Dropping In (Snow-Crossed Lovers Book 1)

by Carrie Quest

  “Damn. I left my phone in my bag. Piper’s probably been trying to get me for ages.”

  “What the hell is your ringtone?”

  “It’s a duck quacking.” Her lips twist into an evil little smile. “It drives Chuckles insane.”

  “Bloodthirsty,” I say, shaking my finger at her.

  She pauses at the foot of the stairs. “Dog park at one o’clock tomorrow? I have to go get the professor’s signature to officially drop my class in the morning, but I’m free after that.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Then she’s gone. I hear her answer the phone and then her door clicks shut and I’m alone with Jason Bourne, Thor, and a fuckload of candy wrappers. And something else. A feeling I haven’t had since Adam got hurt: anticipation.

  “Big date for you tomorrow, buddy,” I whisper to Thor. He stares at me for a second, then lets out a huff of air and closes his eyes.

  I guess he’s not excited, but I can hardly fucking wait.

  9

  Natalie

  I climb the stairs to Monique Parker’s office slowly the next morning, taking deep gulps of my supersize coffee for strength. On my list of things I would rather not do, facing up to Professor Parker is somewhere between harvesting organic worm shit and repeating high school gym, but the impatient woman in the registrar’s office yesterday insisted that I need a signature from the professor if I want to drop this class with no financial penalty.

  So much for the comforting anonymity of the internet and the online drop process.

  Stupid “boutique” summer workshop courses.

  I left the house resigned to switching into the business course. I even stopped at the bookstore and looked at the books I would need. But I couldn’t make myself buy them. Instead, I flopped down next to the free coffee refill station at a nearby cafe and replayed the conversation with Ben from last night.

  He quit school with no guarantees that he would make it as a snowboarder. He hadn’t won a major competition, but he’d had enough positive feedback to give him faith in his potential and abilities. Could I make a similar leap?

  I thought about faith.

  I drank coffee.

  I wondered if one agent’s interest in my book was proof that I had the potential to succeed as a writer.

  I drank more coffee.

  I wondered if finishing one book meant that I had the ability to follow through and finish another.

  The caffeine buzzed through my bloodstream until I felt like I was levitating off my chair, but I kept drinking coffee.

  I begged a variety of deities to send me a sign.

  I googled “using supercomputers to make major life decisions” and found nothing.

  I looked for the bathroom.

  An hour later I realized a sign wasn’t coming. And even if I had a supercomputer, it couldn’t tell me whether I should pick up that business class or take a chance on writing. I guess there’s no magic formula for making decisions like this, and maybe there isn’t a right or wrong choice anyway.

  Maybe there’s only a best-I-can-figure-for-now choice, and it doesn’t come from an electrical device. It comes from your gut. My gut was currently sloshing with coffee and slightly queasy from the beer last night, but I still trust what it’s telling me.

  I toss my empty cup in the nearest trash can and scan the office doors until I find one with a whiteboard saying, “Monique Parker—Creative Writing” in swirly letters. Underneath her name it says "Embrace your fear!" next to a drawing of a tiger. The stripes are a little smudged, but whiteboard pens are a bitch of a medium.

  The door is slightly open, so I knock softly and call out, “Professor Parker?”

  I halfway hope she won’t be here, because I’m totally embarrassed about fleeing her classroom yesterday, and I don’t want to get the third degree about dropping this class. But her scratchy voice rings out, telling me to come in, so I push the door all the way open and obey.

  She’s got a tiny office and her huge wooden desk takes up most of the space. I have no idea how they even got that monstrosity in the room, because there’s no way it came in through the door. Maybe they built the walls around it.

  “Sit down, sit down,” she says, waving her hand at the single spindly chair in front of her desk. It’s piled high with folders stuffed full of papers, and several of them slither to the floor when I try to move the stack. Perfect.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Most of it’s hideous drivel anyway.”

  I raise my eyebrows because, yeah, she’s teaching an entry-level class, but that still seems kind of harsh.

  “Natalie, isn’t it?” Her green eyes narrow and she tilts her head. “My little escapee.”

  I try to force out a smile. I fail. Grimace is the only expression in my arsenal at the moment.

  Time to level up.

  “That’s me,” I say. “Sorry about that. It wasn’t personal. Just a bad day.”

  She stares at me for what seems like hours and I’m about to default into babble mode and tell her all about my sad history of flight, but she finally leans forward, puts her elbows on her desk, and speaks.

  “Yesli ya zhdal sovershenstva ya by nikogda ne napisat’ slovo.”

  Maybe she’s speaking in tongues.

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  She leans slowly back in her chair and it squeaks so loudly that both of us wince.

  “‘If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word,’” she says. “My favorite quote from Margaret Atwood. In Russian.”

  She’s looking at me like she’s just dropped some deep and meaningful advice that’s supposed to rock my world, and I can tell she’s expecting an equally deep and meaningful response but all I can come up with is: “Isn’t Margaret Atwood Canadian?”

  She shrugs. “Yes, of course. But everything sounds better in Russian. Thank god for Google translate. You ever meet a writer you want to fuck, try quoting something in Russian. Works like a charm, especially on the gloomy ones.”

  Ooookay. Time to wrap this up.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I say. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your signature to drop the class officially. Like I said, it’s nothing personal. I signed up for the wrong class and picture books really aren’t my interest so—”

  “They aren’t my interest either,” she interrupts me. “Neither is creative nonfiction, but I’m teaching that one as well. Writing is writing. Craft is craft. You could learn something from my class, Miss Berenson.”

  Oh, brothers and sisters of freaking mercy. What is this woman’s problem? Why does she even care?

  “I know there’s a waitlist for your class,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “I’d hate to take the chance away from someone who is really passionate about picture books.”

  She nods. “Very noble.”

  I smile and push the drop form across her desk. She looks down at it but doesn’t reach for her pen.

  “Very noble,” she repeats. “And also, very stupid.”

  I jerk back as if dodging a swing from her ring-encrusted hands. “What?”

  That’s it. I am officially over this morning. I feel like crap and now I’m being insulted by a woman who wears a black velvet cape and uses free translation sites to have sex with human Eeyores. There is a hard limit on the amount of shit I’m prepared to take before noon, and she just crossed it.

  I open my mouth to unleash snarky hell, but she interrupts me—again—with the one thing that’s sure to shut me up.

  “I remember your writing sample,” she says.

  My mouth snaps shut. Everyone who signed up for the class had to send in a piece of writing to give her a feel for our voice. I’d sent in the first two chapters of my book. Which, now that I realize everyone else probably sent a picture book, must have confused the ever-loving Knuffle Bunny out of her. No wonder it was memorable.

  “It was incandescent,” she says. “Really promising, Natalie. You’re very talented.”

  H
oly hell.

  She’s my sign.

  My own personal caped crusader.

  “This class might not be the perfect fit for you,” she continues. “But it will allow you to dedicate your summer to writing. I spent years in New York, and I’ve had some measure of success myself.” She points at the walls, which I now realize are decorated in framed certificates. The one closest to me names her the winner of a contest to get your play produced off-Broadway.

  “I have connections in the publishing world,” she says. “I could help you, Natalie.”

  And that’s when I burst into tears like the true super-dork I am, because I feel so lost. Yes, she might be able to help me, but it would only be a temporary reprieve because my parents will never accept a picture book class as part of our deal. The only picture book my mother even likes is Gray’s Anatomy.

  Getting an agent will go a long way toward smoothing over my lack of a stellar grade and a recommendation letter, but they will still be unbelievably pissed if I waste my time on a useless class. Plus, what about the writing time I need to work on the sequel? I won’t have any new projects to discuss with agents and editors if I spend the whole summer working on a picture book. I can’t even draw, for fuck’s sake, which limits my subject matter to stick figures and wonky chickens.

  Professor Parker must be used to her students breaking down in tears, because she pushes a box of tissues toward me and stares out the window at some hot guys playing Frisbee for a few minutes. When I’ve moved from floods to the occasional snuffle, she turns back to me and says, “Tell me about it.”

  So I do. I word-vomit like I’m coming off an alphabet brandy bender, and she takes in the story of my parents’ deal, my agent quest, and my business class panic without moving or speaking. She’s such a good listener that I actually consider asking her to weigh in on my Ben Easton lust problem, but manage to hold myself back.

  When I finally shut up, she closes her eyes and rubs her temples. I stuff a wad of damp and disgusting tissues into my bag and consider running away again. Possibly to Australia, where I could look up Shane or get a job washing sweaty rugby uniforms (or sweaty rugby players) and live in a van by a croc-infested river. Because I just well and truly made a dick of myself, and I really don’t want to see what she thinks of me when she finally opens her eyes.

  But I think about my book. The hours and hours of writing time. The way I feel alive when I sit down and start dreaming up new worlds. I want this.

  I want it badly enough to give up smokin’ hot shower sex with a snowboarding god. I can suffer through whatever lecture this woman can dish out.

  She can help me, so I keep my ass in the chair and try to ignore the tendrils of panic winding their way through my nervous system. I take a few calming breaths and concentrate on the Frisbee players out the window. Most of them aren’t wearing shirts, so the view’s not exactly soothing, but it certainly keeps my brain busy.

  When I glance back at Professor Parker, she’s twirling one of her sparkly rings around her thumb. She exhales loudly and clicks her tongue a few times, then smiles at me.

  “I can fix your problem,” she says, which are the exact words I have been dying to hear someone say for days. Maybe even years. Because adulting appears to be all about problems, and solutions are more elusive than frickin’ unicorns.

  “How?” I ask warily.

  “I’ll sign your drop paper,” she says. “I still maintain that the class would be useful, but ultimately it’s more important for you to have the writing time.”

  Shit. That’s exactly what I wanted when I walked through the door, and it does solve part of the problem, but I’d kind of been hoping for more. It gets me out of stick figures, though, so I’m not going to quibble.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

  She doesn’t make a move to sign the form, though. I guess the lecture is still imminent. Fan-freaking-tastic. I lean back in my rickety little chair and make myself as comfortable as possible. This could take awhile. Monique looks like a droner.

  “In addition,” she says. “I will act as your mentor.”

  I lean forward so fast the back legs of my chair leave the ground. “What?”

  “I’ll mentor you,” she says. “We’ll meet once a week to discuss your work and your progress. I’ve also got a writing group here in Boulder. You will attend our meetings twice a week, which will be fantastic for you as everyone else there has either been published or is on the way. You’ll learn loads and make some valuable connections.”

  “That would be amazing,” I say.

  “At the end of the summer, if you still need it, I’ll write a letter to your parents telling them you’re the next Cassandra Clare.”

  My heart is pounding and I’m having trouble looking her in the eye because she’s gazing at me with something I’m not used to seeing from authority figures: belief. This woman thinks I can do it. She believes in me so hard that she’s willing to let me meet her friends—who are real writers(!)—and give up her personal time to help me.

  Her personal time.

  That’s when the last of the coffee in my stomach goes sour. If she’s giving up her personal time, then she’s going to want something in return, probably money, and I can’t afford a private writing tutor.

  There’s a reason I haunt the free refill station in the cafe, and it ain’t the quality of the coffee. I have enough money to get through the summer, but an extra like this is sure to be out of my league.

  “How much do you charge?” I ask. Maybe if I sell my bike and one of my kidneys…

  “Nothing,” she says.

  I blink. Then again.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Someone helped me in a similar way once,” she says. “This is me paying it forward. You have real talent, Natalie. You deserve a chance. If my connections help you out in any way, then we can always discuss something more formal, but we’ll figure that out when we get there. Okay?”

  I nod. My brain went all squishy when she said the part about being talented and I barely heard the rest. I wonder if this is how my sister feels every time she talks to my parents about her future. Supported. Cushioned by their faith in her success. Safe.

  “Fabulous!” She stands and reaches for the black leather bomber jacket on the back of her chair. Maybe she only wears the cape to class to give off a Professor Snape vibe and keep her students in line. She signs my form with a flourish and hands it back to me.

  “Let’s go grab a coffee,” she says. “I’ll tell you all about the writing group. You’ll meet them all next Thursday at the Rio. Do you like margaritas?”

  I fold the paper carefully and slip it into my bag. “Who doesn’t?”

  She laughs. “Exactly. I’ll introduce you to my friend Eli. He’s been having a lot of success with his agent search. Multiple offers, last I heard. He’ll be able to give you some valuable tips.”

  I follow her out of the office and down the stairs in a daze. I started this day resigned to a lifetime of discussing gross national products, but now I’ve got a mentor and I’ll be meeting my new writing buddies for drinks next Thursday.

  I should keep my butt in the chair more often.

  10

  Ben

  Thor doesn’t merely get along with other dogs, he fucking loves them. He’s also a total maniac who does not even hesitate before launching himself into wrestling matches between snarling mutts four times his size. When they ignore him, he circles around the edges of the action, barking loudly and nipping at any legs or tails that happen to come his way. I’ve pulled him out of trouble at least ten times in the first five minutes, but he keeps going back for more.

  Nat warned me on the way over that dog parks can have a weird vibe, and she’s totally right. A group of people in matching jackets near an obstacle course are all sporting clipboards and stopwatches and freak out when Thor nabs one of their cones and takes off. A woman with frizzy red hair and a PETA sweatshirt is crawling around scooping u
p dog shit with a gardening trowel and dumping it into a bucket. She keeps throwing the rest of us salty looks, even though the stuff she’s picking up is so old it’s practically fossilized so there’s no way any of our pets are the shitters in question.

  “See those people over there?” Nat points to a man and woman looking shifty as hell who are disappearing into a clump of trees on one side of the park.

  “Yeah. What’s their story?”

  “They’re having a raging affair, apparently. They come here twice a day and get it on in the trees for half an hour, then go home to their respective spouses.”

  I whistle. “Damn. I guess their dogs aren’t the only ones getting some exercise.”

  “Nope.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  She looks toward a group of people with coffee cups standing around near the entrance. “I went over to ask them about obedience classes when you were trying to get Thor to give the cone back. Dog parks are hotbeds of illicit gossip.”

  “Weird vibe was an understatement,” I say, pointing at the PETA lady. “I don’t even think she’s here with a dog.”

  Nat shakes her head. “Nope. She doesn’t believe in the concept of owning animals. She does believe in using dog shit in her garden, though, so if she offers you a cucumber or something, say no.”

  “I never accept cucumbers from strangers,” I say seriously.

  And there’s that grin of hers. Her lips are already full and when she smiles, they plump out so they look even bigger. And softer. Damn.

  “Very wise,” she says. “Cucumbers can be a dangerous proposition.”

  I want to see her flash that smile again, so I’m desperately thinking up a cucumber joke that doesn’t involve a straight-up dildo reference when we’re interrupted by a guy in a polo shirt. He’s got a dog that looks around Thor’s size, and he’s carrying some kind of device that he keeps clicking at his puppy before offering it treats.