Crazy Over You (Love with Altitude #2)

by Daisy Prescott

  I can never remember.

  I could probably look it up on my phone, but I judge myself for not remembering these key tidbits of celebrity gossip.

  With a sigh, I toss the journal on the table. I need to get off the ranch.

  Or just get off.

  I need more AA batteries.

  The yawning cat on the journal’s cover echoes my boredom and lack of sex.

  George comes over and sits on the cat’s face.

  “Don’t destroy it before I read about enriching your environment, mister.”

  I attempt to lift the magazine from beneath him. It goes about as well as trying to slide leaf from under a boulder.

  “That’s it. I’m putting you on a diet.”

  He narrows his green eyes at me. I can’t tell if he’s calling my bluff or telling me to go ahead and try.

  Can cats glower? Where’s the unbiased peer reviewed article about smugness in domesticated felines?

  Having enough, I decide I’m going to take myself into Aspen for a movie and popcorn with extra butter. Doesn’t matter what’s playing as long as it isn’t an animal movie. I can’t stomach those, especially if it’s a talking animal movie. Those are the worst.

  No cat sounds like Jude Law.

  Everyone knows this.

  Although I did break this rule for the Jungle Book. Because Idris Elba.

  Okay, I also saw the new Tarzan because of Alex Skarsgård.

  Who wouldn’t make exceptions for those two? I could listen to Idris read me the AVMA journal all day, any day of the week ending in ay.

  I let Tapper out for an evening constitutional and feed him, watching as he eats all of his food before George can help himself. I add kibble to the cat bowls and make sure everyone has water. Animals all set, I change into clean jeans and a soft cashmere sweater.

  Walking down the stairs, I pull on my knit beanie and coat while I debate driving to the lot at the bottom of the hill and taking the shuttle, or braving Aspen’s parking.

  I decide to brave the parking roulette. It’s a Wednesday. How bad can it be?

  Ha.

  Until I see all the signage near the airport, I’d forgotten the X games are taking place this week. Traffic creeps past Buttermilk where the games are held until the roundabout. Downtown Aspen isn’t much better.

  With all the cool people partying at the bars and clubs, the movie theater should be empty. I park behind the Hotel Jerome and plan to walk back through town to the Isis.

  Rounding the corner in front of the hotel, I stumble upon a bank of cameras and one of those logo patterned backdrops celebrities walk in front of at red carpet events.

  My curiosity gets the better of me. I glance at my phone. I have a few minutes to gawk at the glam people before the movie starts.

  I squeeze in next to two women and watch an elegant couple pose for cameras. Flashes go off like a lightning storm as they smile and turn.

  “Who is that?” I ask the middle aged woman and her friend next to me.

  They blink at me like I’ve asked who Santa is.

  “That’s the couple from the latest season of In Love with the Bachelor!” the shorter of the two women answers.

  Her friend sighs. “Kyle and Kylie are made for each other.”

  Okay. I’m sure their TV romance will last a lifetime because they have basically the same name. Meant to be!

  An enormous black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb and the squeals from the crowd increase.

  “I knew it! I knew it!” Shorter fangirl starts bouncing next to me.

  I peer between the crowd of burly paparazzi and excited fangirls to the other end of the carpet. A beautiful brunette turns to face us. I recognize Willow Cross instantly. She’s wearing five sequins held together by a few threads. “She must be freezing.”

  Sighing woman shoots me a look that tells me I’m ruining the moment. “If you had a body like Willow’s, wouldn’t you be showing it off too?”

  I nod.

  Wait a second. Was that an insult?

  “Who’s she with?” Shorty pushes against me to get a better look.

  “No way! It’s Jesse Hayes!”

  “No way.” My words echo hers, but don’t hold the same enthusiasm. Why would some random ski patrol guy be on the red carpet? “Who’s that?”

  “He’s Cody Hayes’ brother.”

  I stare at her blankly. “Who?” Maybe Jesse has a twin? I rack my mind for pictures of her and a boyfriend in the tabloids.

  “X Games champion?” Her exasperation at my ignorance comes out in a huff. “He’s only the greatest extreme winter sports athlete ever.”

  “Was. It’s such a shame what happened.” Sigher sighs. “Poor Willow.”

  Was?

  He retired?

  Or he’s dead?

  “Sad, but her and Jesse are totally hot together. I ship them because they’re the ultimate love conquers all story.” Shorty practically swoons with the story she has going on inside her head about a couple she doesn’t even know.

  How do I not know Jesse has, had, a famous brother? I’m a celebrity gossip failure to not know Willow was with an athlete. Maybe because I’ve never followed the X Games? Or I spent most of my twenties in labs and studying?

  The urge to stalk the Hayes brothers online grows. With a few swipes and clicks, I could probably find out their entire family saga. And Jesse’s dating history, if he’s the kind of guy to date celebrities. Which all evidence points to as truth. How did I not know he has a girlfriend? Not that we shared our whole life stories on the mountain last week.

  What was he doing slumming with a regular mortal like me?

  Maybe he does remember our night together but is too embarrassed to admit he slept with me.

  The bastard.

  Now I’m pissed. What? I’m not good enough for him?

  He’s a glorified EMT. I’m a doctor. I perform surgery. I bring life into the world.

  I’m a friggin’ modern day female Doctor Doolittle.

  Except I don’t actually talk to the animals and think they talk back.

  I’m not crazy.

  “I slept with him. He’s not all that. Pretty much the opposite of memorable,” I blurt out to my new friends.

  Okay, I might have to retract the not crazy part.

  Sigher and Shorty stare at me like I’m insane.

  Clearly, I’m a woman on the edge.

  “It’s true.” I nod. “Not memorable at all.”

  I sneak a glance at Jesse and his celebrity date as they pose for pictures. What was I thinking? He’d be a normal, regular guy because he works in ski patrol? This is Aspen, where everything that glitters is either gold, diamonds, or platinum.

  I’m way out of my league.

  As I turn to go, his eyes flash to mine. I see the moment he recognizes me because his brows shoot up. His fake smile falters a second before he recovers and his friendly guy façade slips back into place.

  “Ohmygod, he does know you.” Sigher pinches my arm hard enough to leave a mark.

  “Ouch!” I yelp loudly and two photographers lower their cameras to get a better look at me.

  I need to get out of here before my mouth gets me into more trouble. Or Jesse tries to talk to me.

  With little resistance, I manage to slip through the crowd and cross the street. Flashes reflect off of the windows of cars I pass.

  My thoughts and feelings churn together over tonight’s revelation. Do I want something more with Jesse? The thought starts a war between my brain and hormones.

  Does everyone do an online search of their love interests? Am I the only one not stalking on Google and social media to get the scoop on prospective lovers? Is this normal? What happened to the simple days of love at first sight? Swipe left, swipe right doesn’t have the same ring to it. Evidently, even the regular guys around here date super-humans.

  I wonder what dating was like during the silver mining days in this town. Did people date? Did they show up with
a wife, or wives, in tow? Only pay for sex with the ladies of the evening at the local whorehouses? Sex without strings seems to be the historical tradition.

  I don’t know why it bothers me so much. Most animals don’t pair-bond for life. Talk about sex without emotions. We want to believe in the wolves who mate for life instead of accepting the reality that infidelity happens in almost half of couples, no matter the species.

  Hell, not even humpback whales are monogamous. Think about it. There aren’t exactly humpback whale bars or sex apps. How far does a whale have to swim to get some side action?

  Don’t even get me started on squirrels.

  They’re all sluts.

  So why do humans hope we’re any different?

  Because we wear pants (sometimes) and can talk?

  My evening goes from awkward to worse when I see the only movie starting soon is a cartoon … featuring talking animals. The Isis is typical Aspen with its nineteenth century exterior and an updated, spare no expense interior. Of course our local theater is fancy—Aspen’s Hollywood at a higher altitude where us regular folk can brush elbows with celebrities. Or brush the elbow that has brushed the famous elbow. Or something like that.

  “Any chance Benedict Cumberbatch or Tom Hiddleston is voicing one of the cats?” I ask the bored woman in the ticket booth.

  She catches my eye and laughs. “Sadly, no, but Chris Hemsworth is the dog next door.”

  Oh, I bet he is.

  Ninety minutes and a bucket of fake-buttery popcorn later, I wipe the tears from my cheeks. This only manages to get salt in my already red eyes.

  “Damn animal movies,” I mumble to myself.

  Before leaving, I duck into the bathroom to splash water on my face. Satisfied I look like I’m suffering from bad allergies and not a big cry baby who can’t handle a kids’ movie, I tug my hat over my hair and stroll through the empty lobby.

  Once I’m outside, the cold air dispels the cozy feeling of a dark, warm theater. I pass a few couples laughing and canoodling on my way to my car. When I pass the Jerome, I notice the red carpet is gone, as is the crowd. The exterior is back to its nineteenth century simplicity.

  Unable to resist, I peek inside as I walk by the glass doors. The pretty people still crowd the lobby and bar, but it looks like the party has moved on, like it always does.

  I wonder if the women from before snuck in to brush against fame and power, hopeful some of the magic will rub off on them. All I can see is bright shiny teeth, flashes of expensive clothes, and bone structure that wins the genetic lottery.

  “So out of my element,” I mutter to myself as I skulk back to my car like a feral cat around humans.

  Happily back at home, I pour myself a bath and pick up the medical periodical George defaced earlier with his kitty brown-eye. A glass of crisp white wine, my favorite Ed Sheeran playlist cued up on Spotify, and a bath bomb should be the cure to the ordinary blues.

  For a minute or two I miss Geoffrey.

  Then I remember how boring our life together would be.

  I’m not average.

  I don’t want normal.

  Jesse with Fern on his shoulders skiing down a mountain enters my head for the thousandth time.

  Strong, manly Jesse with his fearless job saving people.

  No, I don’t want boring and typical.

  My mind wanders to Landon, the Viking with an edge.

  He’s not exactly painful to look at either.

  If he asked me out, I’d say yes.

  I have nothing to lose.

  Chapter 8

  Mara

  THE REST OF my first official work week is uneventful. I spend my days in the clinic or helping out in the shelter office. Life carries on normally. No beer gardens and drinking in the last of the afternoon sun surrounded by beautiful people. The ski slopes and streets of Aspen feel like a fantasyland even though they’re less than twenty minutes away.

  I wonder if this is how people in Orlando or Anaheim feel about living down the road from the happiest places on Earth.

  After work, I go to the grocery store in Snowmass. The only tell it’s not a normal market are the cans of oxygen by the shopping baskets. Welcome to life at altitude.

  I fill my cart with single girl staples: boneless, skinless chicken breasts; salad mix; yogurt; vanilla coffee creamer; hummus and pita chips; and last, but most important, ice cream.

  In the pet aisle, I pick up treats for the beasts at home. If George had his way, the ice cream would be for him. Too bad he’s lactose intolerant—you don’t want to know the details.

  Mentally checking off my shopping list, I turn the corner to the registers.

  When I hear a familiar chuckle, I quickly duck back into the aisle.

  Jesse stands at the nearest register. My body switches into a flight instinct before I can question why. There’s no reason for me to hide from him.

  Other than the whole awkward forgettable sexing.

  And the part about accidentally stalking him on his fancy red carpet date.

  I peek around the corner like a marmot popping his head out of a woodpile. I’m lightning quick, but I get a good glimpse of him smiling at the cashier.

  He’s one of those naturally friendly guys. As I spy, he chats her up, laughing and flirting while thoughtfully bagging his own groceries.

  Of course the cashier is putty in his hands. Doesn’t matter if she’s old enough to be his mother, she touches her hair and pats his arm, displaying the classic signs of interest.

  No one can blame her.

  He’s irresistible.

  Which means I need to resist him.

  I wonder if there’s a local support group for the women who fall for his charms and become addicted. We can bring cupcakes and cookies, sit in a circle, and share our experiences of being the center of his attention however briefly.

  Makes more sense why he didn’t recognize me. How can he keep track of the dozens of women he’s seduced over the years?

  After a friendly wave, he picks up his bag of groceries to leave. I lean against the shelving to avoid detection. My hip bumps a bag of spaghetti and it slides off the stack, creating a small waterfall of pasta.

  I try to stop the falling noodles with one hand, while still gripping my basket with the other, but fail. The basket knocks over a display of marinara sauce and next thing I know, I’m standing in a crime scene.

  Broken glass, pasta, and sauce pool together on the floor. Red splatters cover my jeans and boots.

  I’m still holding my basket, so I consider it a small win.

  And Jesse missed the need for a cleanup in aisle four. He’s probably out in the parking lot by now.

  Or standing at the end of the row, a confused smile on his face.

  “Hey, Doc, what’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing. Picking up a few things for dinner.” Holding up my basket, I act normal.

  “Having pasta?” Amusement lights up his eyes and he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth.

  “No, why do you ask?” I step away from the carnage.

  “I’ll let Marjorie know to send someone over to clean up. Did you see who did it?”

  He’s teasing me. There’s no way he doesn’t see the evidence staining my jeans.

  “Probably mice.” I manage to keep a straight face.

  He sweeps his eyes down my body and stares at my shoes for a bit before lifting his gaze to my face.

  “Sounds … plausible.”

  I point to his bag. “I don’t want to keep you.”

  “No problem. I was hoping to run into you.” He takes my basket out of my hands. “I have something for you.”

  A restraining order?

  “You finished shopping?” He studies the contents of my basket. “You don’t want your ice cream to melt.”

  “All done.”

  “No pasta?”

  “I try to avoid gluten.” It’s a lie. Gluten, aka carbs, is one of my best friends.

  “Good to know.” He leads me
over to the same register he used. “Marjorie, this is Mara. She’s the new vet working at Hawks Creek.”

  “And destroyer of the pasta aisle,” I confess. “I’ll pay for everything.”

  She waves away my admission of guilt. “Nice to meet you. Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that happens in this market.”

  Jesse stands beside me as she scans my groceries. His proximity makes me want to jump with every beep. I bite the inside of my bottom lip to stop myself from blurting about our first meeting. The tabloid magazines get all of my attention until I see his face staring back at me from a small photo on the cover of Celebrity Style. His wavy hair and golden eyes have been airbrushed to perfection to complement Willow’s flawless beauty. Their outfits from the Aspen party. I body block the cover from his view.

  Covered in splatter from the marinara massacre, I feel foolish for ever thinking we could have something between us. The only magazine I’ll ever make the cover of is the Journal of Veterinary Medicine. No sexy cover pic in my future.

  It’s evident he’s much better at playing things cool. He’s probably had a ton of experience, I remind myself. If I can focus on his poor memory, I won’t have to face my own missing pieces from that night.

  At least I remember meeting him.

  And the kissing.

  “Cash or card, sweetie?” Marjorie asks.

  “Huh?” I slowly blink at her.

  “How are you going to pay?” The tone in her voice tells me she thinks I’m weird.

  “Oh, right.” I dig out my card and insert it into the chip reader.

  She hands me my receipt. “Good luck.”

  With the new job? Here? With Jesse? In life?

  I wish she were more specific.

  The man in question sweeps my bags into his arm along with his own. “Come on, it’s in my rig.”

  “What is?”

  “Your surprise.” He points down the row of cars to a gray Land Cruiser.

  “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “I know, but I wanted to. Think of it as a welcome to town present.”

  What does a guy give a girl who he thinks he just met but has seen naked already?

  Even my mother would be stumped on the protocol for such a gift.