Chapter 10
KOLTON
“You have a race today?” Shay smiles at the young girl between us on the chairlift as if we didn’t just fuck like rabbits in the trees thirty minutes ago.
“No, just training. Season’s pretty much over.” The girl hunches forward, her tight racing suit pulling at her shoulders.
I don’t participate in the conversation. My mind is still on Shay’s ass in the air, her hands wrapped around that tree, my body covering hers. It’s a good thing this kid’s between us.
Shay sighs as if caught on a memory. “I hated that part—knowing dry-land training was all I’d have to look forward to over the summer, itching for it to snow again.”
The girl tilts her head in Shay’s direction, sunlight glinting off her helmet. “You raced?”
“Yep.”
My ears prick up. The way Shay skis, I’m not surprised she raced. We just don’t spend much time talking. Arguing, yes. Groping, fuck yeah. Talking, limited.
I’ve glimpsed easygoing Shay. When we had to ride the lift with a couple of ski-school kids, she was sweet and charming and chatted with them the whole way.
When our crew of six went out last night, she joked with Raven and Lily, her quick wit and raspy laugh infectious.
But with me, the second she relaxes and lets me in, I say or do something wrong.
Then she bites and I bark, and we can’t grope each other fast enough.
Dynamite is less explosive.
The girl between us laughs. “I’m totally the same. Hate the summer. Love the winter. Wrenched my knee recently, so I’m just doing basics now. Lots of physio.”
Shay winces. “I had a bad knee injury the year before I won the Whistler Cup.” She nudges the girl’s arm with her elbow. “Maybe next year will be your year.”
I can’t take my eyes off Shay now. Ski racer. Whistler Cup winner.
Who is this woman?
Instead of picturing my dick sinking inside her, I imagine her barreling down a racecourse, skis chattering in ruts as she holds her line into her next turn. I want to know more, ask more, but I don’t want to shut her down. Asking also invites reciprocal questions.
It’s been refreshing not sharing about my traumatic past. With her, I’m not a widower and an exhausted single dad. I’m just me.
The two of them talk racing the rest of the ride, and I listen, riveted. We push off at the top, the area almost empty. Last chair of the day, last run. I’m about to ask Shay where she wants to head when my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and frown at Nico’s text.
Nico: Hate to do this, but I gotta get home. Shit’s going down with Josh. Again. I’m flying out in an hour. We’ll connect in Van. Best to Shay.
“Nico’s flying home,” I say.
“Seriously? Why?”
By the time I pocket my phone and look up, she’s glaring at me like I just split on her. “He has some family stuff going on. Needs to get back.”
Still, she levels me with a scowl. “What about Raven?”
I shrug. “Don’t ask me.” Nico’s brother is always getting into trouble, the two of them like night and day. Nico going home means whatever Josh did was bad, and Nico’s going to rake him over the coals.
She curls her lip in annoyance. “Men are oblivious. I think she really liked him.”
“I’m not oblivious. I know for a fact you like me.”
Her eyes practically roll to the back of her head. “I can tolerate certain parts of your body.”
Personally, I’d like to tolerate a whole lot more of Shay. I’ve seen so little of her skin. We’re always so harried and frantic, it’s all we can do to get naked enough so I can push into her. Jesus, do I want to see her, though: laid out under me on a bed, her curls fanned over a pillow.
Aaaaaaand now I’ll have to ski with a hard-on.
But riling her up is too much fun. “Which parts, exactly?”
Her gaze drifts down my body, skirting the bulge in my ski pants. “You might have a hot ass.”
“You might have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
The hazel stunners in question widen, a burst of cold air curling from her lips. I’m not sure why I admitted that fact. I’m not sure why I don’t want to take the compliment back. There’s not much I understand about my feelings toward Shay.
Her uncharacteristic silence doesn’t last long. “I can’t accept compliments from men who watch infantile movies in which explosions outnumber scenes with dialogue.”
Back on the movies again. She overhears one conversation I have with the guys about our love of the Rambo series, and it’s like tossing a dog a steak. She won’t let it go. “There’s a reason movies like that do well. Blowing things up is cool.”
“For sixteen-year-olds, maybe. You seriously like that stuff?”
I push closer and lean into her space. “It’s all about the climax. The big detonation. Matter of fact, watching you ignite is up there with watching Rambo. I’d never lie about liking that.”
And she can’t lie about the flush of her cheeks and the smile she’s barely hiding. “If you want to watch real movies,” she says, “you should watch Before Sunrise. There’s a whole trilogy, and the movies are beautiful. Real and raw.”
“A.k.a. boring. Unless there’s sex in them?”
Avoiding my heated stare, she rolls her eyes again and dusts off her ski pants, swiping at the snow and bark lodged on her knee from our extracurricular activities.
I’ve had good sex before. Great sex. But I’ve never experienced the kind of desperation she inspires, the heat that drives our frenzied hands and mouths—raw and rough and spontaneous in the trees, the snow, or a bathroom. There’s a volatile pull between us, an elastic force that’s got me hooked.
In three days.
“Where to?” I ask, needing to get skiing before I do detonate in my pants. One light touch from her is all it would take. But now I’m envisioning her naked ass again, so I add, “Unless you want to skip the skiing and find another wooded area.”
I hold my breath, waiting for her to bite my head off. Instead, she winks at me. “I think you’re sporting enough wood for the whole forest.”
My dick twitches, always up for a challenge. She spins with a laugh and skis off.
I skate after her, pushing off on my new poles, working my legs to gain momentum.
I pick up speed until I’m a ski’s length behind her, matching her turn for turn, rising and falling in time.
I’m entranced, fixated on her effortless movements—up, down, up, down—like we’re dancing, together but apart.
As we near a precipice, the hill dropping into the unknown, she gathers speed, leaning forward to rocket off the edge. Her skis leave the snow. I mimic her moves, catching air. Time suspends—a beat where I flash back to the trees, her cries, and how good she felt.
Then I land. Hard. Wrong.
Random mounds dot the top of the slope before it narrows into an intense mogul run. Not what I expected. The tips of my skis crank into one of the bumps, sending me onto my side. Specifically, onto my shoulder. The one that pops out.
Shit.
My strangled cry explodes before I can stop it. No matter how many times I dislocate my shoulder—this makes four—the sharp pain always winds me.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. Tingling crawls up and down my right arm, now limp at my side. I imagine a gunshot wound would hurt less. Slowly, I swallow and open my eyes.
“Kolton!” Sounds of ski boots crunching on snow follow Shay’s frantic voice. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She falls to her knees beside me, goggles on her helmet, her long hair falling toward my chest. Her eyes, those green and brown and gold stunners, dart over my prone body.
“I’m fine,” I manage. “Just a dislocated shoulder. I’ve done it before.”
I should be embarrassed I fell—although it’s her fault for distracting me—but it’s all I can do to grit my teeth as I prepare for the agony that will follow. Every time I pop my shoulder back in, I nearly puke, and Nico calls me a pussy. Cold sweat builds at my temples.
She frowns. “Just a dislocated shoulder? Should I ski down to get help?”
I shake my head, my rounded helmet rolling over the hard-packed snow. “No. I can fix it. I just need your help.”
Determined, she nods. “At your service.” She removes my poles and clicks off my skis, then jams them upright into the snow behind us—a caution sign for any skiers coming down. She returns to my side, gloves off, her soft hands on my face. “What do you need?”
Gone are her snarky remarks and biting tone, genuine concern in their place.
Holding my arm to my side, I sit up, dreading the imminent jolt of pain. “You have to anchor me,” I say. “Hold my elbow and hand, then rotate my arm back and outward, then pull. If I can actually relax, the ball will pop into its socket.”
Lines crease her brow. “If?”
“Yeah, if. The fixing part is worse than the dislocating part. Feel free to call me a chick. Nico always does.”
She doesn’t. She leans into my ear and whispers, “First, that would be a compliment, you chauvinistic bastard. Second, you may have long hair, but nothing about you is feminine.” Then, more quietly, “We’ve got this.”
We. My heart rate spikes. For some reason I like the sound of that.
She removes my glove to grip my hand, then guides my arm into position. “Like this?”
I grunt my approval. Instead of closing my eyes, I focus on her face—the worry in her gaze, the fullness of her lips.
“Tell me when,” she says.
I suck a breath. “When.”
On an exhale, she rotates and tugs…and it pops back in.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
The pain is instant, like a nail hammered through bone. I clench my jaw and fall back onto the snow as the jolt eases into a throb. I stare at the cloudless sky, Colorado blue. My neck tingles the way it usually does, nausea building at the base of my throat.
Shay still has my hand in her grasp, and she lies down next to me.
“I had a dog when I was little,” she says. “Snoopy. He was a cute mutt with brown-black fur and a white belly. Looked nothing like the cartoon character, but he was a sweet guy and hated getting in trouble. If one of us raised our voice, he’d slink away, tail between his legs.”
My lungs swell and shrink more slowly as she talks, her voice a soothing balm.
She shifts closer. “So one time, we were all out, and he must’ve had a bad stomach.
Knowing we’d be mad if he had an accident in the house, he crawled into the bathtub and did his business in there.
Shat right in the thing. But he must’ve slipped on his way out or something, and he fell, you know, in it.
Then he proceeded to rub his fur on every surface of the house. ”
I chuckle, still focused on the cobalt blue sky, a wisp of cloud marring its expanse. “Is that supposed to make me less nauseous?”
I can’t see her face, but I sense her smile.
“Good point. Maybe that wasn’t the best story.
” But she goes on, “Snoopy was my best friend growing up, until I started racing and met actual humans I didn’t hate.
It’s weird, but that sport changed everything for me—belonging to a team, fitting in.
School wasn’t easy for me back then. Can’t imagine what I’d be like if my folks hadn’t pushed me into it. ”
I’m not sure why she’s opening up, sharing her past. To distract me? To connect? I don’t ask questions. This much information from Shay is rare.
“Kids can be mean,” I say. Whatever the reason for her childhood exile, I know how cruel kids are. How tough things are for Jackson. When you’re older, being different is often a badge of honor. When younger, when your skin has yet to thicken, it’s a curse.
My nausea dissipates, my shoulder good enough to get up and ski down, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to get Shay naked or yell at her, either. I just want to be with her.
The day is near its end, the snow cold and hard beneath us.
The few times we’ve talked about our shared heritage and tossed Irish jokes back and forth, she’s let her guard down, even laughing with me.
Never losing it but teasing me with her softer side.
Instantly, oddly, I wanted to be the one making her laugh so hard she’d snort.
Now I want to freeze time. And I’ve only known her three days.
“Bucket list,” I say to keep her from getting up. “What’s your dream ski trip?”