Chapter 11
SHAY
Kolton shifts closer when he asks the question, and the snow beneath my hips suddenly doesn’t feel so cold. “Chile,” I say. “Something about skiing above the tree line in the Andes appeals to me. The old-school lifts. None of the flash and money you see in places like this. It would be awesome.”
“Tell me you’re fucking around.”
I make to sit up, but he puts a hand on my arm, like he wants me here, beside him. I settle against his shoulder. “No, I’m not fucking around. Why?”
“Because that’s mine. Chile.”
I roll my eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that line? Do other women fall for that level of Velveeta?”
“I’m serious. I’ve always wanted to go to Chile. Portillo, actually. Have you seen pictures of that yellow hotel on the slopes with the outdoor pool right in the mountains?”
I nod, even though he’s focused on the deep blue sky. “Yeah. Skiers do jumps into it in the spring. Great resort for big mountain skiing.”
“The best. And crazy steep. Lots of backcountry terrain, too.”
I sigh. “One day.” When I’m not scratching by financially. But I find myself picturing Kolton and me floating through two feet of powder, the dramatic Andes at our backs. Kolton and me in the pool, my legs wrapped around his waist. Kolton and me.
The tips of my fingers are cold, but my palm is warm against his, and his thumb traces lazy circles on my hand. It reminds me of my mother writing letters on my back to soothe me when I was sick.
I unlace my fingers from Kolton’s hand and write on his palm.
A-S-S-H-O-L-E
He smiles, a dimple sinking into his cheek. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
I smile, too. My whole face, my body, feeling warmer than it should on the snow.
“As a kid, I used to play this game with my mom. She’d spell words, and I’d have to guess what she wrote.
Usually when I was sick, but I loved it.
Loved her hands tracing along my back. It was the best part about having a fever. That and missing school.”
He takes my hand then, his cool fingertip gliding over my palm, my skin still damp and tepid from pressing against his.
B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L
Heat shoots through me, like I’m a Canada Day sparkler, colored flames burning bright. The sensation concentrates below my ribs, as if trying to expand. Not wanting to lose this feeling, I take control. I feather my index finger across the expanse of his upturned palm.
Me: S-E-X-Y
Him: F-I-E-R-C-E
Me: U-N-E-X-P-E-C-T-E-D
Him: F-A-S-C-I-N-A-T-E-D
I want to write all over him now, on his powerful forearms, his muscular thighs, the breadth of his chest. Is his heart beating as fast as mine? Has he turned into a sparkler, too?
He laces our fingers, unzips his jacket, and presses my hand against his breastbone. To warm our hands? To answer my unasked question?
Yes, yes, yes comes his reply, his heart’s own Morse code.
For right now, nothing matters. Not work. Not my messy breakup. Not my dwindling bank account. All that exists is the steady rhythm of Kolton’s heart, the racing of mine.
A tree groans, one of the tall white-barked Aspen trees lining the run, breaking my reverie. Reality sets in. “We should probably get going. Find you some pain meds at a pharmacy. And if you’re nice, I’ll even buy you some PEZ.”
“Why would I want gross candy?”
“First, it’s not gross. Second, my brother used to buy it for me when I was upset. Always made me feel better.”
I don’t mention this was when I stuttered and would come home after being trailed by Sue Anne Hinkley at lunch, her Sh-Sh-Shay parroted for all to hear.
On those horrible days, my brother would give me a new PEZ dispenser and list every famous person who stuttered: Winston Churchill, Nicole Kidman, Lewis Carroll.
James Earl Jones’s smooth baritone once clip-clip-clopped like a lame horse.
He told me it was a sign of intelligence. He said it meant I’d do great things.
Kolton doesn’t reply to my PEZ offer, but I feel him breathe deeper. Neither of us moves to leave. We lie on our backs, wet snow seeping through our jackets, my hand against his chest.
“Shay,” he whispers.
“Umhmm.”
“This is nice, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I say before I can catch myself. Too nice.
Tender Kolton is a beast I’m ill-equipped to handle so soon after the Breakup of the Century.
One month on my own after five years with Richard is hardly time to heal.
I don’t know why I told Kolton about part of my unenjoyable youth, why I let him in just now.
Something about his vulnerability, lying here in pain, has me itching to heal him.
But this intimacy is suddenly too intimate.
Too much, too soon. I pull my hand from his.
“Do I need to find one of those toboggans to drag your ass down?” I ask him.
He sits up and rubs his shoulder. “I’m good. In fact, I could still smoke you in a race.”
I sit up, too, and glance his way. His profile hasn’t changed: strong jaw, the generous curve of his lips, the crease at the corner of his eye. Visually, he’s as sexy as ever, but instead of unzipping his fly, I want to curl into his arms. Instead of yelling at him, I want to kiss his cheek.
Instead of doing any of that, I nudge his boot with mine. “How about a wager?”
Those chocolate eyes of his shine, his focus on me now, his perusal drifting lower. And lower. Okay, maybe I still want to unzip his fly.
“What’s up for grabs?” he asks.
I lean so we’re nearly nose to nose, our helmets touching. “If you get to the bottom first, I’m yours for the last day and a half of this trip. If not, them’s the breaks.”
It’s a race I’m happy to lose. I may not be ready to pursue emotional intimacy, but no way am I giving up the best sex I’ve ever had for the remainder of this trip.
In three days, he’s become my conductor, my body his symphony.
He knows which strokes make me sing, the chords that push me over the edge.
He narrows his gaze, and I raise my eyebrows.
“Deal.” Grinning, he jumps to his feet, still babying his arm. “Hope you don’t mind a little snow in your face as you eat my dust.”
“Like you have a shot. But since you’re injured, I’ll give you a head start.”
He balks at me. “Not on your life.”
We race to our gear, him all awkward with his arm, me struggling to get my equipment straight. There’s a chance I knock my skis over on purpose. A slight possibility I struggle more than necessary with my bindings. I maybe hold back some power when easing into my turns.
I totally let the guy win.