Crazy Over You (Love with Altitude #2)

by Daisy Prescott

  “I live here. Ski patrol, remember?”

  “Oh, right. Of course.” I’m nailing the small talk.

  “Not that I can afford a place in Aspen. Or Snowmass. Fern and I live near Woody Creek.”

  Unless he has a dog and a wife with the same name, he’s not married. I file this information away, along with his dimple and scars.

  “Ready? You need to put your skis back on now so we can get you down the mountain.”

  “Oh, right.” My focus shifts to my feet. Somewhat gracefully, I manage to click into my bindings and not fall on my ass or slide down the mountain on my butt. Apparently, my panic attack erased all but the basic skiing abilities.

  “Great job.” He uses a voice probably reserved for his wonder dog and small children. Once I’m upright and steady, he uses his radio to call someone. “Ski patrol, Jesse. I have a ten-fourteen. Female, late twenties. No injuries. Escorting to Campground chairlift.”

  “Ten-four,” a female voice responds.

  “Is ten-fourteen special code for girl freak out?” I brush off the snow on my butt.

  “Non-injury escort.” He’s all business again as he clicks into his bindings and adjusts his pack.

  “Let’s get this over with.” Forcing optimism into my voice, I straighten my back.

  He sidesteps in front of me and positions himself to my left, extending a ski pole in my direction. “Grab my pole.”

  I press my lips together to hold back an embarrassing snicker. Unfortunately, ducking my head allows me to sneak a peek at his crotch. Not that I can see anything.

  Stupid baggy ski pants.

  “Here we go. Keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” he announces like he’s the ride manager of the Matterhorn at Disneyland. He shifts his body weight and we slide downhill.

  Even though we’re moving slowly, I close my eyes when I feel my chest constrict.

  “You might feel better with your eyes open.” His voice is calm and confident.

  With a shake of my head, I tell him my opinion of this suggestion.

  “Suit yourself.”

  The wind against my cold cheek warns me he’s picked up speed. In response, I lock my knees and tighten my grip.

  “Uh, uh, uh. Eyes open. Bend your knees. Loosey goosey, please.”

  In spite of my fear of dying, I laugh. Laughing makes me open my eyes. “Did you just say—”

  “Loosey goosey? Yes. I can give you a ski school pep talk, if that’ll help.”

  “Still using pizza slices and french fries? That’s how I learned.”

  “It’s the universal language of beginning skiers.” He gives me a warm smile over his shoulder. “You doing okay?”

  “Can we rest for a minute?” My heart is racing, but I’m not sure if it’s from him or the cliff we’re sliding down.

  He makes a turn and slows to a stop on a large bump. “You okay?”

  “Mmm hmm.” My nod turns into a shake. Blood rushes in my ears as I take calming breaths. “Not really. Keep talking.”

  “What brings you to Snowmass?” He glances behind him to check our position on the slope.

  “I’m the new vet for Hawks Creek Ranch. Elizabeth Hawks and Sage Blum run it.” I blow out an exhale to the count of ten.

  “The animal rescue and sanctuary?”

  “The very one.” I smile because I’m thrilled to have my dream job.

  He smiles back. “I know Sage. She’s with a friend of mine.”

  “You know Lee?” Where Sage is petite and ethereal, her boyfriend, Lee, is a South African rugby player with movie star good looks.

  “We’ve played rugby together. He takes it a lot more seriously than I do. He could’ve played pro.”

  “Not you?” Jesse is tall and broad enough to play a full contact sport.

  Not touching the idea of full contact with him with a ski pole.

  Nope.

  I sigh as I think of full naked contact. I’m in a bit of a dry spell since deciding to break it off with Geoffrey before the holidays.

  “I’ve never been competitive enough. I started playing a couple of years ago for fun. Turns out my aggression makes me good in a scrum.”

  I have a vague idea about scrums, but nod like I understand the correlation. “You don’t seem like an asshole.”

  “I’m paid to be a nice guy.” He gives me a sweet smile while his eyes shine with mischief.

  “You’re only nice when you’re being paid?” I squint at him with distrust.

  “You make me sound like a male escort.” His smile falters, but the mischievous spark in his warm eyes doesn’t fade.

  “Your words not mine.”

  “Better than a stripper. At least I don’t have to prance around on stage in a thong.” He chuckles.

  But I’m not laughing.

  Stripper.

  The word echoes around in my head as a strong sense of déjà vu hits me smack in the face.

  Me dancing on a bar in a short, silver dress. Me practically showing off the goods to a crowd of cheering men.

  Oh no. Oh shit.

  No. No. NO.

  Friends, we have a problem.

  My savior isn’t prince charming.

  No, I’m not that lucky.

  He’s my worst nightmare.

  He’s my one-night stand from two years ago.

  And he doesn’t remember me.

  Chapter 2

  Mara: Two Years ago

  SEE THE GIRL up there, shaking her ass and bending over to flash her cleavage at the crowd of clapping people below her?

  The one who happily did a blow job shot off the bar without using her hands a few minutes before the dancing began?

  The girl who can’t stop laughing?

  She’s having the best vacation of her life.

  That’s me.

  I’m the girl on the bar.

  When my foot slips on a wet spot and I lose my balance, I don’t fall into a heap on the floor. Oh no. I swan dive into the crowd where big manly hands catch me in the best re-creation of the big move in Dirty Dancing.

  Where’s the video of this moment to show the future grandkids?

  See how Super Girl—that’s me—shows her gratitude with a sloppy kiss right then and there? Full tongue action in the middle of the bar while people whoop?

  Yes, actual whooping, my friends.

  And I don’t even know his name.

  Nor do I care.

  Tall, dark, and handsome slides me down the front of his body and gently places me back on solid ground. He kindly holds my ass to keep me balanced while making me dizzy with his kiss.

  It’s possible the dizziness is from the booze fest of the evening catching up with me.

  I’d rather pretend he’s my perfect kissing match.

  Yes, some people are terrible kissers, but most of us manage to get it right. It all comes down to a matter of preference. Maybe there’s someone out there who loves open mouth tongue kisses as much as you do. Or is also a fan of the nibbles. Nibblers unite! I’m sure the girl with dry mouth appreciates a man who gives sloppy, wet kisses.

  It’s all a matter of finding a kissing match.

  Mystery man is mine.

  I have plans for him.

  Big plans if the size of his hands mean anything.

  Please let the old adage be true.

  Please let big hands mean big other things.

  And not feet.

  I mean his penis.

  Thank you.

  The need for oxygen forces me to break away from his amazing kissing lips as I try to catch my breath.

  Everything overwhelms my senses. Stuffy air clogs my lungs. Lights pulse and swirl around me. Music blares. The bass thumps so loud it resonates deep inside my ribcage.

  At least I think it’s the bass. It could be my heart. An after effect of his kiss.

  “I need some fresh air.” Turning away, I stumble toward the door.

  I attempt to navigate the crowd, but no one will move out o
f my way. Mystery kisser steps in front of me and leads the way with his big hands and his tall height.

  He’s the human version of one of those ice breaker ships in the Antarctic. I am a tiny, happy penguin swimming in his wake.

  The push of people near the front door blocks our exit. There’s no way this crowd isn’t breaking fire codes and capacity laws.

  “Too many people,” I shout. “There’s no escape.”

  A big guy shoulders me and I lose my grip on his hand. The crowd begins to swallow me like a zombie horde. I try to protest, but shouts about Jell-O shots drown out my voice.

  This is the story of my life.

  I’m shoved and pushed back in the direction I came from. With the determination of a horny salmon, I force myself against the current. I need fresh air soon or someone’s going to get their shoes ruined.

  It’s hopeless. I’m about to give up when strong arms wrap around me and suddenly I’m airborne.

  “Come on, Tony, let’s get out of here.”

  “Did you call me Tony?” I don’t really have a choice but to go with him, considering I’m currently resting over his shoulder like a fifty-pound bag of dog food.

  More like a hundred and fifty pounds.

  Okay, one sixty.

  Doesn’t matter because the way he carries me is effortless.

  The chaos calms once we step outside the bar. The chill of the air cools the sweat on my skin. Inhaling, I suck in as much oxygen as the high altitude will allow.

  He sets me on my feet.

  “Better?” His voice is deep and rumbly near my ear.

  Focused on breathing, I nod. I force a lungful of air and slowly count while exhaling. Then I repeat the steps twice more to assure myself I’m not going to hurl.

  “You put on quite the show back there. You a professional dancer?”

  I sputter. “Like a stripper?”

  The tips of his ears go red. “You say it like it’s a bad thing?”

  I’m about to launch into a diatribe about years spent in labs and a pile of student loan debt, but instead, I remain silent.

  “Okay, I’m guessing you’re not a stripper and don’t take it as a compliment.”

  I’m stunned silent.

  “It’s a compliment. You’ve got moves.”

  “Like a stripper?” I double-check to make sure I’m not standing here with my boobs hanging out of my silver dress.

  All clear. Nothing’s exposed. No nip slippage or public panty party.

  Tall, dark, and big chuckles. “It was meant to be flattering. I swear.”

  He’s probably used to women throwing themselves at him or curling around his massive frame like a sloth in its favorite tree.

  I’m closer to a sloth than I am a stripper. Give me a cozy pair of fuzzy pajamas or a onesie instead of a thong and deathtrap platform heels any night of the week. If I had to choose a vice, it would be sloth. Not lust.

  Unless the lusting is after cake.

  Or Ryan Reynolds.

  Or Ryan Reynolds with cake.

  I wipe the side of my mouth to check for drool.

  Come on, who wouldn’t be drooling over that combination?

  Plus, he has such a dirty, dirty mouth in Deadpool.

  I wonder if Big Hands talks dirty.

  He’s speaking again, but I’m barely paying attention. When he stops, I glance down to see he’s extending his hand. Like a gentleman. Or a guy who’s about to tell me how nice it was to meet me, but sadly he has to go home to feed his Sea Monkeys or sort his recycling.

  Both have happened to me before.

  Look for my autobiography, True Stories from the Dating Life of Mara Keiley, on the Cautionary Tales shelf of in the Self Help section in your local bookstore. Or in true life horror stories.

  In case you didn’t know, Sea Monkeys aren’t even remotely monkeys. It’s all a huge lie promoted by the brine shrimp conglomeration. Some guy named Harold “invented” them in the fifties. He’s probably cousins or best friends with the Pet Rock “inventor,” and whoever came up with Chia Pets.

  I’m going to state right here, right now: shrimp, rocks, and sprouts are not pets.

  Not even remotely.

  I speak from experience. My parents bought me all three of these so-called pets during my childhood whenever I begged them for a dog, a cat, or the compromise pets, hamsters and guinea pigs.

  I never asked for a horse. Or even a pony.

  All I wanted was a small dog, but not too small. One who wouldn’t shed or bark or bite. Maybe a terrier with manners. A low-key poodle. Or a corgi with an under-active thyroid.

  I got a keychain pet.

  Later I found out my brother was allergic to fur.

  Ironic given he had a hairy back. In high school.

  I bet tall, dark, and big doesn’t have a hairy back.

  I’ve been cataloguing fake pets while he’s standing in front of me, staring at me with a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His lips are so pretty. For a guy. I bet he uses lip balm.

  I want to confirm this hypothesis by pressing my lips against his again.

  Instead, I’m standing here gawking at him like a fish.

  Fish also make terrible pets.

  “Sorry. What?” Clearly, my flirting game is so lit it’s on fire.

  “Asked if you were okay.” The playful smile spreads into a grin. “Thought I lost you there for a while.”

  “I think I might be drunk.” A giggle erupts at the end of my sentence, causing me to sway. I’m super unsteady on my feet. Clutching his T-shirt for balance, I attempt to stop being a weirdo. “Sorry.”

  “For being drunk or petting my chest?”

  So much for playing it cool. I focus on my hands, which of their own volition, are pressed against his pecs through the thin cotton of his shirt.

  Pressing. Petting. Let’s not get caught up in semantics.

  I pull my hands away from his chest, but he stops me.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

  Oh.

  Okay then. I spread out my fingers and touch as much of his broad man chest as possible.

  “This is nice.”

  His laughter vibrates and rumbles beneath my fingertips.

  He’s laughing at me again.

  I’m clearly tipsy.

  Which makes me yet another drunk vacation girl. I’m a cliché.

  Delightful.

  Sofie will be proud of me. She’s the one who dared me to get up on the bar. I think she was leading the shouting to kiss him.

  Wait. Where’s Sofie?

  Last I saw she was helping me up on the bar and cheering.

  I look around. Right. She’s probably still inside.

  “I should go find my friend,” I mumble to his pecs as responsibility sobers me.

  “Tall with dark hair?” He lifts my chin with a single finger.

  “Amazonian tall.” I raise my arm above my head to demonstrate. “Often mistaken for the spawn of a supermodel and a giraffe?”

  “I think she was the one yelling as I carried you outside.”

  “What was she saying? Something about protecting my virtue? Begging you to not kidnap her best friend?”

  His chest shakes with laughter. “Not exactly. I think she told me to not bring you back until morning and you have condoms in your purse.”

  Sounds like Sofie. “I have terrible taste in friends.”

  “Or you have the best kind of friends.”

  “She’s a pusher.” Before I launch into a confession of why I need to be pushed, I decide my mouth can be put to better use. I stand on my toes to lessen the height differential between us. The top of my head comes to the top of his biceps.

  His eyes focus on my mouth for a brief second before he catches on.

  Yep, he definitely has the softest lips ever. The kiss is a study in contrasts. Masculine beard scrapes my skin while the velvet of his lips caresses mine. Heat from his tongue invades my mouth. Sharp teeth nip at the soft fles
h of my bottom lip.

  He’s the best kisser I’ve ever met.

  He really is my kissing soul mate.

  I moan, loudly, as I anchor my hands in his messy brown curls. Good luck trying to escape, mister.

  He must not mind, because his own hands find a new home on my ass. A not so gentle squeeze pulls me closer, putting me in contact with his groin area. Okay, that’s not a sexy word, but better than crotch. Let’s move on and focus on the fact he’s hard beneath his jeans.

  Thanks be to God for proportion.

  Without thought, my body begins to rub against him. I’m a cat; he’s the scratching post, and boy does this pussy have an itch he can take care of.

  I crack myself up and giggle into his mouth.

  Which is a terrible thing because he stops kissing me again.

  “What so funny?” When he speaks, I feel his warm breath on my cheek.

  “Nothing.” I press myself against him, trying to remind him how much better making out is than talking.

  He narrows his eyes.

  I can’t tell him. I’ll seem like a weird cat lady.

  Which I am. Or want to be.

  Who dreams of growing up to be a crazy cat lady?

  I don’t want a hundred cats.

  Or a dozen.

  I’m studying to be a veterinarian.

  To save cats.

  And dogs.

  Because sea monkeys and fish are not pets.

  “It’s too ridiculous. If I tell you, you’ll think I’m a pervert.”

  “You were petting my pecs. I already think you’re a pervert.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Plus, you’re making out with me and you don’t even know my name.”

  His name never crossed my mind.

  “You don’t know mine either.”

  He chuckles. “I tried to introduce myself and you stared at me like I’m a cheeseburger and you’re starving.”

  “Mmm, sounds good.”

  “Now you really are imagining me as food, aren’t you?”

  “No, of course not.” I stick out my hand. “I’m Mara.”

  “Jesse.” He squeezes my hand. “Don’t say it.”

  “I can’t say your name out loud? Are you like He Who Shall Not Be Named?”

  “I just told you my name.”

  “Then you told me not to say it.” He’s lost me again. I know I’m still tipsy but he’s not making any sense.