by Audrey Bell
And I want our date to be real, as much as I’m afraid of it being real.
We slip through the glass doors to the large event space. A stage with a simple podium and an elegant screen awaits, hundreds of finely-dressed people mill about, searching for their table numbers, and greeting one another. Hunter keeps his hand on my lower back, weaving to table 157.
“In the goddamn middle of the place,” he mutters.
“You’re so grumpy.”
He smiles. “I’m trying to get you out of the crowd.”
“I’m fine with crowds.”
“Okay, then I’m trying to get me out of the crowd,” he says. “Shit.”
“What?”
“My dad.”
“Aren’t we sitting with him?”
“Yeah, but I thought he’d want to mingle. Do you want to mingle? Let’s go back into the crowd. Mingle. Love crowds. Love ‘em.”
“Come on,” I say. “Just get it over with.”
He growls.
I roll my eyes and tug on his wrist. And then I see someone I know. I stop. “Wait.”
“What?”
“Doug Cannon is at our table.”
He gives me a quizzical look. “What? You’re not a fan, are you?”
“He’s a huge deal.” I laugh. “How could I not be a fan?”
“Well, let me introduce you.” Something unpleasant crosses his face and I grip his wrist tightly.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” I glance at him. “Is that your father?”
He hesitates. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have the same last name.”
“And?” There’s a hard look in his eyes, like he wants to get angry with me, or he wants me to get angry with him. He’s looking for a fight or expects one, and I don’t want to give it to him. He doesn’t have to tell me his story. I didn’t ask for it; I don’t have a right to it.
“Okay.” I nod gamely. I’m not going to freak out. He doesn’t owe me an explanation. I get that. Of all people in the world, I get that probably better than anyone. “Fine.”
“You’re a fan?”
“Of his skiing, Hunter. I don’t know him. If you say he’s a jerk, I’ll believe you,” I say. “I do believe you. Already.”
He nods. He exhales. He sounds relieved when he says, “Sorry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t have to tell me that. I didn’t tell you who my dad was.”
“Whose your dad?”
“Sam Baker.”
He waits. “Sorry, am I supposed to know that?”
“He’s an accountant.”
He laughs.
“Well-known in accounting circles in Boulder…”
We’ve been spotted. Doug gets to his feet, with a beautiful Asian woman who can’t be more than ten years older than me.
“11 o’clock,” I warn him.
He turns. “Hunter,” Doug’s baritone is gravelly and commanding.
“Doug,” Hunter replies. His father’s face twitches dangerously.
“Let’s try Dad. Or Mr. Cannon, if you’re feeling formal. And whose this lovely young lady?”
“This is Pippa,” he says. “Pippa Baker, this is Doug Cannon. Doug, Pippa.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cannon.”
“See, she has nice manners, you could learn something from her,” he says, with a frozen smile. “This is Stephanie.”
“Hey,” Hunter says, casually, shaking her hand.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” she says seductively to Hunter, squeezing his forearm tightly. Fake date or not, that’s not jut annoying, it’s creepy.
“Yeah, it’s nice to meet you too,” he says, smiling uncertainly and disentangling his arm. I can see him silently thanking the God or event planner that made the place settings putting us on the opposite side of the circular table from his father and Stephanie.
“So, who else is coming to this thing?” Stephanie asks.
“My agent’s coming,” Hunter says. “Few people from Oakley and Red Bull.” He shrugs. “I dunno…” Hunter’s list of sponsors is long and impressive. When I watched his X-Game performance on YouTube, there wasn’t an inch of his gear that didn’t sport a prominent logo.
“The snowboarding world is finally starting to get its act together,” Doug informs his girlfriend, like Hunter isn’t there. “It didn’t used to be like this.”
Stephanie nods. “Really?”
“I started Hunter out as a competitive skier,” Doug says. “Never had any idea he’d be able to make a living as a snowboarder.”
Hunter raises his eyebrows at his father. “Well, I suppose you were wrong.”
Doug ignores Hunter and continues talking to Stephanie. “There are still a lot of people who don’t consider snowboarding to be a sport.”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “Let’s not get into this tonight, Dad.”
Doug shrugs and finishes half his glass of wine in one, long sip. “Sure. Let’s talk about something else.” His eyes settle on me. “So, how did you two meet?”
“On a plane,” I say.
“Huh. Nice. And you’re just, what—along for the ride now?”
Hunter throws me an apologetic glance. “Dad.”
“No, I’m interested to know how this will go. What are you doing in Snowbird? Are you two living together already?”
“Ah, no,” I say, putting a hand on Hunter’s leg to prevent him from hopping out of his chair. “I’m training with Mike Ames.”
I can feel the tension in Hunter’s leg and I turn to look at him. It’s okay. I’ve got this, I try and tell him with my eyes. He seems to understand and relaxes.
He pauses. “Ames—oh.” He raises his eyebrows. “Ames. So, you’re a skier, then?”
I nod. “Yep.”
He seems to relax, and then he shrugs, in embarrassment. “Sorry. Hunter has dated some girls…”
“Who don’t ski? That must have been hard for you,” I smile artificially and glance at Hunter, who looks ready to explode. “I think I need a drink. You look like you could tell us where we can find a bar.”
“Oh, yeah, sure thing, sweetheart,” he says. He points towards the side of the room. “Drink up.”
I grab Hunter’s wrist to make sure he follows me.
“Jesus,” Hunter says. “I fucking cannot…”
I laugh.
“It’s not funny.”
I shrug. “No. It’s not. But you shouldn’t worry about it.
“He shouldn’t talk to you like that.”
“Yeah, you’re right. He shouldn’t. But that’s not your fault.”
I order another gin and tonic and order him a beer.
“There’s no way I’m getting through this dinner sober,” he mutters.
“That’s fine. We have a car picking us up.”
I take a sip of my drink and hand him his beer.
“Thanks.”
“Hunter Dawson,” a man’s deep voice calls out. Hunter pivots on his toe and I see Micah McKenzie and Sara Nance, both professional snowboarders who even I know about, sauntering over.
“What’s up?” Micah asks Hunter, giving him a warm hug. “Whose the lucky lady?”
“Pippa Baker,” Hunter says quickly. “This is Micah.
“Hey,” I offer a hand but he gives me a big hug that just reeks of marijuana. I fight a laugh and I look at Sara, who I used to be kind of obsessed with when I was thirteen and just getting into Burton equipment. She’s won dozens of medals—at the 2010 and 2008 Olympics and at X-Games events every year.
Sara kisses Hunter on the cheek and turns to me. “Hey, girl. What’s your name?”
“Pippa,” I say.
“I’m Sara. You snowboard?”
“She’s a skier,” Hunter answers for me.
“Nice,” Sara says, enthusiastically. “Do you compete?�
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“Yeah, Alpine,” I say. “I just got back into it.”
“Awesome. You guys are over at Snowbird, right?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“That’s sick. There’s great backcountry there.”
“Where?” Micah asks.
“Snowbird—remember?” she asks. “Hunter, were you with us when we went heli-skiing in snowbird?”
He nods. “Yeah.” He glances over at me. “Anyways, you two still up at Whistler?”
“We were just in Mexico,” Micah says.
“What’s in Mexico?”
“Our honeymoon.”
“Jesus, you guys got married?” he looks stunned.
“We eloped. Don’t worry. If there was going to be a wedding, you’d have definitely been on the list. You might have even been a groomsman,” Micah says.
Hunter still looks stunned. He shakes his head in disbelief. “Wow. That’s awesome. Guys, congrats.” He hugs Micah again.
“Thanks,” Micah says. “Finally made an honest woman out of her.”
“Oh, please,” Sara replies.
“Fuck,” Hunter shakes his head, amused. “I cannot believe that. But good for both of you.”
“Thanks,” Micah says. “So, when are you coming back to a real mountain?”
Hunter rolls his eyes. “I like Snowbird.” That’s the first I’ve heard him saying anything remotely positive of being in Utah.
“Pippa, have you skied Whistler?” Micah asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Great place to train,” Micah says. “You and Hunter should get back up there…”
Hunter shakes his head. “I’m not going to Whistler and Pippa’s definitely not going to Whistler.”
“Hey, Sara! Micah!” I turn to see a short, intense-looking man in his forties waving his hands at the couple, motioning for them to join him.
“Eh, my agent. Gotta say hi.”
“Good to see you two,” Hunter says.
“Wait,” Micah says. “Give me a call, alright, bud? It’s been too long.”
I watch them go.
“Back to the table?” I suggest.
“More drinks first,” Hunter replies. We loop back to the bar, pick up another round, and cross the crowded room to the table.
Everyone’s here now. The talking is so loud, that even if Doug wanted to say something douchey to Hunter, he wouldn’t be heard above the din. I meet Hunter’s agent, Harry, and Harry’s daughter, Kelly, an adorable five year old who demands Hunter autograph every damp cocktail napkin she’s collected.
“For my friends,” she says.
“Yes.”
“What are you friends named?”
“Kelly.”
“All of them.”
“Yes.”
Hunter grins and signs them each with a big heart and hands them back to her. She slides them into her Hello Kitty purse with a proud smirk on her face.
The speakers begin—honoring different athletes and businesspeople and volunteers for their work.
The MC keeps things light and moving and the waitresses keep bringing drinks. The jokes start making everyone laugher harder, and by the time the room is cheering loudly for the final award recipient, I’m a little drunk and Hunter seems pretty buzzed.
He grabs my shoulders. “Come on—let’s get out of here before I have to talk to my dad again.”
We weave through the crowd again, his hand tight against my back, stopping only at the coat check, before half-jogging out to the parking lot.
There are dozens of identical cars parked in a row to pick up the guests.
“Well,” he says, looking up and down and shrugging his shoulders. He laughs helplessly. “Any ideas?”
“Uh…I think it was an Escalade?”
He opens the first door.
“Hey…okay, wrong car. Sorry!” He closes the door quickly, biting his tongue and smiling. “Mm…you know what we should have made?”
I laugh at him.
“A plan. A plan would have been useful.”
He opens the next car door. “Hey—ah, no, wrong car.”
I laugh.
“You know, this is kind of humiliating. You could help me.”
“You could call the driver.”
“I thought of that, but I don’t know his phone number.”
I circle around the parking lot. There are half a dozen Escalades immediately in sight, and all of them have tinted front windows. Fortunately, one of the cars glides over and the driver rolls down his window.
“Mr. Dawson!” he shouts to us.
“Hey,” he says. “Look, I found him. Part of my plan.”
We pile into the car sloppily, both of us a bit too drunk for our own good. Hunter asks the driver to turn on the radio and as soon as he hears the first two beats, he rolls down his window: “I love this song! Hey, can you turn this up?”
It’s Florence +The Machine, Sweet Nothing. The cool air from Hunter’s window whips my hair out of place and the loudness of the music seems to beat within me.
I feel alive, vital, and pulsing. I’m sure some of it’s the alcohol, but I know some of its Hunter, too. Handsome, athletic, masculine Hunter and all of the little things about him. The smile on his lips, the way his head is nodding and how he’s got his hand out the window, like a little kid, feeling the rise and fall of the airwaves beneath his fingers.
The limo drops us off in front of the lodge.
“Hey,” he says seriously when the car pulls away, leaving us outside, in the quiet, cold, and snowy parking lot, a few yards from the lodge’s entrance.
“Hey,” I say back.
Without asking, he takes my hands in his wrists and pulls them back to rest on my own hips, underneath the heat of his fingers. He kisses me underneath the soft shadows of the building, deeply and sweetly.
I step back and take a breath. He kissed me.
His lips are the first to touch me since Danny’s. And they are like lightning on a clear day—not just electric, but out of nowhere, too.
And my breath and thoughts have been replaced by one constant: Hunter. I want to be kissed by Hunter forever.
He looks at me, curiously. “You taste like gin.”
“Shocking.” I smile.
“You okay?”
I nod.
He looks like he doesn’t believe me. “Not into it?”
“No, it’s just.” I breathe in. I put my hands on his shoulders and kiss him back. He doesn’t ask any questions this time, sliding his hands down my body and around my waist and pulling me tight to him. He lifts my chin with one hand, deepens his kiss.
“Your room? My room? The snowbank?” he asks breathlessly, breaking the kiss, his face still close to mine, our noses touching. He’s smiling. Really smiling. It’s a different look than his sarcastic smile and worlds away from that familiar, distant smile that’s so often on his face.
I laugh nervously and he shuffles us both out of the snow and indoors, where I step out of my heels, gratefully. We cross to the elevators. He hits the button for the eighth floor. We don’t speak in the elevator. We listen to the buzzing noise of the machinery. We feel something pulsing between us. We touch each other. His fingertips are lace in mine.
When the doors open, we move quickly, padding down the hallway to his room. He opens the door, and presses me to the wall as soon as the door clicks shut.
Hunter knows what he’s doing. He really knows what he’s doing. His hands quickly circle my waist, he holds my hands, with a knowing and teasing grin, and spins my body from the wall to the edge of the bed, sitting me down, pressing me back.
“I hope you know how to untie this thing,” he breathes, yanking at the bowtie gracelessly.
I laugh. I reach up and pull one end and watch it unfurl into my hand. He takes it out of my palm, letting his fingers linger on my fingers. He presses forward, against me, dropping the black silk tie to the floor and undoing the top button of his shirt. I reach up, my hands resting on top
of his and pushing them down to his side. He gives me a quizzical look, and then relaxes his arms, letting me undo the rest of the buttons. He shoulders out of the shirt, his golden skin rippling over lean, long muscles.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers. He lifts me slightly, moves me further on the bed, and runs a hand through my hair, tangling it in a gentle fist. He drops soft, warm kisses on my neck and collarbone.
“I’ve wanted to do this since that first day in the airport,” he confesses.
“Yeah? You have a thing for lost causes?”
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe I just have a thing for you.” He bites lightly at my neck, runs a hand up my leg, past my skirt, hooking his fingers around the waistband of my underwear.
I tense slightly as he eases them off. I can smell the beer on his breath and the room seems to be spinning. His body is warm over mine and when he kisses my neck again, his soft dark hair tickles my chin. I run a hand through its silky strands. It glows golden in the half-light. He looks up at me with those green eyes.
Something in me wants this to stop. Something in me wants to take this all the way. The pause, while he stares at me, solidifies it. This is too much.
My heart thumps. “Hunter.”
He laughs and kisses me collarbone. I start trying to sit up. “Hunter.”
“What?”
“This is a bad idea…”
He sighs, rolling over to the side. He puts his hands over his head, catching his breath. “Fuck.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s. We’re drunk. This is stupid. You’re right.” He sits up too, rumpled, shirtless, aroused, and absolutely stunning. “You’re absolutely right.”
My brain is a fucking idiot. Look at him.
“Sorry,” he offers, with a resigned shrug. He lies back on the bed with a groan and then jumps to his feet and walks into the kitchen. I can feel the energy pulsating off of him, the attraction, and the frustration. It goes through the wall. “Can I get you water or anything?” he shouts.
I find my underwear and discreetly slide them into my coat pocket. I don’t need them lying around.
I grab my heels from the doorway where I dropped them. “No,” I call back. “I’ll just…” My voice trails off when he appears in the doorway, a half-smile on his face, his head cocked.
