“You sure?” He had more snow on the back of his hat, and she brushed at that, too, with a gentle hand. “Did you hit your head?”
“No, that wasn’t the part of me that took the beating,” he said, taking a whack at the seat of his pants and wincing.
She laughed with the relief of it. “Are you telling me the Professional Skier, my protector and advisor, fell on his butt?”
He smiled back. “Afraid so. You going to give me a hard time about it?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, happiness filling her. “I think so. I think you’re toast.”
Kiss That Ball
They skied across the last long, shallow slope, saw the gray shape of the Audi looming through the blowing snow, and Joe took an easy breath at last. It wasn’t quite true that it hadn’t mattered who she was. That wouldn’t have changed his decision to turn around, but it sure had changed how he’d felt about it.
It took another ten minutes to get their gear stowed, of course, hindered by the storm. “Go on and get in the car,” he said when she had her skis off. “I’ll do this.”
She looked up at him in surprise, continued to scrape the snow off the bottom of a ski with her pole. “I can clean off my own skis. Besides, we’ll get it done faster this way.”
He pulled her bag and moccasins out of the back, took the ski and pole out of her hands and shoved the bag into her arms. “Man, you argue a lot. Go change. Because you’ll just do it halfway, and then throw everything in.” He had to smile at her, because he was so relieved to be back safe with her, and she was opening her mouth in indignation, and it was pretty funny. “I like my car neat. There’s a right way, and you won’t do it.”
“Huh.” She did her best to pout, but she was laughing. “You’re right. I won’t. And besides, I really have to go to the bathroom.”
“Well, then,” he said, “better go do it before there’s a line.”
She laughed again, opened the front door of the car and shoved her bag inside, then headed for the blue Port-a-Potty on one side of the parking lot, and he smiled and worked on the skis some more, and put everything away. Neatly.
“Going to take me out for a beer?” she asked when they were on their way to town again. “Because you know what? I think I earned it. And I didn’t even fall down.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you? Maybe that didn’t embarrass me enough. But, yeah, I’ll take you out for a beer, because I think you earned it too.”
She sat back and closed her eyes in the warmth of the car, and he switched the music to some Peruvian stuff he liked, guitars and flutes, and concentrated on keeping the car between the orange poles as the snow blew around them. He wondered if she’d gone to sleep. She’d worked hard enough to wear anybody out. He hadn’t been kidding, she had earned it. She’d impressed the hell out of him today.
She stirred, though, when he pulled to a stop at a light on Tahoe Boulevard. “Ooh,” she said. “There you go. My favorite date. Don’t you think?”
He looked at the western-style Bar & Grill sign, “Billiards” winking in red neon, and hesitated. “Blowing hard,” he said. “Maybe we should just get back.”
“We’re, what, five miles from the cabin? Come on, Joe. Buy me a beer and a hamburger.”
“Five miles can be a long way, if the storm’s bad enough. Anyway, I thought you were high-maintenance,” he said, pulling into a spot on the street all the same.
“That’s what they say,” she said, sassy as ever.
“A woman who wants a beer and a hamburger at a bar isn’t high-maintenance,” he informed her, grabbing her coat out of the back along with his own and handing it to her. “A woman who wants to go to Switzerland to ski, that’s high-maintenance.”
“Huh.” She looked surprised, but pulled her coat on and climbed out of the car.
He waited for her, grabbed for her elbow as she slipped a little coming around to where he waited to cross the street. “Those boots weren’t really meant for snow,” he told her.
“They’re cute, though, aren’t they? Guess I’ll just have to hold on to you on the slippery parts,” she said, reaching for his forearm and hanging on tight to cross the street, slick now with blowing snow.
It was like an old movie, having her on his arm like that, and he loved it. And her boots, he thought, sneaking a quick look down as he opened the outer door of the bar for her, stepped into the tiny vestibule and stomped snow off his own boots, really were cute. The soft, fringed deerhide over her calves, the stretchy skin-tight black pants above, not quite underwear, but way too close for comfort. And the silky red turtleneck she wore over them, which was pretty tight too, revealed, now, as she pulled her coat off, let him hang it up on the hooks near the door. All of her, in fact, was nothing but cute, in addition to a few other adjectives he could name, and his hands itched to touch her, to feel those curves for himself.
She pulled her purse around when they were sitting down in the warmth, hamburgers ordered and beers in front of them, and started scrabbling through it, finally pulling out a little bottle of ibuprofen and shaking out a couple caplets.
“You sore?” he asked, taking a grateful swallow of Anchor Steam.
She looked up at him in surprise. “No. These are for you.” She held them out. “I thought about suggesting that you ask for an ice pack to sit on,” she said with a naughty smile, “but I figured your manliness wouldn’t allow for it.”
She was making insistent little circles in the air with her hand, so he took the caplets from her with a sigh. “I don’t need these,” he said. “Not two, anyway.”
“Yeah, right,” she snorted. “Tell me that doesn’t hurt. It’s not going to kill you to take something. It’s not even going to destroy your he-man image. It’s not morphine, it’s Advil.” She leaned across the square, dark-varnished table, opened her blue eyes wide, and said in a loud whisper, “I’ll never tell.” She made a giant X over her chest, which meant he had to look at her chest. It was only polite, after all. “Cross my heart. I’ll take your secret to the grave.”
He reached across, grabbed her half-drunk pint of beer and slid it his way. “I think I’d better cut you off. You’re the one who’s been into the morphine.”
“Give it back.” She was laughing, and slapping at his hand, and taking back her beer. “I can’t help it. I had a near-death experience. I’m entitled.”
Now it was his turn to snort. “You did not have a near-death experience. You had a little bit of an exciting time coming down a mountain with somebody who knows what he’s doing. Somebody who made you turn around, could I point that out? So he could keep you safe?”
“Somebody who fell down,” she had to insist. “And take your pills. Or I swear I’m asking the waitress for an ice pack, and telling her exactly where your bruise is. I could tell she wanted to know.”
He laughed, popped them into his mouth, and washed them down with a swallow of beer. “Nah.” He glanced around at the pretty blonde. “Way out of my league.”
“Why do you do that?” she demanded, not laughing now. “Why do you pretend I don’t know that you’re attractive to women? Why do you act like you don’t notice that Sherry wants to go out with you, and that waitress wants to go home with you, even before they find out that you’ve got, what? Ten million dollars? Twenty? Whatever it is. Why do you act like you’re some . . .” She made an extravagant gesture, and he thought, OK, maybe one beer’s enough. “Some truck driver?” she finished. “Although even if you were a truck driver, you’d still be hot, and you know it, Joe. You have to know it. You’ve got a motorcycle. You’ve got a tattoo. I haven’t seen it for a while, but unless you’ve had it removed, and I bet you haven’t, you’ve still got it. Don’t you?” she demanded.
“Yeah, I’ve still got it,” he said, a little stunned.
“I bet it still looks good, too,” she said, her voice softening. “Because, Joe. You’re huge, and you’ve got muscles. Serious muscles. And they look good, and women love muscles. We love them. A
nd I know you have to know that.”
She still talked in italics. And she was making him seriously uncomfortable. Luckily, the blonde waitress showed up with their burgers and fries, and yeah, she smiled at Joe, and he saw it, but he didn’t care.
“Can I get you folks another beer?” she asked.
“Yes,” Alyssa said, just as Joe said “no.”
“Yes,” she said again, and glared at him, and he smiled at the blonde and said, “Yes for her. No for me,” and Alyssa sighed extravagantly once the woman left and said, “What?”
“What?” he asked, trying and failing not to smile back at her.
“You can’t have two beers? Because, what would happen? You’d get all wild and crazy and dance on the bar? Start stripping and show us your tattoo?”
Would she stop talking about taking off clothes? And now he was talking in italics, even if only in his head. “Eat your hamburger,” he said, and started in on his own, because he was getting rattled. “Now I know why your parents never serve alcohol,” he muttered.
She laughed, and choked on her beer, and he had to reach across and pound her back.
“Thanks for taking me backcountry skiing,” she said when she’d got her breath back and had finally taken a bite of her hamburger, and he was feeling a bit more settled too. “I never said that, so thanks. Even though you made me turn around.”
“And I was . . .” He made a beckoning motion at her.
She laughed again. “Right. You were right,” she admitted. “I was glad we weren’t any higher. That was hard.”
“So next time,” he said, “you’re not going to complain about my checking your gear before we start? You’re not going to argue with me when I say we need to turn around?”
“Well,” she said with that sassy smile, “I wouldn’t get carried away.” And she took another big bite and smiled at him while she chewed, and he thought, Damn. I am in love with this woman, and tried to put it down to the beer. But he’d still only had one.
Then it got worse, because after they’d eaten, she said, “I’m bad at pool. Are you good at pool?”
“I’m OK,” he said.
“What does that mean? That you’re some kind of Western District Billiards Champion?”
“No,” he said, and she had him smiling again. “It means I’m OK.”
“Then let’s play pool,” she said.
“Uh . . .” He glanced out the front window. It was only four or so, but it was looking dim out there. “Maybe we should get back.”
“Come on, Joe.” She stood up, grabbed his hand, and was tugging him to his feet. “Have another beer and play pool with me. I’m bad, but you can show me. Come on. Teach me.”
She wasn’t all that bad, actually. She wasn’t great, but she had too much natural athletic ability to be bad.
Except, yeah, she was. When she was draping herself across the end of the table to take her shot, one knee pulled up to rest against the cushion, looking back at him over her shoulder, that was bad. And when the guys at the next table were pausing in their game to stare at her ass while she did it, so Joe had to glare at them to get them to turn away, knowing they’d be checking her out again as soon as he turned his back, that was bad, too.
He knew exactly what they were thinking, watching her bent over like that. All a man would have to do was get up close behind her, pull those stretchy pants down, and he could have her right there. She was perfectly positioned for it, and every guy in the bar could see it, and every guy in the bar was thinking it. And Joe was having one hell of a time not showing what she was doing to him.
“You’re not doing too well either,” she said as he misjudged a shot, failed to sink the 4-ball. “Guess you aren’t the Western Division Billiards Champion.” She lined up to take her shot, and he came around behind her to watch. And there she was, bent over again, actually wiggling her hips in the tight pants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and looking over her shoulder again. “This one’s hard,” she complained.
Yes, it was, and he couldn’t help it.
“Is this right?” she asked, and it wasn’t, so he had to reach around behind her and re-position her hands, and that wasn’t improving matters one bit, especially when she leaned back into him, straightened up a little, and made contact, and he tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. He failed miserably, of course, because she was warm and soft and had her lower back snuggled right up to his groin, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Well, he could pull back, he realized after a couple frozen seconds, and he did, and tried his best to maintain.
“Just stroke it with the cue,” he said, stepping to one side. “All you need to do is kiss that ball. Gently.”
She hit it way too hard, of course, sent the cue ball into the pocket along with the one she’d been aiming for, and stood back. “I’m bad,” she sighed. “I guess I need a lesson.”
That’s when he had to excuse himself and go to the men’s room. He looked in the mirror at the confused, besotted face staring back at him, and knew he was losing the battle.
“Get a grip,” he muttered, and reminded himself for the hundredth time that making any kind of move on Alyssa would be a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. Her brother was his business partner and his best friend. Both her brothers were so protective of her, they’d probably kill him if things went south, even if her dad didn’t. And anyway, her parents were the closest thing to parents he had himself, which made it practically . . . wrong.
It would be asking for trouble on so many levels, and it was way too risky for a guy who couldn’t afford to take anything like that kind of risk. Did she know what she was doing to him? It had seemed like it at times, and it had definitely seemed like it while they’d been playing pool. But if he was wrong . . .
Even if he was right, it would be putting his hand right in the fire, and he knew it. The only problem was, that was exactly where his hand needed to be.
They finished their game, and Joe continued to fail miserably at not noticing her, and not reacting to what he was noticing, but at least he won.
“Ready to go?” he asked when the last ball was sunk, taking her cue from her and setting it in the rack with his own.
“They have a jukebox,” she said. “You know what I’ve always wanted to do?”
“No, what?” He was a fool, but whatever she wanted, he wanted it too.
“I’ve always wanted to ask a guy for some money for the jukebox, and have him give it to me and let me pick the music, like I was in the 1950s. And since being out with you is like being in the 1950s anyway . . . how about it?”
He pulled out his wallet and gave her a couple bucks, watched her walk over to the old-fashioned machine, all colored neon and decorative chrome. She bent down to choose her songs, and he decided he’d better join her.
“Find anything you like?” he asked, and she looked up at him with a smile, pushed a lock of shiny hair behind one ear.
“It’s pretty much all country,” she said. “What’s your favorite music?”
“Jazz, blues, R&B. Country’s all right too, in a place like this where it fits.”
“Really.” She looked surprised. “Why did I never know that? I’d have figured you for a hard-rock guy, all those rough edges.”
“Lots of things you don’t know about me,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?” she asked, running a finger caressingly over the chrome selection buttons. “Like what?”
“Like that I like my music slow and bluesy. When I’m in a bar, or in certain . . . other situations.” He knew it was a bad idea to say it, and he said it anyway, and he smiled down at her and saw her breath catch, and the fire inside flared up just a little bit hotter.
“Well,” she said, and he could see the movement of her throat as she swallowed, “I’ll see what I can do.” She fed his money into the machine, punched buttons, and the rocking music that had been pulsing through the bar changed. The guitars started in, and it was bluesy, and it w
as slow, and she was swaying in those fringed boots.
“Come on,” she said, looking up at him through the curtain of her hair, because somehow that lock had come out from behind her ear to fall over one eye. When had she taken her hair out of its ponytail? Sometime way before pool.
“Come on,” she said again, holding a hand out to him. “Dance with me.”
That cautionary voice in his brain was still trying to talk, but he was done listening. Instead, he took her hand in his like he didn’t have a choice, because he didn’t. He pulled her onto the floor and settled his own hand over her lower back, felt the dip in her spine with his thumb, and that dip took care of whatever resistance he had left.
There was only one kind of dancing they were doing to this music, the kind where she was in his arms, the kind that was vertical sex, where you knew what was coming and you were delaying it on purpose, just to make it hotter, just to draw out the delicious anticipation for a few minutes more. The drums were pounding out a slow, steady message right in time with his heart, the guy was singing about somebody’s dress hitting the floor, and Joe was moving around the little square of hardwood with Alyssa in his arms, and she was his perfect fit.
He couldn’t have hidden a thing if he’d wanted to, because she’d wiggled that much closer and put her cheek against his chest, and her hand was stroking his shoulder, and she was holding him the same way he was holding her, tight and close, like she didn’t want to let him go. He pulled her in a little more with his hand against the small of her back, felt her soft, warm body pressing against every aching inch of him, and that was it. He was done.
That was the moment when, after fifteen endless years, Joe Hartman gave it up. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he knew that no matter how bad an idea it was, he was going to take it. And he was going to do it now.
Asking for Trouble (The Kincaids) Page 17
