Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2)

by Tess Thompson

  For the hundredth time in the last month, the sight of him gave me pause. What was I doing here? Ciaran was a player. I knew this. At the end, when he’d grown bored, I’d be discarded for the next, and left to tears and ice cream. Don’t sleep with players. Every woman knows this rule passed down through the ages. But I had. It was too late. Despite my pedigree—smart, successful, fully independent, slightly snarky, a product of the work of Gloria Steinem and scholarships for poor girls and breaking the glass ceiling—I had succumbed at the first erotic touch of Ciaran Lanigan’s hand.

  All these facts aside, the dizziness of lust made it so I didn’t care. Not one iota, even knowing the ice cream and tears that were sure to come. I told myself to enjoy it without expectations of the future. It wasn’t as if I loved him. This was an affair, a lark, a vacation, if you will, in a life thus far focused almost entirely on work. A man like Ciaran comes along only once in a blue moon, I told myself. And what a blue moon he was.

  Regardless, the pages of the calendar kept turning, until soon it would be the day we said good-bye. It was for the best, I told myself. I had a life to go back to, a career to pursue. I was not a woman who wanted to marry or have children or any of the other impediments to a life of ambition and achievement. This time with Ciaran was a gift, nothing more, nothing less.

  He turned toward me. “Don’t worry. You got this.” His dark eyes held my gaze. Those eyes—the hue of which was elusive—had the ability to hold me transfixed for hours at a time. I’d contemplated the exact shade for more moments than I cared to admit and had decided they were the color of strong tea—not quite as dark as coffee, with flecks of gold like wayward tea leaves.

  “How did I let you talk me into this?” I asked.

  “Wasn’t it something about starting to have fun?”

  “I wish I’d never told you that.”

  “You need a bucket list, sweetheart. And if you had one, “learn to ski” should be on it.”

  “Why?” Ciaran and his bucket list.

  “Because it’s exhilarating. Nothing better than speeding down the slopes. You’ll see.”

  “I can assure you skiing is not better than multiple orgasms.” I had no idea that multiple orgasms actually existed until twenty-five days ago. Until Ciaran.

  I have a theory that almost every stupid choice made by a woman is because they were somehow influenced by sex. As women, we’re led to believe men are more deeply influenced by their carnal desires, but I’m doubtful of this divide between the genders. How many times have we heard the quote about how men think of sex every seven seconds as opposed to our more respectable number of once a day? Is it really only once a day? I’m not certain if that’s the true statistic, but let’s stick with it for argument’s sake, because I don’t care what measuring tool one uses, it’s impossible to quantify that in any accurate way.

  Irrespective of statistics, the man sitting next to me had rendered me utterly useless. I thought of nothing but him, of his hands on my skin, of the way he threw his head back when he laughed. His smile with his straight, white teeth lit up a room, and he made me feel small and girlish even though I’m tall and muscular. And the way he made me laugh—that more than anything. I hadn’t laughed much in my life, and it seemed I was making up for lost time every moment I spent with him.

  Stop thinking about all that, I thought, looking down at the snowy slope below us. You must focus on staying alive during this perilous feat you’re about to undertake. I calmed myself with the thought that surely beginners do not die on the slopes. It’s always the skilled skiers on the black runs you hear about. Actually, I wasn’t even sure that was true, because kids raised in poor households, like me, do not learn to ski. It’s the same with golf. I’ve wished many times I could get through a golf game without extreme embarrassment, as many business deals are made on the green between men in their undying, unspoken boys’ clubs. But poor kids don’t learn the pastimes of the rich. We learn to scramble and scratch, making our own games on the streets or, in my case, the woods of southern Oregon. We learn of the world between the pages of books, our imaginations widening without benefit of physical experience.

  No matter, I assured myself. Get through the morning, and afterward, Ciaran would take me back to his place to soak in the hot tub on his deck, snow falling softly while we sipped red wine.

  As if he read my thoughts, he grinned in that wolfish way that made all my limbs go numb. “Glad to oblige on both items, Miss Heywood.” Pausing to pull the tassel on top of my hat, he ran a gloved finger over my mouth. “You know what this means, though?”

  “What’s that?” It was ridiculous how I could just stare into those eyes all day long and not tire of it.

  “You’ll have to help fill one of mine.”

  I smirked. “You don’t have anything left on your list.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You’ve been all over the world. You know three languages. You’ve started a charity feeding hungry children in South America.” I could go on, including, how many women he’d seduced, but I kept that to myself.

  “It’s true. Adventure wise, I’ve done everything I’ve wanted.”

  “What’s left then?” I experienced a pang in my chest, knowing that whatever awaited him would be without me. I felt the cold suddenly, and shuddered.

  “I have one or two items left.” His lips twitched into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I’d grown accustomed to these bouts of sadness, had accepted that this otherwise clever and charming man was more complex than I could ever have imagined on the occasion of our first meeting. Without predictability, darkness came with a sudden force like a summer storm. This period of gloom never lasted long, usually only a minute or so, but made me feel fearful and unsure.

  “There are several things I want. I’m just not sure I can have them, or that I deserve them. Or, that there will be time.”

  “Ciaran, please don’t say that.” I was unable to think what to say next. He’d only spoken of it once, this feeling that came over him, claiming he’d never told anyone but me the cause of his dark bouts. As difficult as it was to fathom, Ciaran was certain someone was trying to kill him. He was equally certain they would succeed sooner than later. I dismissed his fears as paranoia, convincing myself that an otherwise well-balanced individual had this one small but troublesome quirk, one that influenced his every decision.

  “Someday I’ll tell you,” he said.

  “Fine.” I pretended to pout. I had turned into a woman who pretends to pout, which did nothing but make him laugh, and just like that the darkness lifted.

  We were almost to the top of the mountain. The people two chairs ahead of us departed, sliding effortlessly onto the packed snow, all the while talking to one another. I surely would not be able to speak, this I knew for certain, and was just hoping not to fall and get pulled under by the chair and subsequently crushed by the people behind me. Ciaran instructed me to slide forward on the seat and take hold of both my ski poles in preparation for departure. The chair advanced, up and up, until we were there, the snow just under us. He lifted the safety bar. It was time. My heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird. “I can’t do it,” I whispered.

  “You’re fine, just put your skis forward, stand up and lean forward. The snow and your skis will do the rest.” Just then my skis touched the ground and seemed to take over as if an invisible rope pulled me from the chair. Before I could quantify what had happened, I was gliding down the small slope toward a flat section, with Ciaran beside me. But wait, I didn’t know how to stop. How would I stop? Why hadn’t I thought to ask him this? I called out to him but he didn’t seem to hear me as he pushed into the snow with his poles and darted ahead. When he was several feet ahead of me, he made an abrupt turn with his skis, the snow splaying in the air like we were in a James Bond movie. Facing me, he held out his arms. “Just come to me, Bliss. I’ll catch you.
”

  As if I could stop, I thought, falling into him, my legs parting like blades of a scissor, in a half-split that I was positive damaged an internal organ. This was truly an awful sport. Ciaran tossed his poles onto the snow and put his hands under my arms, lifting me upright. My scissor blade legs were side by side once more. He grinned. “See, you did great. The chair wasn’t so hard, right?”

  “I think I hate you,” I mumbled.

  He laughed. “Well, at least you’re not indifferent to me. That’s the opposite of love, you know.”

  Ignoring him, I looked around. The top of the mountain was encased in fog so that I could barely make out a lodge-type building on our left and signs indicating various runs all around us. Falling snow caught in my lashes. I should have purchased waterproof mascara, I thought. I would be a mess in no time, if I weren’t already.

  After he instructed me to put on my goggles, he put his on and then picked up his poles. Using one as a pointer, he indicated the various ski runs, all marked with names and colors. “The runs are color-coded for difficulty. Green, blue and black.”

  Skiers, all looking fit and athletic, glided by us. How long until it felt as effortless as they made it appear?

  “We’re doing a green run, right?” I asked.

  His eyes sparkled at me as he grinned. “Of course. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll ski ahead of you about ten feet and then stop and wait. You’ll ski right into my arms. Like you just did.”

  “Is there any kissing involved during skiing?” I asked, stalling for time.

  “Lots and lots of kissing.” With that, he leaned down and put his mouth on mine and kissed me soft and slow. Why couldn’t the kissing portion of this sport be the main event?

  After the kiss ended, I gestured with my pole toward the bottom of the hill from whence we’d come. “I think I should’ve started with the bunny slope.” From what I had discerned while watching the little children with their skis angled like a piece of pizza, I was certain it was the place for me.

  “Come on now, you’re not the type of woman who’s scared of anything.”

  “The boardroom is different than an icy mountain with these things attached to my feet.”

  “You’ll conquer this mountain in one day.” He took off his right glove and unzipped my ski jacket, then pulled me close, inching his fingers under the elastic band of my pants, and spoke softly into my ear. “How about a kiss every time you reach me? And afterwards we’ll go back to my house and I’ll ravage you in front of the fireplace.”

  “I’m liking this sport more every minute.” Only Ciaran could say the word ravage without making it sound ridiculous. With a promise like that, I’d hurtle down a black run with no questions asked. This man played to win.

  As if he read my mind, he laughed as he zipped up my jacket. “You’re a good sport, Bliss Heywood, not to mention beautiful, intelligent, and sweet under that feisty attitude, which just makes you almost unbearably hot.” His voice softened. “I can’t remember having more fun with anyone. Ever.”

  “Oh, I know that’s a terrible lie,” I said, smiling up at him, but flushing with pleasure. Could I dare hope he might have feelings for me other than lust? “I bet you say that to all your unsuspecting conquests.”

  “Not lately.” Chuckling, he kissed me again before plunging his wicked, talented hand back into his glove. “I’ll see you in ten feet.” He waved with his pole as he started toward one of the green runs. I imitated what he did, moving my skis like skates, assisted by the poles, which wasn’t as hard as I thought it might be. It was the downhill part that had me worried.

  At the entrance to the run, we stopped, moving to the side so other skiers could go ahead. “Just do what I do, Bliss.” With his poles, he pushed off, heading in a straight line down the side of the run for ten or so feet and then stopped with that same delicious spray of snow as he turned toward me with his arms outstretched, the poles like skinny extensions.

  The falling snow blinded me no matter how I adjusted my ski goggles. My feet ached inside the rented boots. Sweat trickled down my back from the extreme effort it took to stay upright despite the chill of Bald Mountain. I yearned for the lodge and a hot toddy and my bare feet in Ciaran’s lap. Maybe he’d rub my feet and ankles and then move his fingers up my legs until he ran out of leg. I shuddered, thinking of his hands on my skin, and the way his face twisted with pleasure the night before as my hair fell into his face. Sex. This was exactly how I’d gotten myself into this mess.

  Yes, steamy, senseless sex all night will cause a brain to malfunction. For example, agreeing to ski when one does not know how to ski, I thought. But there was the fireplace waiting later and his muscular body and all the pleasures I could ask for. I pushed off.

  I met the flakes of snow as I headed faster and faster toward Ciaran. What had he said about stopping? Make my skis like a piece of pizza as the kids were doing. How did one do that? It was too late to figure it out because I was upon him, fast and without any control. His arms were outstretched, his mouth turned up in a smile. And then I was there, barreling into him. Surely I would knock him over. But no. He caught me, as promised, wobbling only a moment before setting me straight. “Well done.”

  I had done it. I’d skied. Only ten feet, but still, it was something. Jubilant, I squealed, and tossed my poles down before throwing my arms around his neck. “It was scary.”

  “It’ll get easier, I promise.” He leaned over to kiss me but our goggles knocked together. “Hang on, let me get these out of the way.” He put them on backwards as he’d done before. “That’s better.” Turning his head to the side to avoid my goggles, he kissed me.

  We carried on like that for a while longer, other skiers passing by us with a few good-natured shouts of “get a room” or “go for it, dude.” I didn’t care. I was happy just then. Happier than I think I’d ever been in my life.

  Finally, he started out again, without turning his goggles around. How could he see? Ten feet down, he stopped as before and held out his arms. He was as near to the side of the run as possible, I noticed, probably not wanting to disturb other skiers as we had my little lesson. Next to him there was a considerable drop. I really did not want to ski right off the side of the mountain. It was possible I could take us both down. Turn my skis inward to slow down, like a piece of pizza, I thought, for the second time. I could do that. No problem. If I could support my body weight on my arms in a yoga pose, surely I could this. I adjusted my goggles and took a deep breath. I turned to look at where I’d just come from, comparing steepness and stalling for time. Just then, a man, dressed in all black, and skiing without poles, shot out from the top of the run. In seconds he whisked by me, so fast and close I felt wind from his movement. I hesitated. I would let him get past Ciaran before I started out again. During that thought, the man curved slightly and pointed his skis right at Ciaran. Then, he was upon Ciaran. He reached out his arms and pushed on Ciaran’s chest with both hands. With great force, I thought later, given how steady he’d been when I ran into him. Ciaran’s skis slipped out from under him and he lifted in the air for a moment before disappearing over the side of the cliff. Before I knew what had happened, the man turned and sped down the mountain.

  Screaming Ciaran’s name, I forgot my fear and skied toward the spot where he had been pushed. I fell on purpose at the spot where he had waited for me and unhooked my skis from my boots. On hands and knees, sinking into the soft snow banks at the side of the run, I crawled toward the edge of the cliff. My heart pumped between my ears; a metallic taste filled my mouth. What would I find below? Please, be there, I prayed silently. As I reached the drop, I slid onto my belly and hung my head over the side. He was there, in a ravine about twenty feet below, his body crumpled into a semicircle, with skis splayed in opposite directions, one leg bent back unnaturally into the shape of a V. His arms covered his face, as if trying to protect himself. No visible movemen
t. I could not discern if he was breathing or not. I sat up and started screaming, waving my arms. A skier stopped, pulling off his goggles and face mask. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “My friend’s hurt,” I screamed. “He’s down below.” I pointed toward Ciaran.

  “Oh, crap. Okay.”

  “He was pushed off the side. He’s not moving.” Had I seen what I thought? Had the man pushed him? As it is when you see something shocking, I began to question what I’d actually seen. Had my eyes deceived me? My vision blurred from tears, I closed my eyes, seeing once again the man zooming down the mountain. He’d not only run into him but had pushed into Ciaran’s chest with his hands. No doubt. It was a deliberate push.

  I’ve always thought I’d die young, he said to me, just weeks before. Someone’s trying to kill me.

  “I’ll ski down as fast as I can and get help,” the other skier said to me.

  “I’ll stay right here,” I said, more to myself than him, as he was already speeding down the hill.

  I went back to my belly position, calling Ciaran’s name over and over, hoping my voice might rouse him. But he was still and crumpled. I started to cry, the fear for his fate as cold and hollow as the ravine below. “Please, don’t leave me, Ciaran,” I whispered.

  It was then I knew. I loved this man. My efforts of resistance and denial were fruitless against the truth. I had fallen in love with Ciaran Lanigan.

  Chapter 27

  THE DETAILS OF THE EVENTS that followed Ciaran’s fall are blurry. I know I remained at the side of the mountain watching Ciaran’s still body, but I have no recollection of how long—perhaps fifteen minutes, perhaps longer. But eventually the ski patrol came, along with the stranger who had gone for them. I was nearly incoherent, crying uncontrollably and shaking so that my legs felt they might not hold me upright, not to mention the cumbersome ski boots, all of which reduced me to a helpless state.