Crazy Over You (Love with Altitude #2)

by Daisy Prescott

  “Slumming in Snowmass today?” Jesse’s tone is colder than the water dripping off the icicles hanging from the roof as he addresses Landon. He seemed friendly earlier, but his frown is anything but warm.

  “Heard your mom was skiing Fanny Hill today.”

  “Really, Roberts? A mom joke?” Jesse leans closer to me. “Is he bothering you?”

  “We were having a fine time until you showed up,” Landon answers for me.

  “I was holding the table and he asked if the seat was free.” I smile, always the peacemaker. “Kept me from ordering an old corn nut beer.”

  While Landon makes a face, Jesse laughs. “Not quite the same as saving a life, but I guess you gotta do what you can.”

  His barb hits its target. Landon mumbles something that sounds like “asshole” under his breath.

  Apparently, I’ve landed in the middle of an ongoing war. Maybe Jesse and I should find another table. I scan the area for an empty spot. The crowd has grown to be standing room only and several people are dancing in the narrow space between tables and the bar.

  “So,” I take a sip of beer and try to think of something neutral to say, “You two know each other?”

  “We do,” Jesse replies.

  “For years,” Landon adds.

  Clearly, they’re BFFs. I wonder which one has the “Be Fri” side of the split heart pendant and which one is “st ends.”

  “We’ve played in the same rugby club for a few summers.” Jesse flags the waitress to order a beer. “You okay or you need a refill?”

  I examine my beer. The glass is definitely more than half full. “I’m good.”

  He doesn’t ask Landon if he needs anything.

  “Rugby. Wow.” I know nothing about rugby. Soccer, lacrosse, and way too much about football, but rugby is as foreign to me as if he said they jousted or played cricket together. I think only the British do any of those sports, although I’m not sure if jousting is popular with kids today. “Cool.”

  “You a fan?” Landon asks.

  “Can’t say I am. Never watched it.”

  “You should come to our matches this summer. Or at least show up for Rugbyfest in September. Best weekend of the year.” There’s a certain smugness about Landon. Unless he doesn’t own a mirror, he has to know he’s good looking. In fact, he might even be arrogant about it.

  Unlike Jesse. He’s more unassuming, which makes him even sexier. Jesse’s hair is untamed, messy waves, whereas Logan is neatly groomed and looks like he uses a lot of styling products.

  Mountain man versus well groomed Viking.

  Life is full of difficult decisions.

  The arrival of our appetizer bonanza breaks the mounting tension between the two guys. I’m happy to stuff fries in my mouth to avoid more tense conversation. Instead, I people watch.

  Most of our fellow patrons sport variations of ski garb. Lift tickets dangle from the zippers of more North Face and Bogner jackets than I’ve ever seen in one place. The men are almost uniformly handsome and the women are beautiful. Fit, healthy, and rosy-cheeked, this crowd is in the top percentile of humans who are not actual supermodels.

  Except the two women in furry hats and matching fur boots to their knees. I’m pretty sure they are actual supermodels. Or clones of Giselle.

  Donna from the kids’ ski area joins us along with a couple of other guys from ski patrol. They magically find more chairs. We shift around to create enough room for everyone.

  I forget most of the other names as soon as people say them. One of my weird ticks. Animal names I always remember. People? Usually I remember faces, or their pet’s name, but not theirs.

  I sip another beer, keeping my wits and pants about my person. Altitude still affects how quickly I go from personably tipsy to drunk girl.

  And no one wants to be the drunk girl.

  Landon leaves the group first, claiming other plans. He and I are the only two who don’t work for the ski company and I get the feeling he’s on the outs with most of the other guys.

  Before he goes, he pays our original tab, which is totally unnecessary but very sweet. He stands and then steps closer to me. Resting a hand on my shoulder, he dips his head down so only I can hear his voice below the din of the crowd.

  “It was great to meet you, Mara. Perhaps next time we’ll be able to get to know each other better without the big entourage.”

  A shiver runs over my skin when he squeezes the fleshy part of my upper arm. Part of me is turned on by his words and the not-so-thinly-veiled sexual overtone. Another part of me still thinks about Ted Bundy’s handsome face.

  “Okay. Great.” I’m not sure what I’m saying. I’ve never been so close to a Norse warrior before.

  “It’s a small town. I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.” He gives my arm another squeeze before he disappears into the crowd.

  “I thought he’d never leave.” Jesse leans closer to me. “Watch out for him.”

  Something about his warning rubs me the wrong way. Like he’s in any position to be giving out warnings about other guys? He’s probably the biggest rapscallion in the entire valley. Ski patrol. Dog. Rugged good looks. Dangerous. He’s a living, breathing double-black diamond.

  He’s a walking GQ … no, Men’s Health, cover model.

  He’s horrible.

  I lean away from him. “Thanks for the advice.”

  He blinks at me, then his gaze wanders to my lips as his brow furrows. “You’re welcome.” Not sure why he sounds confused.

  Unless he caught the sarcasm in my tone. I’m not always as subtle as I think I am.

  The sun dips behind the slopes and the outdoor heaters turn on as the golden hour ends.

  I say my good-byes to the group at large and turn to Jesse. “Thanks again for saving me today. I’d probably still be making my way down on my butt. My non-frozen butt and I thank you.”

  What am I even saying? I need to stop talking.

  “I’m here to protect and serve. Safety first, non-frozen asses second.” He gives me a genuine smile with full dimple.

  Fern jumps into my empty chair. I’m pretty sure she’s breaking some sort of health-code rule, but who am I to judge. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  She bumps my hand with her cold nose.

  “If you ever need anything, bring her by the ranch. I owe you one.”

  “Nah, we’re even. Just another day on the mountain.” His smile fades slightly. “Nice to meet you, Mara.”

  “You too, Jesse.” I force my own smile to be brighter.

  Walking away, I curse his friendly professionalism and poor memory.

  It’s a small town. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. Over and over. Help! How will I avoid him forever?

  I remind myself the local motto seems to be out of sight, out of mind.

  As I wait for the shuttle, I make plans to only ski at Buttermilk Mountain for the rest of the season.

  Chapter 6

  Jesse

  A FEW DAYS later, I stop at the ski shop in the village on my way to the shuttle. It’s been snowing on and off all day. We need the fresh snow, but people expect clear skies and sunshine when they come to Colorado to ski. The mountain’s filled with cranky skiers when it snows. Makes patrolling less fun when everyone wants to complain about the weather.

  Believe it or not, the ski company doesn’t control Mother Nature. I’m sure upper management has people working on a plan to change that. For now we’re stuck. Yes, we can make snow overnight, but we can’t stop the real stuff from falling during the day.

  I stomp through the door, still in my boots and not caring if I track wet snow behind me.

  Rick’s behind the counter, ringing up a sale when he spots me. “Hayes, what can I do for you?”

  “I need a helmet.” I eye the selection on the wall behind him.

  He finishes up with the customer before focusing on me. “For yourself?”

  “No, I’m all set. It’s for …” A friend? Are we friends? I’m
not sure I’d go as far as saying Mara and I are buddies. “Mara Keiley, the new vet down at Elizabeth’s ranch.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen her around. About this tall,” he holds his hand to his shoulder, “and curvy?”

  Annoyed at his conspiratorial bro wink, I stop him before he completes an imaginary hourglass with his hands. “Yes, her. How many new veterinarians moved here recently?”

  “Only her as far as I know.” Rick sounds confused.

  “Then show some respect and not focus on her body.”

  He gives me a sidelong stare. “Okay then. Dr. Keiley needs a ski helmet and you’re here to buy her one? Just so I’m clear.”

  “It’s a welcome present.”

  “Ski patrol is handing out free helmets to new residents?”

  “Not officially.”

  With narrowed eyes, he resembles a brown weasel. A weasel with a little hairy nub on top of his head. Whatever he’s got going on up there isn’t enough to make a bun and he should give up the fight.

  I huff. “Quit staring at me. I’m buying her a helmet because she doesn’t have one.”

  “Safety first?” He smirks.

  “Always.”

  “What you see is what I have in stock. You want something else, I’ll have to do a special order. We’re out of a lot of things after the holidays.”

  I examine the display. Black and white are the standard, but women’s helmets come in pink, red, turquoise, blue … too many damn choices.

  Her beanie is red, so she probably likes the color.

  “Give me the Giro in red.”

  “What size?”

  “What’s a normal size for a woman’s head?”

  “Normal? They vary. She’s kind of petite, but she has a lot of hair.”

  “You’re not really helping here.” I’m annoyed he seems to know a lot of details about her.

  “Buy the medium. If it doesn’t fit, she can always bring it back and we’ll exchange it.”

  I have zero experience buying girl stuff. Is this one of those situations where if I get the size wrong, she’ll be insulted I’m saying she has a big head? It’s a helmet. Not lingerie.

  “Fine, let’s go with that one.”

  “Want me to gift wrap it?” He grins at me.

  “Since when do you wrap ski equipment?”

  “I’m sure I have a box and a bow around here somewhere. Since it’s a special gift for a special lady.”

  I silence him with a glare. “Stay out of it.”

  “You doing Power this year?” He changes the subject.

  “Probably. You?”

  “No way, man. I only ski down the mountain unless I’m climbing Buttermilk during a full moon night.”

  “Power’s no joke.”

  Every February racers traverse all four mountains in the area and a lot of it involves uphilling. Rick’s right. It’s a nightmare unless you’re crazy.

  Like me.

  Ski patrol usually pulls together a couple of teams. I haven’t missed a race in four years.

  Rick, being the asshole he is, slaps a huge bow on the helmet before slipping it into a bag. “Tell Dr. Keiley hello.”

  “Fuck off.” I bristle at his teasing and fake formality. “Tell her yourself. Or better yet, don’t.”

  His laughter echoes outside the store after I exit.

  It’s only a helmet for a new resident who thinks a beanie and a pom-pom will magically protect her head from more than the cold.

  While tens of thousands of people come to the mountains for ski season, it’s a rare event when a person moves here permanently. Or as permanent as living in a resort town can be. I can’t tell you the number of people, both men and women, I’ve met over the years who live here for a season and move on. Some return for a couple of years in a row. Not many. Life here can sometimes feel like living year round at a summer camp. The campers come and go, taking their happy memories of fun times with them. We stay behind and enjoy the quiet in-between seasons.

  Fern and I make the short drive home. She does a quick perimeter loop to make sure her property remained safe during her absence before scratching at the back door to come inside.

  While I make dinner, Fern lies on her mat, patiently waiting for her own meal. I enjoy the silence only interrupted by the sound of a knife against a wooden chopping board and the sizzle of chicken cooking in the cast iron dutch oven on the gas stove. The repetition of my actions creates a meditative state, allowing me to reflect on my day on the mountain.

  Some days are tougher to process than others, especially if there’s been a severe injury or a death. Thankfully, those events are rare.

  My gaze catches on a family photo from ten years ago stuck to the fridge with a magnet. In it, all three of the Hayes boys smile for the camera on top of a snowy peak. Not quite kids, not yet men. Cody stands in the middle, his arms lovingly holding Wyatt and I in headlocks. He always had to be the center of attention.

  Tucked behind the picture is a prayer card of Jesus holding a lamb.

  In my head, I can hear Cody asking if he’s supposed to be the lamb or Jesus.

  In spite of the dull ache in my chest, I chuckle.

  My green chile chicken simmers in the same pan my grandmother used to make hers. I use her recipe and somehow it never tastes the same if I don’t make it in her old pan, too.

  I know Inez still watches over her boys. She always told us she’d keep an eye on us no matter what. Then she’d pinch our cheeks hard enough to make her words sound like a warning.

  From an old Colorado ranch family, my mother taught us to believe in hard work and simple living. When houses started disrupting their view of the mountains, my parents bought more acreage down valley and moved to Carbondale. Dad said he was tired of fighting celebrities and “millionaires with more money than humanity” for a table to eat ribs at his favorite barbecue joint in Aspen. Now he complains about Walmart underselling the local merchants and how much he has to pay for decent beef at Whole Foods.

  At least Mom still makes homemade tortillas for me. I pull a couple of them out of the freezer to have with my chicken. The last two dozen of her Christmas tamales sits forlornly on the shelf next to a pint of triple chocolate gelato. I always save some tamales until at least summer even if they get freezer burned because my mother, like her mother Inez, refuses to make them any other time of the year besides the big tamale day before Christmas Eve.

  As my dinner cooks, I fill a bowl of kibble for Fern. We have a routine of tricks she performs before she can eat. With a sassy bark, she follows my commands: shake, high five, spin, figure eight through my legs, and a return to her mat. I release her to eat and she gives me a final bark telling me exactly what she thinks of my silly demands.

  My phone lights up with text messages inviting me out, encouraging me to join the fun in Aspen. Ski season can be one long party if you want, especially during the annual X Games at Buttermilk.

  These days I prefer to work on projects around my house, spend time with Fern, and get used to a new normal without Cody. Life may be a party, but sometimes not showing up is the best way to survive. Fern might be a professional avalanche dog, but it’s my life she saved two years ago after Cody died.

  When Willow calls in a favor for tomorrow night, I say yes without hesitating. Making up for the sins of my brother seems the least I can do. Our family shares her heartbreak and betrayal. Cody didn’t only leave her in a pile of shattered dreams, he did the same thing to us.

  We’re comrades from the same battle.

  Tomorrow is a fundraiser for some celebrity charity loosely tied to the X games. There’s been talk of starting a foundation in Cody’s name, but it feels too soon.

  Not sure what cause a charity with his name would benefit.

  Arrogant assholes who think they’re immortal?

  Cocky bastards who do stupid shit and die?

  Chapter 7

  Mara

  MY MOM ALWAYS says life is what happens when your dishes are p
iling up in the sink.

  If that’s true, then my empty sink and dishwasher tell a sad tale.

  Life on the ranch is beautiful, but quiet.

  I’m grateful to have the apartment in the converted barn as part of my contract. I’d never be able to afford to rent at the market rate without a long commute. One of the board members, Sage Blum, donated money last year to hire a full-time vet and also build out the hayloft into a second floor apartment for said person. Elizabeth Hawks, the ranch owner, lives in a small house across the property. She’s lovely, but also my boss. I can’t show up every night for dinner like a stray.

  I’m extremely grateful to Elizabeth for hiring me. There’s no way I’m the most qualified applicant, but not everyone would be willing to accept a lower salary and live in a converted barn above a bunch of pygmy goats and a donkey named Pacey.

  This apartment isn’t a forever situation, but a much better option than a third floor walk-up outside of Boston that smells of hot dogs and musty closets.

  Outside the window over the sink, my view extends east down into a sweeping valley lined with rosy-red tinged hills. Both the bedroom and living room face west and the spectacular sunsets over snowy peaks. A grove of bare aspen trees stands guard near the main road. I can’t wait to see them turn gold in the fall.

  Pens for a few of the resident animals cluster together on the southern end of the building.

  The whole place is pretty much my idea of heaven. Being surrounded by animals, kind people, and a beautiful landscape is a dream.

  Then why am I moping around?

  I pick up the journal of veterinary medicine and flip the pages as I sit in the big comfy chair by the window.

  I could read up on the latest theriogenolgy case study. Or environmental enrichment for shelter cats.

  I could and should.

  At the very least I should familiarize myself with the use of propofol in canine general anesthesia.

  Wait, isn’t propofol the drug that killed Michael Jackson?