Crazy Over You (Love with Altitude #2)

by Daisy Prescott

  Mara

  I FORCE MYSELF to inhale a deep, steadying breath.

  Closing my eyes, I attempt to picture my happy place.

  My mind wanders to the mountains. Majestic, snow-covered jagged peaks.

  Bad idea. Instead of relaxing, I begin hyperventilating again.

  I need a new happy place.

  With my eyes closed, I swear someone or something big is standing on my chest.

  I listen for the sounds of heavy breathing from a bear. This would explain my inability to breathe. While I’ve been stuck lying on a mogul, the icy cold seeping through my ski pants, a bear has stealthily climbed on top of me.

  Honestly, I’ve always imagined bears, especially wild bears, would be smellier.

  I can’t even be Goldilocks in my own twisted version of the Three Bears. Figures.

  With a shudder, I manage to suck enough air into my lungs to expand them, bringing oxygen to my blood and eventually to my brain. Feeling about forty percent less likely to pass out, I open my eyes.

  There’s no bear.

  Only a steep precipice of death stretching below me.

  Naming something so horrible after fancy jewelry is a terrible abuse of language. A big, fat lie set up to deceive. Double-black diamond sounds like a pair of lovely stud earrings.

  Not a white, icy maw of death.

  Foolishly, I stare beyond my boot-bound feet still strapped to my skis. Below me is a snow-covered right angle lined with fearless evergreens. There’s nothing sloping about it.

  I’ve survived the part of the run between basalt cliff and certain death. How silly of me to have been lured into false confidence of my survival by a lovely wooden bench perched at the edge of sanity, overlooking the snowcapped beauty of Mt. Daily sparkling in the sunshine like a postcard.

  There wouldn’t be a charming park bench if this run were a dangerous threat to both life and limb. A place to sit typically implies safety and comfort, places where grandmothers and small children gather. Or old men playing chess.

  Although, sometimes lonely people go to parks to contemplate their lives and replay all the bad decisions they’ve made.

  In that case, the bench is perfectly situated.

  If this were a movie, I could rewind and keep myself from skiing past the salvation of a bench. I could avoid making yet another rash decision.

  Let’s keep rewinding the video until I’m packing up a U-haul and saying good-bye to Boston. Kissing my sweet, boring boyfriend, Geoffrey, one final time while ignoring his hints about visiting me in Colorado.

  Hell, speed things up and erase him entirely. Eager, average, and missionary-position-sex-followed-by-spooning Geoffrey who nearly passed out when I told him about my first time neutering a cat. Bless him and his love for optometry.

  “Eyes are the windows to the soul,” he used to say. “So that makes me a soul doctor.”

  No, Geoffrey, no, it doesn’t.

  Is this the part where my life flashes before my eyes?

  I need something less depressing to think about.

  The sheer drop-off comes to mind.

  As do broken limbs, bruised ribs, cracked skull, loss of dignity, and tears, so many tears.

  And avalanches. Giant walls of life-crushing snow racing down the mountain. Because death is what happens in the wilds of nature.

  It’s a long list of awful things.

  Straight ahead of me, across a plunging valley, is a lovely view of a rust-colored hill. A thin black road winds along the bottom. The cold wind howls in the canyon and whistles through the bare branches of aspens hugging the hills. On my right is a grove of pine trees and deep snow. I think about scooting over to them, burrowing into the well at the base of a trunk and hibernating until I can walk down the mountain in the spring mud.

  Downside is this plan would require movement.

  A few skiers fly down the run, catching air at the top behind me and landing in soft clouds of powder before sluicing down the Mountain of Doom in a blur of expensive ski gear.

  An image of a frog crossing a five-lane highway pops into my head.

  I’m going to spoil it for you: it doesn’t end well for the frog.

  Splat.

  “Watch out!” a male voice shouts from above me, which is also behind me.

  I think he wants me to move. As if I’ve wandered into the middle of the slalom course at the Olympics and set up a picnic like I’m Yogi Bear.

  I wish I were a happy-go-lucky bear with a stolen picnic basket. Obviously, I have bears on the brain.

  Instead, I’m sitting here having a panic attack on a ski slope. Of this I’m hyper-aware.

  I brace for impact. Hoping against all laws of physics whoever collides with me is a handsome, rugged, intellectual, animal lover, who miraculously scoops me into his arms and skis down the rest of the run while simultaneously falling in love with me at first sight.

  Sadly, neither happens. Mr. Voice blurs past me without a second glance after his warning.

  I eye the tree line and ponder the odds of successfully stopping myself before plunging through the trees and ending up a cautionary tale.

  She wasn’t wearing a helmet would be the lead.

  In a misplaced effort to reclaim a shred of dignity, I awkwardly adjust my bright red and white knit hat with the oversized pom-pom on the top. Not an easy feat while wearing ski gloves.

  My snow bunny dreams are shredded and perched atop a heap of other silly fantasies I’ve had in my life. Like taking Nick Jonas’s infamous virginity when I was in high school. Or suddenly being able to ski double-black diamond runs. Or being the kind of girl who has wild one-night stands instead of dating the safe, yet boring Geoffries of the world. None of those things are true.

  More skiers crest the top of the run and fly by me in colorful blurs.

  Why are there so many skiers with death wishes today? Who are all these people?

  Although, it is a beautiful day to die. Inches of powder from last night’s storm freshen the snowpack into a glittering white. The sun shines in a cloudless sky the color of sapphires thanks to the lack of oxygen in the high altitude. I’m sure people wheezing for oxygen on Everest think the same thing.

  Another bad idea.

  Reminding myself of the lowered percentage of oxygen speeds up my breathing again.

  My heart thumps faster, creating a wooshing sound of blood in my ears.

  Is it suddenly hot?

  I feel hot.

  Could be the blazing sun. That’s probably it.

  What are the first signs of hypothermia?

  Leaning back, I do the one thing my earth science teacher, Mrs. Roe, made me swear I’d never, ever do. I stare at the pale sun. I’m living on the edge, literally. What do I have to lose?

  I remind myself I’m sitting in a pile of snow and the temperature probably hovers near thirty.

  I wonder if I’ll ever see thirty.

  More crazy people ski by me while I begin writing my obituary.

  Dr. Mara Keiley, DVM, 28, recently of Snowmass Village, Colorado, foolishly believed she was confident and skilled enough to tackle a double-black diamond run after years of being a solid teal skier—a low risk combination of blue and green slopes. She is mourned, and judged for her poor decision making by her parents, Raymond and Sheryl Keiley, who always wanted a doctor in the family, a real, human doctor, not a veterinarian, and her younger brother, Todd, who played high school football, and is still the favorite child. She was unmarried, single, and a size twelve at the time of her death, but not a virgin. Dr. Keiley is survived by two cats and a dog of dubious origin.

  Nailed it.

  Sounds about right if my mother is put in
charge of writing it. Perfectly captures her vague, passive aggressive disappointment. If only she knew, she’d be thrilled my last thoughts are of her.

  “Hey,” another man shouts from above me, “are you okay? You, in the red hat. Hello?”

  His deep, resonant voice and confident delivery remind me of a movie trailer narrator.

  Twisting to see behind me, I lean too far to the left, shifting my body weight, and slide downhill sideways. In an attempt to right myself, I lift my left ski pole and stab it into the snow.

  Brilliant.

  Now I’m lying with my head downhill and my legs spread eagle, skis akimbo. A pole rests a few feet away. Sitting up to reclaim it requires stronger ab muscles than I possess. I should’ve listened about strengthening my core.

  I can’t even think “core” without cringing. I blame my grandmother’s romance novels I snuck as a kid. Her core trembled as Sir Reginald stroked her slick folds. Shudder. A girl can learn many things about the ways of love and throbbing manhoods by sneaky reading romances.

  With the sun in my eyes, I can’t clearly make out the face of the speaker, but I recognize his red and black uniform. White crosses decorate the chest and sleeve.

  He’s ski patrol.

  Thank you, God.

  “Are you injured?” he calls down to me.

  “Only my pride,” I mumble into my jacket.

  “Anything broken?” he continues as if I haven’t spoken.

  “No, I’m fine.” I raise my voice so he can hear me.

  “You don’t look fine. Think you can right yourself and uphill? Climb back to me?” I can’t see his eyes behind his reflective goggles, but I can hear the smile in his voice. I can’t tell if it’s friendly or condescending.

  “I think I’m kind of wedged in here.” I use my remaining ski pole to gesture at my skis jutting out of the snow at right angles.

  “I can see that. Can you pop yourself out of your bindings? Use the big, long stick in your hand.”

  “You use your big stick,” I mumble as I jab at my bindings. If shooting fish in a barrel is easy, spearing them must be the opposite.

  I fail.

  “Never as easy as it looks.” He executes a small hop and glides down the mountain like a commercial for men’s deodorant. Or beer. Something manly and smooth. Razors.

  He’s like a damn razor commercial with his smooth moves. His legs barely move as he turns.

  A yard or so above me, he plants a black pole and floats to a stop a foot away from my skis. Without another word, he snaps me out of both bindings. One ski has decided it would rather finish the run without me and slides downhill on its own. I can’t blame it. Clearly, I’m not the most fun.

  Both feet coast downhill in a slow windmill to my left, leaving me parallel to the slope and no longer splayed out like the world’s least sexy, down-padded centerfold.

  For anyone keeping score at home:

  Mara Keiley, one.

  Mountain of Doom, five. Or ten.

  I’ve lost count.

  My savior scoops up the other ski and hands it to me before retrieving the one trying to pretend it doesn’t know me. As he sidesteps his way back up to me, I manage to sit up.

  “Here you go.” He sets the ski uphill from me. “You think you can make it down?”

  Still wearing his goggles, he resembles an astronaut or a spaceman from the future. All I can see of his face is his strong nose and dark scruff that’s somewhere between beard and stubble—less than a hipster and more than Ryan Reynolds. From the bump, I’m guessing his nose has probably been broken at least once. I wonder if the break came from fights or sports. His full lips are an unfair deep rose color. Surprisingly, they’re not chapped.

  I don’t know why I expect them to be chapped. Days spent in the sun on the slopes would probably make me look like I’d been living in the olden days without lip balm or sunscreen. I bet he’s an amazing kisser. His lips would feel incredible pressed against mine.

  Men are so lucky.

  I’ve always had a thing for beards. Ever since I made out with a random guy on a dare in vet school.

  They’re my chocolate cake.

  I’m unable to resist either.

  “Did you hit your head?” His deep, rumbly voice sounds closer.

  Twisting my neck, I realize he’s crouching next to my side now.

  “You should be wearing a helmet. They’re not mandatory, but we recommend them. Especially if you’re going to tackle the more advanced runs.”

  I pat the pom-pom on my hat. “I’m fine. I sat down before I fell.”

  “That was smart.” He stands to remove his skis, spikes both pairs into the snow behind us, and then sits next to me. “So you’re just taking in the view?”

  “I missed the bench and it’s a lovely vista.” As I swing my arm out, I manage to slap his shoulder. “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” He shoves his goggles to the crown of his own helmet. “I wouldn’t advise hanging out on a ski slope.”

  “Thanks.” I stare straight ahead. “I wouldn’t recommend having a panic attack on one either.” At the words, my heart rate picks up.

  “Is that what happened?” Genuine concern changes the timbre of his voice.

  “I was okay until the top of this run. I survived the road of certain extinction with rocks on one side and death on the other. Figured I was safe. Then I hit the top of this section and too much adrenaline hit me. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not this kind of girl.”

  His shoulders lift with amusement. “Not what kind of girl?”

  The kind of girl who would notice the drop in his voice and how the words come out sounding less like a question and more like hopeful lust. I wonder if women create fake reasons all day long to meet cute ski patrol on the mountain. How far would some women go?

  All the way. They’d go all the way.

  They’d do whatever it takes to meet a cute guy.

  “No, not that kind of girl. I should’ve stayed with the blue runs. I’m comfortable with blue. Blue is a great color. The sky, the ocean. They’re both blue. And water. Like snow.”

  His shoulders shake. “Thanks for the science lesson.”

  “Stop laughing at me. I could’ve died.”

  “Not on my watch. I haven’t lost a skier yet. I woke up in a good mood this morning, so I know today’s not the day to have that record broken by a beautiful woman who likes to take risks.”

  My cheeks heat, but I let his compliment slip away without commenting. Is this all part of the snow bunny and skier dance? Or is he distracting me with praise?

  It’s working.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a way off this side of the mountain that doesn’t involve the words black or diamond?”

  “Sadly, only one. Do you need the toboggan?”

  Oh, hell no.

  I duck my chin. I can feel the giant pom-pom on my hat droop forward. “Maybe.”

  “I have another solution.”

  “Does it involve further humiliation?”

  “No, of course not. I can ski you down to the lift. You’ll have to go back up to get to the village, but you’ll have your choice of green and blue runs down to Fanny Hill. Or I can call for the toboggan …” His words trail off as he grabs the radio strapped to his chest.

  Images of him skiing with me in his arms flash through my mind. “You’d carry me?”

  He releases a surprised chuckle. “I would if necessary, but I’m thinking you’ll ski down with my help.”

  The picture of him lifting me into his arms as if I weigh nothing and the two of us swooping off into the distance fades.

  “How?” I peek at his profile.

  “I’ll ski and you’ll hold onto my pole.”

  Mara, do not make this dirty.

  He shifts to stand and holds out his hand. “Think you can manage that?”

  “You want me to trust you with my life?” I eye his glove, but don’t reach for it.

  “I do. I’m more than qualified.”
He points a gloved hand to the cross emblem on his sleeve. “See? Want a list of my credentials?”

  I remain sitting. “Shouldn’t you have a St. Bernard with a barrel of whiskey around its neck to revive me?”

  “First of all, my dog’s a Norwegian duck tolling retriever mix, and Fern’s too young to drink. Second, St. Bernards carry brandy.”

  “Get a lot of ducks up here needing rescuing?”

  “Only chicks.” He fights a grin and a dimple of suppression reveals itself on his left cheek. Dimples are the sprinkles on top of chocolate cake, and his reminds me of someone.

  I narrow my eyes at his bad, and pretty sexist pun. Since he literally holds my life in his hands, I decide to stick to the safe subject of canines.

  “You have a work dog? Like an avalanche dog?” I accept his hand to be lifted up.

  “Not like. Is. Hardest working member of ski patrol.” He lets go of my hand to position my skis.

  “I don’t suppose you have a flask in your backpack?” I gesture at the black bag I’m pretty sure is filled with first aid supplies.

  He shakes his head. “Not even a thermos of cocoa.”

  I finally meet his kind eyes. The irises are a surprising light, warm caramel brown with darker brown near the edge. They remind me of crème brûlée. Chocolate cake might be my favorite, but I wouldn’t kick a nice crème brûlée out of bed.

  His eyes are also vaguely familiar.

  “Miss?”

  I continue staring. “Yes?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Here.”

  When he frowns, I notice he has a scar over his left eyebrow and a little divot on his right cheekbone. From chicken pox? The dimple on his cheek doesn’t show unless he’s grinning or fighting a smile. There’s a mix of blond and red in his dark scruff. I wonder what his hair looks like not stuck under a helmet.

  His voice interrupts my cataloging of his features. “You mean you’re visiting? Or you live here? I’d remember you if you were a local.”

  “I live in Snowmass. Just moved here two weeks ago, right after New Year’s.”

  He purses his lips and remains silent. His dimple makes another appearance as he stops himself from speaking.

  “You?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation flowing to distract myself.