Boy, do I understand that. But it’s also the most freeing form of forgiveness that there is.
To forgive and forget. To leave those hurts in the rear-view mirror.
” We sat in silence for a few minutes as Ford looked reflective, taking sips of his tea and eventually downing the rest of it. I had gulped mine down minutes ago.
“Want to get back to the slopes?”
“Sure,” I said, mildly disappointed that our conversation was ending, but hoping we could pick things back up later.
It took all of my strength to wobble over to the door in my stiff ski boots.
You never realize how much you use your ankles to walk normally until they are frozen in place by a thick, unbendable plastic.
But once said plastic is clipped into metal sticks traversing on ice, you are suddenly thankful for the lack of bendability.
We spent the rest of the afternoon shredding through the heavy, “first class” powder.
Ford said it was the best snow in the world because it was a heavy, dry snow.
All of that went over my head as I wasn’t a meteorologist, but having grown up in Denver and skiing all around the states, I agreed that these were some supreme conditions.
Each time we got on a chair lift or inside a gondola, Ford would stiffen up.
Worried that someone would be waiting in the wings at the top or would recognize him from one of the many passing chairs going by.
I didn’t think these fears were irrational, and he certainly didn’t voice them, but rather I felt in tune with him.
I picked up on things more than the average person, which was another reason why most men found me annoying to be around.
Normally, when I thought of such things—thoughts planted by the devil, perhaps—I would fall into a spiral of dwelling.
How I was not good enough. How I had failed.
How I needed to work on myself or change completely.
But just then, I felt as though the mouth of the Lord was speaking into my mind: Those you’ve met were not good enough for you.
I didn’t deserve that treatment from them.
I was barking up the wrong tree for men to begin with because they didn’t deserve me.
What a freedom it was to find peace in the Lord!
As we sat in silence on the chairlift, and God was working out my biggest hangups in life in my heart, my attention turned back to Ford.
At first, I thought he was just a brooding, grumpy cowboy living in a fancy ski town.
Spending time with him the last few days, I had found his demeanor starting to soften.
He certainly had much more going on than met the eye.
What was that phrase? A still water that runs deep.
Just because he wasn’t speaking so much that he was constantly blaring his words didn’t mean he was not thinking.
Or feeling. There was more to Ford than met the eye—but what did meet the eye was unbelievably handsome.
He was drop-dead gorgeous. The winter games were just a day away, and then my trip was coming to an end.
Power could have been restored to my chalet at any moment, and roads would have reopened.
Would I have been able to peel back the proverbial onion of Ford before I left Sage Mountain?