Crazy Over You (Love with Altitude #2)

by Daisy Prescott

  Setting down our groceries, he reaches into the backseat and then pulls out a bag. “Here you go.”

  Whatever is in the bag, he’s excited about it. His smile is irresistible and I grin back at him.

  “Thank you!” My enthusiasm might be premature given I haven’t looked inside the bag yet.

  “Open it,” he whispers.

  I’m lost for a moment in the sound of his deep voice and warm eyes.

  “Go on.” He touches my hand, the one holding the bag. “It won’t bite.”

  I peek inside and see a big bow. Beneath it is a helmet.

  Laughter and embarrassment create an awkward giggle-sigh in my throat. “Um, thanks?”

  “For next time you’re on the mountain. Red like your beanie. You can probably glue a big white fluff-ball on the top if you want.”

  “It’s … lovely.” And very bright red.

  “Top of the line. Only the best.”

  I have no idea how expensive ski helmets can be until I lift it out of the bag and see the price sticker. It’s more than a nice meal and almost a car payment.

  “You really shouldn’t have. I’m thinking of sticking to the lodge at base village for the rest of the season.”

  He looks like I punched him. “Why?”

  Because I’m a scaredy cat homebody who prefers hot cocoa to double-black anxiety attacks? Because I’m trying to avoid him and after today will probably drive down valley to shop for food in bulk? I’m sure a case of boxed mac n’ cheese will last me for months. My freezer can probably hold at least two weeks of Lean Cuisines. Cereal is a great meal no matter the time of day.

  Why does he have to be nice and buy me presents?

  Doesn’t he feel the awkward?

  Oh right. He doesn’t.

  Because I’m a stranger to him.

  I place the helmet, with bow still attached, on my head to demonstrate my gratitude. “It’s perfect. I can wear it cross-country skiing. Or snowshoeing. Do people wear helmets when they ice skate? They should. Ice is dangerous.”

  He’s still frowning. “You didn’t answer my question about skiing.”

  Not out loud at least. I stare at my feet. Wearing my helmet in a parking lot, I try to think of something clever to say.

  “Hey.” He ducks down into my field of vision. “Too soon?”

  “No, it’s a really thoughtful gift. You shouldn’t have spent the money.” How much can ski patrollers make? “It’s too much.”

  “I have an idea. I have a weekend day off. We’ll go back up the mountain and I’ll give you some lessons. You have all the basics. You just need more confidence.”

  “Lessons?”

  He knocks on my helmet. “Yes, I’m volunteering. Or I can sign you up for lessons with Tegian the Norwegian.”

  “The who-what?”

  “You are new around here. Everyone knows Tegian. He’s a legend on the slopes. I think he was on the Norwegian Olympic team in the eighties. Or maybe it was the seventies.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Old enough. He still skies in a one-piece rainbow jumpsuit sometimes.”

  I imagine an older guy with a major moose knuckle swooshing down the slopes. I’m not sure I’ve had worse ideas than trying to picture Tegian in all his glory.

  “Hot, right? He’s hard to compete with. All the ladies love the Norwegian.”

  “I choose you.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t even want to take lessons.

  Maybe if we spend more time together, he’ll remember me. Or I’ll work up the nerve to tell him.

  I should tell him now. Rip off the Band-Aid. Lose the cone of shame.

  “You know, we’ve—”

  His phone rings and he glances at the screen. “Hold that thought.”

  I swallow my confession and bury it back inside my chest.

  “Hi, Willow. Sure. No, I’m not doing anything. Just at the store.” He smiles at me before taking a few steps away for privacy. When he reaches the hood, he leans against it, leaving me standing by myself, wearing a helmet in a parking lot.

  Willow from the fancy party. Willow Cross who has it all goin’ on. He hasn’t mentioned seeing me in Aspen, so maybe, for once, I flew under his radar.

  I’m tempted to test out my helmet by banging my head on the side of his car, but I’m worried about causing damage. To the car.

  Before I can test out my resilience, he’s back. “Sorry about that. An old friend is in town for a few days. You know how it is when you haven’t seen someone in a long time.”

  Oh boy. “Sure. Of course.”

  Old friend doesn’t sound like a passionate love. Then again, he’s not going to tell a practical stranger about his famous girlfriend.

  He continues talking. “I’m off on Sundays. Give me your number and I’ll text you. We can meet at base village. I think we’ll avoid Sam’s Knob this time and try out Elk Camp. How do you feel about gondolas?”

  “They’re romantic?”

  He lifts an eyebrow.

  “Venice. Gondolas.” I remove my helmet.

  “I meant on the mountain.”

  “Right.” Of course. I should stop talking. When I’m around him, my lizard brain takes over and I’m no longer able to process big words or complex concepts. Or focus. Obviously.

  “Give me your phone.” He wiggles his fingers. I dig my phone out of my bag and unlock it before handing it to him. He punches in his number and sends himself a text. “All set.”

  “Alrighty then. Thanks for this.” I swing the helmet in case he forgot. “I’ll see you around I guess.”

  “You’re welcome.” His smile is addicting. All straight, white teeth and those gorgeous soft lips.

  “See you.” I walk backward a few steps before turning and heading to my own car. When I reach the end of the row I realize I’ve walked in the opposite direction from where I parked and I’ll have to pass him again when I retrace my steps.

  He’s leaning against his bumper when I loop back around. In his hand is my grocery bag.

  “Forget something?” He holds up the tote.

  “I was distracted by my awesome helmet.” Faking an “aren’t I ridiculous” smile on my face, I practically snatch the bag from his hands.

  “Can you find your way home?”

  I ignore his chuckle. “I think I’ll manage.”

  “Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

  “There are two roads in and out of town. I’ll be fine.”

  “Just making sure.” He tips his head. For a few seconds it seems like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t.

  We stand there awkwardly for another minute.

  “Well, I’ll be having ice cream soup for dinner. Enjoy your evening!” I wave with the arm holding my bag and it knocks into my hip.

  His expression tells me he’s worried I might maim myself.

  Forcing myself not to rush, I casually walk to my little blue Honda CRV.

  Smooth.

  How am I going to survive an entire day of ski lessons with him?

  On the drive home I contemplate faking a sprained ankle with an ace bandage.

  Chapter 9

  Mara

  ON MONDAY, I attend a board meeting for the ranch. The only person I recognize besides Elizabeth is Sage. She’s a little younger than I am, but apparently comes from a wealthy family in Chicago. Because of her, I have a job. Besides being responsible for me having a job here, she’s also a nice person. I can see us hanging out, if I ever get the nerve up to ask her to coffee or whatever the mountain equivalent is.

  Elizabeth calls the meeting to order. Along with me and Sage, three other women sit around the long conference table. Mary is the volunteer representative. She’s wearing a red and black plaid shirt covered in Scottie dogs. I’m introduced to everyone else and I give a short speech about my background and goals for the new clinic.

  Sage smiles at me encouragingly when I finish.

  Elizabeth introduces the age
nda and I notice the first item concerns sled dogs. There’s been a lot of controversy in recent years about kennels and treatment of these working dogs. I wasn’t aware of any local sledding operations.

  “We want to partner with Mushers Kennel in Aspen to make sure the dogs are fairly treated. Additionally, it’s important to avoid a PR disaster if there are any issues. We don’t need protests and animal rights boycotts in town.”

  “The dogs should come first before any tourism concerns,” I speak up after she finishes her statement.

  “Of course. We don’t have any existing concerns. Mushers has always done their best to be fair to the dogs, but they’re working animals, not pets.”

  “Ski patrol has working dogs. They live with their humans and are members of the family. Why can’t the same be done with the sled dogs?” Sage offers.

  I think of Jesse skiing down the mountain with Fern on his shoulders. “The bonding helps train the dogs. I’m not sure if the same is true for mushers.”

  “Let’s reach out to them and see how we can work together. Mara, it’s important for you to introduce yourself. Make sure they know we’re here for any medical needs.”

  I make a note to research other sled dog kennels to determine acceptable protocols.

  Elizabeth moves on to the next item. “We were contacted about a potential animal hoarder outside Glenwood. There could be a dozen dogs and over twenty cats. Animal control will be visiting the property this week. Typically in these cases, the pets are neglected and will need medical care. Mara and I will be on standby to drive to Glenwood with the van if their shelters can’t handle the influx.”

  The rest of the meeting is about volunteer schedules and fundraising. My limited staff of vet techs falls under Sage’s funding, but I feel obligated to give input on ideas to bring in more donations. For every dog or cat, goat or horse, we rescue, there are hundreds still in need of help. If I think of how many animals are neglected or abused, I would spend my days in tears. I need to focus on the things we can do, not be overwhelmed by the magnitude of the need.

  Mushers could be the perfect chance to make a difference and be part of a larger impact.

  Tuesdays are spay and neuter day at the clinic.

  I like to blast music while I operate. It helps break up the monotony of the repetitive procedures. Some surgeons like classic music. I don’t do pretentious. I like old school hip-hop and often sing along.

  Yeah, I know all the words to “Rappers’ Delight.”

  If I were the kind of girl who sings karaoke, I’d kill it with that song. Mic drop.

  However, for me, singing in front of people is up there with public nudity and back hair on humans on a list of things I’d like to avoid.

  Dying alone and having cats nibble away my toes tops the list.

  This is where my brain goes.

  Being single isn’t the worst thing in the world.

  Or so the women’s magazines tell me right after the articles about trends in pubic hair and how to please my man six ways to Saturday before I spend Sunday baking cupcakes from scratch.

  I swear I only read those magazines in waiting rooms. Or on planes. Or in line at the grocery store.

  Our small lobby here at the ranch needs more trashy magazines. All we have are Horse and Hound, Dog Fancy, Cat Fancy, and the super trendy, Goat Fancy.

  Pygmy goats are this decade’s pot-bellied mini pig.

  You can put pajamas on a goat, but that doesn’t make them a house pet.

  The clinic has two vet techs on staff along with me. Before Sage gave her endowment, Elizabeth made due with volunteers and agreements with local vets down valley to handle all the shelter’s needs.

  Now that I’m here and I have a small staff, we do everything in-house, as well as provide free spay and neutering once a month to local pet owners.

  My techs, Teresa and Beth, are pros at neutering.

  Like most things in life, anything having to do with females is more complicated.

  Castration? Give me five minutes and I’ve got it covered.

  Probably not something I should ever mention on a date.

  This may be another reason I’m single. I’m perfectly fine with removing balls.

  Today we snip and sew ten male cats, and spay five females along with a couple of dogs who were transported to us from the hoarder house.

  After everyone is coned and comfortable in recovery, we clean up the surgery room.

  “Mara,” Lisa, our receptionist, calls me over the intercom.

  I press speak with my elbow. “Yes?”

  “You have a visitor up front.”

  “I’m not expecting anyone.” I finish drying my hands on a paper towel and then toss it in the trash.

  “He says he’ll wait.”

  He?

  The only “he” I know is Jesse.

  Or Lee Barnard, but wouldn’t she say it was Lee given he’s Sage’s boyfriend and has a goat barn named after him?

  I walk out of the surgical room and down the hall trying to prepare myself for disappointment if it’s not Jesse.

  Landon stands at the reception desk, laughing with Lisa. He leans on the counter and smiles at something on her computer. Their heads are practically touching.

  “Uh, hi?” I interrupt them.

  Landon’s eyes sweep over to me, then slowly trail down my body from my shoulders to my legs. Not sure if he has a thing for scrubs, but I don’t think he can see anything of interest unless he’s attracted to cats in outer space.

  Yes, they’re as awesome as they sound.

  “Nice outfit.”

  “Thanks. No one in space can hear you meow.” I laugh at my own joke.

  Landon doesn’t.

  Lisa takes a couple extra beats before she giggles.

  Landon still doesn’t laugh.

  Okay, so sci-fi horror humor with cats isn’t his jam.

  He clears his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Lisa picks up several folders from the desk and mentions needing to file them. I’m pretty sure the ones in her hands are all empty, but I don’t argue with her.

  “Can I help you with something animal related? Do you want to adopt a pet?”

  He makes a face at the mention of a pet.

  Whoa.

  “No pets?” I ask.

  “No time for the extra responsibility.”

  A warning siren like the kind used for tornadoes begins to sound in the distance, but I’m the only one who can hear it.

  “Life can keep us busy.” I tilt my head to the side as I wonder what he’s doing at the shelter if he doesn’t have a pet nor does he seem interested in obtaining one.

  “I decided we should go out to dinner. You’re new here and probably don’t know anyone. I imagine you’re lonely. So I’m here to ask you out. There’s an incredible and authentic creperie in Aspen.” He does a strange accent for creperie that might be French or his best Celine Dion impression. Hard to tell.

  My head tilts to the opposite side like a dog when she hears an odd sound. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  Why can I be straightforward with Landon and not with Jesse?

  Maybe because Landon’s cool Viking smugness doesn’t turn me on. I feel about as hot as a fjord in the winter.

  Still, he did mention crepes.

  While his invite is vaguely, to put it lightly, insulting, he’s also right. I don’t really know anyone in town. I spend most evenings playing referee between Tapper and George. Fred acts like he doesn’t know either of them, which is no help at all.

  “Okay. I like crepes.” Honestly, my enthusiasm for an evening with Landon is directly proportional to my love of crepes.

  “Great. We can meet there. Are you free Friday night? What am I saying, you probably are.”

  My jaw drops and my mouth opens.

  Crepes, think of the crepes.

  He could be awkward because of nerves. He had smoother lines during après ski.

 
I hesitate for a few seconds. “Friday works.”

  “Great. We’ll meet at seven.” He stares over my shoulder.

  I love crepes.

  “Sure. See you then.” I give him a small wave, then drop my hand.

  He flashes me a smug smile and saunters out the front door.

  Crepes, crepes, crepes, crepes.

  Lisa returns and sets the same folders on the desk. “You can buy your own crepes, you know.”

  Her admission of eavesdropping makes me laugh. “I’m trying to be open minded and say yes to new things.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Suit yourself.”

  Her flat tone isn’t exactly a vote of confidence.

  Chapter 10

  Mara

  I HAVE A date.

  I think it’s a date and not a welcome to town dinner.

  Landon didn’t say it was a date. Neither did he mention anyone else joining us.

  He’s also not picking me up. Ride giving implies a date.

  Still, I need to prepare.

  He clearly doesn’t understand the awesomeness of cats in space. I’ll need an outfit that says mature and sexy.

  Easy. Because of course I have a closet full of those kinds of clothes.

  I open the doors and stare into the sea of jeans, boring black work pants, scrubs in animal patterns, responsible shirts, basic sweaters, and T-shirts I’ve owned since college. In the back of the closet are a few sundresses and a black dress more appropriate for funerals than a date.

  When does my fairy godmother arrive to turn this all into something fabulous?

  In the past, if I needed a special outfit, I’d raid Sofie’s closet. She owns things with sequins and fringe. I own non-wrinkle black pants and clogs.

  I text her an SOS.

  My phone rings and I jump.

  No one but my mother ever actually uses the phone to make calls.

  I’m relieved to see Sofie’s name on the screen.

  “Why are you calling me?”

  “You texted me.”

  “Which means I expected a text in return. Not using our real voices.” I lower mine and add a terrible French accent, “Vhat if zey are lissening to us?”

  “Who? No one cares what we talk about.” She’s not laughing. Not even a giggle.