Chapter 8
SHAY
Legs on fire, I push off the chairlift, thrilled there’s only one more run between me and a cafeteria filled with greasy food. I can already taste the bacon cheeseburger I’ll be ordering.
I lick my lips, wishing I’d met the girls for lunch when they texted me an hour ago, but two feet of fresh powder on Aspen Mountain takes priority. And it’s been therapeutic.
The Kolton fiasco is ancient history—the Broken Condom Incident, our arguments, and his disappearing act are long forgotten.
When I see him tonight, it won’t be weird or awkward.
I don’t care if he has a girlfriend back home.
That’s his bed to sleep in. I don’t want to know a thing about him or his history, and since we’ve worked out whatever sexual tension was between us, maybe we’ll even get along. Anything for my friends.
Aiming for the run under the chair and the untracked snow I spotted to the left, I urge my burning thighs on.
I lean back just enough and float downhill.
Snow flies up midchest as I bounce through the fluffy powder.
The stuff of dreams. At home, skiing through a snowfall this thick would be like plowing through sludge. In Aspen, it’s like dancing a waltz.
My tired thighs fade to the background, each turn making me giddy.
By the time I make it down and rack my skis, I’m on cloud nine, but my belly rumbles. The smell of charred meat drifts from the lodge, and I hightail it inside as fast as my ski boots will allow. Clunk. Clunk. Drag. Clunk. Elegant, I am not.
With all the basic food groups present and accounted for in the cafeteria—salty, greasy, sweet, and breaded—it’s hard to know where to start.
Ten minutes later, my biceps ache under the weight of my tray. I scan the busy space, taking in the massive windows and cathedral ceiling. Whoever designed this lodge checked all the country-chic boxes.
Thick wood beams. Fireplace. Accented stone wall.
Predictable. Tired. Done to death.
In my mind, I swap the beams for detailed ironwork, the dark wood walls for a sleek white stain. I replace the chairs with barn-board benches, their wide legs made up of the same funky iron. In my mind, I rock the shit out of this room.
My strained arms dip as I shake the images away.
I plop my lunch on an empty table and toss my helmet and gear next to it, then I take my seat.
I’m dying to stuff my face, but this type of meal requires planning.
The fries have to be last. That’s a no-brainer.
And the burger needs to be in my mouth now…
so burger, then chicken fingers, pizza, Mars Bar, and the fries for the big finish.
There’s no chance I’ll finish half of this, but I couldn’t resist tasting it all.
Credit cards were invented for a reason.
I double-fist the burger, juice dripping on my tray as I ease the beefy, bacony awesomeness toward my mouth. And God, that first bite. The salt and char mingle with the cheese and doughy bun so perfectly I think I’ve landed in heaven.
Then I hear, “Where’s the rest of your ski group?”
I’m pretty sure the Asshole doesn’t have the password to get past my Pearly Gates (last night aside). The chewed lump of meat settles in my throat as I try to gulp it down. Two massive sips of my non–Diet Coke later, I manage to swallow. “Can I help you?”
“Just wondering where the ski team is that’s sharing all this food.” Without an invitation, Kolton sits opposite me, his eyes twinkling. He puts his helmet and jacket beside mine and leans on his elbows. His perfect hair flops forward.
He may only be teasing me about my smorgasbord, but the subject still irks.
I take the biggest bite I can and tip my head back, chewing and moaning in ecstasy.
Still hamming it up, I put down the burger, wipe my hands, and plant my elbows on either side of my tray, mirroring his position.
Without a word, I stick to my plan and grab a chicken finger.
I roll it around the plum sauce and take a massive bite.
“Mmmmmmm…” Sounds of pleasure escape as I chew, never breaking eye contact with Kolton.
His full bottom lip drops open.
Next, I tear a section from the pizza and deposit it on my tongue, making sure to suck every drop of grease from my fingers. Then it’s a bite from the Mars Bar and a handful of fries, and Kolton is watching me like he paid fifty bucks at a peep show.
His hand disappears below the table as he shifts on his seat, my irritation suddenly less pronounced. There’s something down there I’d like in my mouth, too.
The sudden desire is an involuntary reaction, animalistic almost. Until he extricates his hand, reaches across the table, and grabs some fries.
I smack his wrist, but he doesn’t drop them. “Hands off, buddy.”
He shoves the bounty into his mouth and chews slowly, matching my glare.
“You should share. Wouldn’t want you to…
what did you call it last night? Harm your ‘girlish figure’?
I think you said that jab before we had sex in the bathroom, which was also before you took off without a word. Maybe you remember?”
This guy. Just like last night, being around him gives me whiplash: he annoys me, I want him, then he annoys me again.
“Yeah, I remember. I think I said that when you got all up in my face about eating the same chips you probably devour, like it’s okay for a man but not a woman.
And I’m pretty sure it was before you dropped me to answer the phone, which was after you fucked me on a sink.
Is that the comment of which you speak?” I pick up the Mars Bar and inhale another bite.
He pulls his head back and winces. “Shit. I’m sorry. The phone call threw me off. It was—”
I hold up my palm. “Not another word. I don’t care.
Seriously. Last night happened, and it’s over.
I don’t care who was on the phone. I don’t want us to sing ‘Kumbaya’ and hold hands as we share our deepest and darkest. Apparently, our friends have hit it off, which means we have to pretend we can tolerate each other for”—I squint as I do the mental math—“another four nights, if they insist on hanging out, and then we can return to our opposite sides of Canada and forget we ever met. Sound good?”
He flexes his jaw and taps his fingers on the table. “Sure. No problem, friend. I was going to suggest the same thing.”
His irate tone flips my childish get-in-the-last-word switch.
As a kid, I was shy and insecure with my friends.
Not with my family. Road trips rolled to the soundtrack of my mother’s, “That’s enough, Shay,” as I’d nudge and taunt my older brother, Thomas, often singing in his ear.
He’d never rise to the bait, but my ability to annoy him had no bounds.
Any thoughts of acting mature and getting along are so done. “Says the man who used the word unreal in the aftermath. At least one of us got off.”
“Says the woman whose teeth tore through the shoulder of my long-underwear top to stop from screaming. And since we’re friends, I’m sure you won’t mind sharing some of the heart-attack-on-a-tray you’re inhaling.” He grabs the pizza, ignoring my whats and heys and get your owns.
Twenty minutes later, having not said another word to each other, all that’s left is a bite of burger and two chicken fingers between us. He tries to eat the last few fries, but I’m faster. I shove them into my mouth, eliciting a deep belly laugh from him.
His cheeks crease and the corners of his eyes crinkle, the softening of his features sending a flutter up my spine. An unwelcome flutter.
Last night I basically cried after we had sex. That unchecked-emotion lesson was loud and clear: keep away from boys. Then Kolton unleashes his sexy laugh, and I’m ready to muzzle the rational voice in my head.
I stand, knock my knee into the table, and hurry to the bathroom to get some distance.
Not the best choice. One look at the sink and tap, and I’m back in his condo getting thoroughly fucked.
God. One second I want to smother him with a pillow, the next I want to make him laugh just to hear that sound again and maybe visit another restroom. And I have to spend the night with him.
Damn karmic bra.
Taking my sweet time, I retie my ponytail, apply some lip balm, and leisurely heel-toe it back to the table in my ski boots, fingers crossed Kolton is gone. But he’s still here, all six feet of him, gear on, leaning that fine booty against my table.
He tosses me my anti-sexy helmet. “We should take another run before we head down.”
I catch the helmet and shake my head, unsure I heard him right. “Sorry, we? Shouldn’t you be skiing with your buddies? It’s bad enough you hijacked my lunch and I have to sit at a table with you again tonight. Now you want to ski together? Thanks, but no thanks.”
He lifts his arms over his head and stretches from side to side. A sliver of skin peeks out below his jacket. “The guys called it quits early. Worried you can’t keep up?”
As fucking if.
The guy’s obviously egging me on, but he snaps my self-control. Everything between us is action, reaction. Spark and flame. What’s his deal, anyway? Why sit with me and ski with me when we’re worse than cats and dogs?
If he thinks firing me up means he’s getting a replay of last night, he’s mistaken.
Still, I need to beat his ass on the slopes.
“Fine. I’ll take that run. It’s about time I put you in your place, but let’s be clear.
We can have lunch and ski together, but there will be no sex.
” A teen walking by stops midstride and doubles over in a fit of giggles.
“I didn’t catch that.” Kolton leans forward and cups a hand around his helmeted ear. “Do you mind speaking up?”
What a douche.
“Everyone is wise until he speaks,” I mumble, recalling my granddad’s words.
Kolton straightens, a question passing across his face. “Are you Irish? My granddad used to say that all the time. Along with, ‘Shut your mouth and eat your dinner.’”
I laugh, abrupt and maniacal, the sharp sound catching me off guard. The energy shifts between us, like the first time I understood my Spanish teacher—the foreign becoming familiar.
I frown, unsure I want Kolton to feel familiar. “Yeah, I am. The first curse I learned was feckin’ arse, and I’d kind of like to use it right now.”
He smiles to himself, as though we’re friends who would sit and talk and laugh about our shared upbringing.
Ruffled, I cram my helmet on, get geared up, and try to stomp out of the lodge all look out, buddy, but with the boots and Martian head, it’s a fail.
Skis on and goggles down, we race to the lift. He arrives first, making like he’s been waiting forever with a dramatic yawn. I roll my eyes and push past him. The lift line is empty, so it’s just him and me on the four-person chair.
“Mind not doing that?” he says partway up as I swing my skis.
The chair sways in response, and I rock my legs harder. “This?”
“Yeah. That.” He leans his elbows on the safety bar and closes his eyes.
If he pukes, I’ll likely toss my cookies, too.
When my brother got food poisoning from China House’s all-you-can-eat buffet, it wasn’t pretty.
I hadn’t eaten a thing there, but the second he threw up, I proceeded to reenact that pie eating scene from Stand by Me: projectile vomit, solid stream, fire hydrant force.
I still my skis and stop bouncing.
We pass one supporting tower, then another, before he opens his eyes.
“You regretting that lunch?” I ask, smirking.
He flexes his hands, and the poles dangling from his wrists knock around. “No. I’m regretting getting on this chair with you.”
Such a charmer. “Then you shouldn’t have taunted me with the thrill of skiing circles around you.
” He goes to fling his hands in exasperation, but his poles smack the bar.
“And if you’ve actually skied before,” I say, “you would know to take your straps off when getting on a lift.” I motion to the poles tucked under my thigh.
“That’s bullshit.”
“No. That’s safety. If a pole gets stuck getting on or off a lift, it could drag you along with it. But you wouldn’t know much about safe anything, would you, considering the cheap condoms you use.”
Our eyes meet at my acknowledgment of our illicit encounter and the Broken Condom Incident. His tongue skims his lips as his eyes darken, and my body heat congregates between my thighs.
He doesn’t reply.
“That’s what I thought,” I say as I struggle to sit still. This guy is too sexy for his own good. And mine. I may want to throttle him, but I want to kiss him, too. More than I ever remember longing to lock lips with anyone, but I still don’t trust this guy.
Muttering to himself, he tips his head back and then grabs his left pole and tries to yank it off. The loop around his wrist snags on his gloves. The Good Samaritan I am, I reach over to help. Unfortunately, we move at the same time—me pushing and him pulling—and the pole slips…then falls.
“Fuck.” He leans over, arm extended, as the pole sinks into the forest below us. He jerks up and swivels toward me. “What is wrong with you?”
There’s that tone again, the know-it-all gene that must only survive in overactive testosterone. “Me?” Eyebrow cocked, I jab a gloved hand at my chest. “I was just helping out. If you had your poles off from the start, this wouldn’t have happened.”
He snorts out a laugh, one of those angry, she-can’t-be-for-real laughs. “So this is my fault? You flinging my pole off the chair is somehow my fault? How do you figure?”
When he puts it that way…
But fighting with Kolton isn’t about right or wrong, true or false. It’s about knocking his Y chromosome down a peg, the one he shares with the Dick. Either that or I sign up for one of those self-defense classes where I get to beat the crap out of a guy in a sumo suit.
“If you stashed your attitude and weren’t yanking at the thing to prove a point, I could’ve grabbed the pole.”
“Right. Attitude. That’s rich coming from a woman who fucks me, explodes around my dick, then claims she never got off.” He adjusts his pants, but he can’t hide the thickness pressing against his zipper.
Not good.
Frustration powers my lungs, but my nipples tighten in response to his words and the visual they inspire, undermining my Y-chromosome attack. He was the one who bailed on me after the bathroom, but his chest rises as fast as mine now, the air around us snapping with desire.
And I need those full lips against mine. Now.