Melted and Whipped

by Cleo Pietsche

  Unfortunately, it took several months to convince Mike we were over, but in that time Porter started dating someone else. Someone from his own social circle.

  Jill was beautiful, and she was also very nice. I, like the rest of the student body, envied them both from afar.

  By the end of freshman year, Porter and I rarely saw each other. I started out pre-med and changed to history. During the winter months, I was busy with the ski team. Porter went hardcore with the econ courses and internships. Yet senior spring found us both taking an art appreciation class, fulfilling an elective.

  I sat across from him in the smallish oval auditorium. Whenever the professor showed slides of paintings of bare-breasted women or naked heroes, I thought about Porter and blushed. What kind of women did he like? What did his body look like undressed? Other students changed seats every day, but I didn’t, not when my spot at the end of the row meant a chance to surreptitiously watch Porter. Every so often he’d catch me looking, and a slow, soft smile would spread across his full lips.

  I wanted him so bad it hurt.

  In those instances, I remembered the first few weeks, when we’d taken long walks together and talked about everything and anything. Rumor said he wasn’t dating anyone seriously, and I spent an eternity agonizing over what to do.

  Finally one day I had the perfect angle. I marched up to him at lunch as he was returning his tray to tell him The Riotous Marmots were back in town, and did he want to go?

  Even now I can smell the pizza dough in the cafeteria, can hear the roar of students. Porter’s expression went a little rigid, and I knew he was going to turn me down. I would have run, but I was frozen in place.

  His exact words were, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Emily.

  What could I do? I said something, but I don’t remember what. He might have said something. In the end, I slunk away in shame, vowing to avoid him from then on. Other than that one class, I almost never saw him. It should have been easy.

  Fast forward to the week before finals. I was out with friends, watching a movie. Sitting in the cramped seats was killing my knee, so I slipped out early. There was a shortcut through an alley that would save me some limping.

  The alley was occupied by Porter and a gorgeous brunette I didn’t know. He was half standing, half leaning against a wall, the girl bent over his lap, her dress up over her hips. You’ve been naughty, he said, his voice deep and commanding. She was wearing a red thong—I’ll never forget the shade because it matched her reddened ass.

  He’d clearly been spanking her.

  I stood there, stunned, and Porter looked up. I was in the shadows. Did he know who it was? I didn’t stick around to find out.

  He never said anything to me, and I didn’t say anything to him. Maybe, if we’d come from similar backgrounds, I would have promised him that his kinky secret was safe with me, but it wasn’t like we had friends in common. By then he was part of the group heading for Wall Street, private planes—

  “Are you watching?” Scooter asks, jarring me from the painful memories. We’re staring down a hill of moguls that is blessedly empty. The bumps are just the right size for Scooter and evenly spaced. It won’t take him long to find his rhythm.

  Unfortunately for me, moguls are a surefire way to aggravate my knee problems. However, there’s a smooth path to the right specifically for instructors. “Let me go halfway down,” I say. “Stop when you reach me. Have you skied moguls before?”

  “Of course. Pick my line. Precise turns. Plant my skis with deliberation,” he recites. “They’re fun.”

  Yeah, I used to think they were fun, too. “Think pivot, not turn.”

  He’s nodding enthusiastically.

  “Halfway down,” I remind him.

  He gives me a thumbs-up, and I wonder at the change in attitude. It’s almost like he was hoping I’d get the upper hand so that he’d be forced to stop acting like a snot. I find myself wondering again what his home life is like. I’ve dealt with enough spoiled rich kids to know that they’re not all misunderstood or emotionally neglected. Some are little psychopaths-in-training, destined to run one day for political office or head up evil corporations.

  But something tells me Scooter has a good heart. Underneath the armor, he’s anxious to please.

  I nod for him to begin his descent, and as I watch him, I can almost feel the wind in my face, the adrenaline pounding through my own veins. It takes him a moment to find his rhythm, but when he does…

  His balance is impeccable. The skis are an extension of himself. He drops into the zone the way most people breathe.

  “Keep going,” I say. Of course he can’t hear me, so I use both arms to wave him past.

  The kid really is talented, and I’m sure he knows that. Probably every instructor he’s ever had has told him he could compete professionally. For all I know, he attends a ski academy and has been winning races since he was four.

  Chapter Three

  Working with someone of Scooter’s skill level is a pleasure, and the afternoon passes in a flash. Most of the crowd has vanished, likely to squeeze in some last minute holiday shopping or to start drinking.

  “Thank you,” Scooter says at the bottom of the mountain. Instead of running off, he waits for me to get out of my skis.

  “You’re welcome,” I tell him. “You upheld your end of the deal, so I’ll uphold mine.”

  His windburned cheeks redden slightly, and he looks away in embarrassment. Suddenly I want to give him a hug, but of course that’s not allowed, so instead I squeeze his shoulder.

  “If you ever come back to our resort”—I manage not to call it “our crappy little resort” like I would if I were teasing an adult—“don’t hesitate to ask for me.”

  His face breaks into a wide grin, and suddenly I know why he’s familiar.

  He must be Porter’s son. Has to be. I don’t know why it took so long for me to see it, but the resemblance is unmistakable.

  Sadness turns my limbs heavy. I hadn’t heard that Porter was married, but it’s not surprising that he is. Attractive, rich men don’t have problems finding girlfriends. In college, Porter dated his first girlfriend for over two years—proof that he never had problems with committing.

  I wonder what his wife is like. Beautiful, intelligent, accomplished. I’d bet money on it. Not that I have any.

  Then I wonder what his life is like, how things are with Scooter, but of course it’s none of my business.

  “I already know I’ll be back. I’m going to work on how long I can ski on one leg.” Scooter launches into a detailed comparison of all the places he’s skied. It’s hard to believe he’s the same kid who was shutting me down with one-word answers all morning.

  As we enter the main lodge, I find myself walking more and more slowly under the guise of avoiding the people seated on benches, taking off their boots. I stop to allow a small group to enter one of the lodge’s many shops. I don’t know what would be worse: if Porter comes to get his son, or if Scooter’s mom shows up. Already I hate her, and I’m disgusted with myself for being jealous of someone who is likely a very nice person.

  She’s in Connecticut, I remember. My brain is fried, thanks to Porter.

  When I see the broad-shouldered figured dressed in black, I want to cry. It’s just nostalgia for my college days, I tell myself. Nothing to do with Porter.

  He turns toward us. His hat is off, and his jacket is unzipped, revealing a T-shirt underneath. I have to approve of a man who doesn’t need high-tech layers to hit the slopes.

  A smile lights his face when he sees Scooter.

  Somehow, Porter has gotten even more attractive over the years. He wears his dark hair shorter than in college, but the conservative style suits him.

  Then he sees me. His brow creases lightly before smoothing out.

  He’s figured it out. While he’s been doing whatever it is that people do on Wall Street, I’ve been giving ski lessons for sixty bucks a day. Of course he can’t know tha
t’s my small cut of the resort’s price tag.

  Normally I don’t feel inferior because of my job, but right now it’s hard not to wonder how often parents use me as a cautionary tale. Study harder or you’ll end up like that twenty-nine-year-old ski instructor. There’s no shame in an honest day’s work, I remind myself.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Porter says as he walks up. “Did you have fun?”

  “I don’t want to go home tomorrow,” Scooter says.

  “If you don’t go home, your sister will get all your presents.” Porter clears his throat and holds out his hand. “This is for you, if you were his instructor.”

  Awkwardly, I take the bills and blindly shove them into my pocket. “Thank you very much.” I’ve said the words hundreds of times, and they roll easily off my tongue.

  Porter reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a set of car keys. “Catch.” He tosses them at Scooter.

  “I can do it on my own?” Scooter asks, excited.

  “Try not to scratch up the paint or smash out the windows. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Scooter heads off, then doubles back, nearly banging his skis into one of the benches. “Happy merry, and many returns,” he says to me. He trots away, the keys jangling.

  Porter watches him go, expression amused. “Something tells me I’m going to regret doing that. He’s likely to take it for a joyride. It’ll be on the six o’clock news—just wait.”

  “He’s a nice kid,” I say. “You must be proud.”

  Turning to me, Porter tilts his head slightly. “I am. I wish I got to see him more often. He could use some stability in his life.”

  “You’re divorced,” I say almost happily, ashamed of myself but too relieved to care.

  “I’ve never been married.” Porter studies me, the edges of his lips turning upward. He stops just short of that dazzling smile. “Scooter is my brother’s kid. He’s eleven but looks younger, so you’re not the first to make that mistake.”

  My eyes go wide. Of course. I knew Scooter’s age. I’m an idiot; it’s like being near Porter has scrambled my brain.

  “His parents sent him out here for a week because his mother’s not well. Scooter isn’t fooled, though. He knows that whenever he gets shipped somewhere else for a week, she has surgery scheduled.”

  Instantly I think of my sister. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Will she be okay?”

  He nods. “She came through it fine, and hopefully this is the last one.” Porter clearly doesn’t want to talk about it because he thrusts his hands into his pockets and looks around. “How long have you worked here?”

  “Four years,” I say. Abandoning my pledge to not feel inferior because of my job, I add, “I spent a few years working in an office. HR department. But I was miserable. I do miss my family like crazy, but coming out here’s the best decision I ever made.” My grin feels forced, like I’m trying to convince myself that it’s true.

  Porter barks out a laugh. “You reached that conclusion after a few short years? It took me this long to realize how unhappy I was. But then you always were smarter than me.”

  It’s just a throwaway compliment, but I feel my cheeks and the tips of my ears heating.

  He turns his gorgeous eyes my way. “Are the slopes open tomorrow?”

  “Full day tomorrow, and only in the afternoon on Christmas,” I say. Already I’m doing the math, wondering what the chances are of seeing Porter if I show up for some recreational skiing. I’d love to sip hot cocoa with him in front of a fireplace and catch up. It’s probably the last thing he’d want to do. It’s not like I’ve become more appealing since graduation.

  “So you have to work?” he asks.

  “Just tomorrow morning. Seniority has its privileges.”

  “Will you have any free time after? I’d like to talk about Scooter’s abilities. His father asked me to evaluate him, but I’d like to get your take.” He shakes his head. “You’re probably busy.”

  “Not busy,” I tell him. My heart is pounding, and the silence between us is begging to be filled. “All of my friends have gone home for the holidays. I was planning to heat up leftovers and binge-watch my way through my movie queue.”

  One of Porter’s eyebrows ticks up. He’s probably thinking I’m pathetic. Then I realize he wasn’t even asking about dinner; we could easily discuss Scooter over coffee. It’s like my brain stops working when Porter looks at me. I don’t know why; it wasn’t like that when we first met.

  The answer hits me hard. Throughout college I had a boyfriend, and he had a girlfriend.

  It’s not just that.

  The image of him punishing that girl in the red thong… I want him. I want to know what it feels like to be bent over his knee. I want to find out what I was missing all those years ago, and I’m willing to bet he’s even better now.

  My body heats, and I struggle not to lick my suddenly dry lips.

  Porter’s not offering anything along the lines of what I’m thinking. For all I know, he’s got a girlfriend.

  “Then it’s settled,” he says. “Come to my house. I’ll make dinner—no leftovers.” He touches my arm. “If you have something else to do, I understand. I only want to talk about Scooter. Your boyfriend won’t have anything to fear; I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

  He says it like it’d be easy.

  And I realize… All those years ago, he didn’t turn me down because he was dating the brunette. He’d simply lost interest in me.

  Somehow, I manage a smile. “Let me know when and where.”

  Chapter Four

  The address Porter gave me is in the area known as “billionaire row.” It’s not a row but an entire section of the mountain, peaceful and secluded, with the mansions hidden by thick forest. It’s not a neighborhood I’m familiar with, and if not for GPS, I’d get lost on the twisting, winding roads.

  There’s a gate at the bottom of a hill, but other than two stone columns, there’s no fence. Of course, one would need a pair of good snowshoes to make it through the deep snowdrifts around the dense evergreen trees.

  I drive up for what feels like ten minutes, and I swear my ears pop. Then I come around a gentle turn, and the whole of the valley is spread out before me. The gorgeous glass and wood mansion, which would normally leave me drooling, can’t compare to the spectacular view, the deep greens of the trees and a sky so vast and blue it feels like water, like I could float up. The air smells faintly of wood smoke.

  Porter appears. He’s wearing dark pants and a navy blue sweater. He motions for me to park in what looks like a lean-to for cars, in the space beside a pearl-white luxury SUV.

  He’s opening my door almost as soon as I’ve turned off the car.

  “Thanks,” I say, leaning over to retrieve my purse from the floor.

  “Did you have any difficulty getting here?”

  “Nope.” I get out, my fingers smoothing my loose black skirt, and he closes the door for me. “How did you time it so well?”

  “The security system lets me know when someone is approaching the gate.”

  Silence falls, and I begin to feel uncomfortable, like we’re not going to have anything to talk about. Then I remind myself that I’m here to discuss Scooter, nothing else. At least there’s plenty I can say on that subject.

  The walkway connecting the lean-to and the mansion is covered, and I realize Porter could leave his mansion, get in the car, and drive into town all without being sullied by a single fleck of snow.

  Actually, I’m a bit jealous. When I leave my place, I have to navigate ice and piled-up snow, and my car is always surrounded by dirty slush.

  The front door, which is more heavy glass than wood, is slightly ajar.

  “So you know, I’m still in the process of making it my own,” he says as we enter. “May I take your coat?”

  He helps me out of it. Porter is a perfect gentleman, exactly as he promised. It’s what I expected, but I can’t help but feel disappointed.

  He m
otions for me to go ahead of him, and we walk down a wide hallway that opens into an elaborate kitchen. There are several stoves, an actual stone hearth, three sinks… I lose track of it all.

  “The previous owners ran a catering company,” Porter explains. “Unfortunately, all this is wasted on me. I’ve got a few standby recipes to impress my dates, but I don’t even know how to use half of the things in here. Do you like red wine?”

  “I do,” I say too quickly. Geez, I sound desperate. I search for something to fill the silence. “I’m surprised they didn’t take it all with them.”

  He places two wine glasses on the counter of the enormous marble island, and I attempt to be graceful as I climb onto one of the padded stools, which is heavy, with generous back support and two rings for footrests.

  “They retired to Arizona,” he says. He pulls a simple corkscrew from a drawer and deftly opens a Bordeaux. He pours a little into one of the glasses and slides it toward me. “Tell me what you think.”

  “I don’t know much about wine,” I confess, smoothing my skirt and adjusting my blouse. It’s the only nice outfit I own, but at least I feel sexy in it.

  “All you have to know is whether you like it or not. I’ve got about twenty bottles here, and if this one is no good, I’ll open another. And another.”

  I grin and pick up the glass. To my relief, Porter turns toward one of the refrigerators, leaving me to imitate a wine connoisseur in peace.

  It smells… thick, like the aroma is somehow stronger than most wines. That’s the best way I can describe it. I take a small sip, letting the dark red liquid coat my tongue for a brief moment before swallowing.

  “It’s lovely,” I say.

  Porter sets a plate of assorted cheeses on the counter. “Are you just saying that, or do you actually like it?” As he speaks, he splashes some wine into his glass. He swirls it, looks at it, smells it, tastes it.

  He’s done this a million times before, clearly. To me the ritual always seemed quaint, and that’s if I’m being generous. Porter makes it sensual, sexy.