by Dani Collins
“Nothing. I’m glad you like it.” He waited a beat, just long enough for her blush to deepen under his unwavering study. “Especially since you worked so hard to get here.” His mouth twitched and his gaze moved to track restlessly over the peaks.
“Having fun?” She refused to laugh, even though she discovered she wanted to, mostly with relief. It felt good to take a step away from being adversaries.
“Always.”
With his face relaxed like that, she thought he might be telling the truth, at least in the moment.
“Is this, like, your jam? Seeing the world from the top of mountains?” She imagined him in his ski gear, all whipcord strength and British spy resourcefulness.
“Yes,” he said dryly. “It’s my ‘jam.’”
Okay, she couldn’t hold back her chuckle that time. He was so derisive.
“I meant, is this why you like to ski?”
He scratched beneath his chin. “Speed was my jam. Winning. Being on top is definitely my preferred position.”
Slam. His gaze nearly knocked her off the rock.
“Mostly I liked it because I couldn’t think about anything else when I was skiing. Not if I wanted to survive. So it was a way to dodge crap that otherwise might have had me doing drugs or getting into scraps.” He did a little zigzag with his hand, indicating a slalom, then shrugged that off. “Appreciating the view came later.”
She was surprised by his honesty. Kind of flattered at his confiding something that seemed so personal, then embarrassed she considered it significant. He seemed like someone who didn’t bother talking unless he wanted to, but she’d let down her guard once and been stung by him.
She hugged herself, seeing herself as pretty tough, but she wasn’t up for another set-down from him. Just thinking about the day with the coffee dragged at her enjoyment of this one.
Murphy barked from below and it was starting to rain in earnest.
Rolf easily stepped his long legs down, once, twice, then leapt to the ground, making the dismount look easy. He turned to watch her.
Really? He couldn’t let her make a fool of herself in private? Ugh. This was the kind of leap that required faith and commitment, but she was a complete chicken. She was going down on her ass and would very likely land on her hands and knees.
She crouched to keep her center of gravity low, set the heels of her hands into the wet moss on either side of her hips, and searched for the first rocky step.
Rolf’s hand guided her foot to it, then tugged at her other one, which was not helpful.
“Get out of the way,” she said, trying to keep her balance as she slid forward and down toward a jump that was not going to earn her ten points for sticking the landing.
He grabbed her. He freaking reached out, wrapped his arms around her thighs so her butt sat on his forearms. He plucked her off the rocks. She slapped her dirty, wet hands on his shoulders for balance and said, “Oof,” ever so indelicately. Her boob went into his ear.
He pivoted and slid her to the ground, letting her go in the same motion, agile as Patrick effing Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Her knees didn’t want to work and he quickly grasped her upper arm, keeping her from making a complete fool of herself and crumpling to the ground.
Why Colonel, I do declare, I’m overcome.
He pointed at the sky. “That’s hail. We need to hurry.”
A blurred cloud of locusts appeared to be heading across the mountaintops straight toward them. She realized that noise like a freight train wasn’t the excavator and it was growing louder.
“The one day I decide to go for a walk,” she muttered, jogging after him into the trees. Her jacket was damp through now. The wind sapped the heat from her skin and running didn’t counter it. It was getting really cold!
Under the thick boughs of the evergreens, she could barely see the ground because the sky was growing so dark. It was creepy and became even more worrisome when hail started to pock through the trees, sounding sharp and unforgiving.
“We’re not going to make it down.”
“Nope,” he agreed, catching her arm as they reached the edge of the trees. He raced her across the clearing toward the weathered stairs of the rickety hut, keeping her from tripping on the uneven ground.
Murphy was right on their heels, trying to knock them off the stairs and get through the door at the top, as anxious as they were to get out of the peppering hail.
Rolf slammed the door and the hut rocked on its stilts.
“Is this thing even going to stay upright?” she asked, wide-eyed and bracing herself on the wall.
Rolf shrugged.
The hut was tiny, maybe eight by eight with a second door that led onto a platform that had accessed the lift where it had once terminated. Inside, a big chunk of space was taken up by a shelf-desk built out from one wall. The desk was covered in initials and graffiti. The wear on the floor suggested a chair or stool had stood in front of it for a long time.
That left a limited space for her and Rolf to stand—about the size of an average elevator. It would help if the dog went under the table, but being in the way was kind of Murphy’s M.O. He stood between them, thwap-thwapping their legs with his tail as he silently asked, What now?
At least the hut had windows, which gave the illusion of space, even if one was smashed and the wind was howling through it as an announcement that the storm was arriving overhead. A hundred thousand golf balls landed on the roof. Then a hundred thousand more.
She held Rolf’s gaze with wide eyes, never having heard anything like it. His gaze rolled upward, but he didn’t look nearly as scared as she was.
The dog whined and turned in a circle. She reminded herself that this hut had survived the avalanche and more than a decade of storms, but that only made her think today was even more likely to be the day it collapsed under the stress.
Rolf’s radio cracked.
“Dude, where are you?” It sounded like Trigg.
“Lift hut.”
“On my way.”
“Won’t the hail dent his truck?” Glory asked.
“Could only be an improvement on that piece of shit.”
Okay.
Glory looked out at the torrent of ice chunks and heavy rain. A stream of white ice balls had formed uphill and was cutting a line under the hut, making her nervous that the ground would be washed away beneath it. “Why is this built on stilts?”
“Snow.”
Duh. Of course. She shifted, trying to get away from the gale-force wind and spatters of moisture blowing through the hole in the window and the draft coming through the door on her side. Somehow, the drumming on the roof grew even louder.
She folded her arms and tried to act brave while her feet curled in her sneakers and she had to consciously remember not to bite through her lip.
“Your mom wrote a lot of books.”
“What?” Her heart leapt into her throat.
“Her website says you helped.”
A sick heat rose from her belly to the place behind her sternum. Talking about this made her nervous when it was a fan who adored her mother’s stories. Strangers—men—who were notoriously judgmental about romance even before she threw in her own hang-ups about having her work read, stressed her right out. Fortunately, she had had to make explanations enough times her pat response rolled off her tongue.
“Her earliest books were published in the nineties. When she got her rights back, they needed to be modernized before she could reissue them. Her characters didn’t have smart phones, didn’t text. I helped with those little plot fixes. Mostly I ran the business side.”
“The fan club?”
“The business,” she asserted with a frown. She might downplay her role in the rewrites, but the rest was hardcore entrepreneurship. Plus, she was always quick to defend the legitimacy of a career in writing romance. It was one of the few genres where a lot of authors made a really good living. “When I say she reissued her early titles, I meant as an independent publisher.
That means taking care of all the production details, covers, formatting, then loading them to the online vendors, setting up ads and other marketing programs, tracking sales, maintaining the website… Running a publishing business. Interacting with fans is icing. The fun part.”
“Are her books still generating an income? You still run that business?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a decent income? Enough to support you?”
“I take a wage, but the bulk of the royalties go to Dad. Why?”
“You didn’t inherit it, even though you’re the one who runs it?”
“Does Trigg’s mom get an income from Wikinger, even though you run it?” She only threw that at him because she found his quizzing uncomfortable. All of this was uncomfortable. He was taking up all the space, leaning on the wall so his boots stuck out toward her soggy sneakers, stepping all over extremely sensitive topics while making her confront his piercing gaze.
And she couldn’t get away. The machine-gun staccato on the roof wailed away.
“She owns shares, but Trigg and I own the majority. Wikinger is publicly traded. It’s different.”
“Well, mom was primary stakeholder and did what she wanted. I still have some money in the college fund she set up for me, but she wanted Dad to have the bulk of her proceeds. If he had been the one to make all the money, it wouldn’t sound weird that he left his fortune to his wife.”
He accepted that with a tilt of his head. “Did you go to college? Or start working for her before that?”
“I have a degree in communications. I was going to become a librarian, but—” She cut herself off as the corner of his mouth dug in. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You think it’s funny that I wanted to be a librarian?” He wasn’t the first.
“I don’t see it. Well, I do, but not in the way you probably mean it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. You wanted to be a librarian, but changed your mind? Why?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Because I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“You and me both.” She scowled out the window. Where the heck was Trigg?
Rolf took off his vest and offered it.
“I’m fine,” she lied, but she was crossing her arms so hard, she was going to split the back of her hoodie. Her muscles were aching under the violence of her shivers.
“Your lips are turning blue.” He unclipped the radio and kept it, but hooked the armholes of the vest over her shoulders so it hung off her front like a smock. The warmth from his body radiated from the quilted lining onto her arms. It smelled like spice and cedar. Him.
She was cold enough to give in. She pulled the vest around her back and shrugged her arms in, then folded the front across her wet jacket and hunched into it, drawing one lapel up to cover the bottom of her chin. “Thanks.”
Was the drum on the roof easing?
“So that’s how your father had the money to buy the lodge? Your mother earned it with her books?”
“Yes.”
He might have been mildly impressed. Or suppressing gas. She couldn’t tell.
“You’re mad about it, though. You don’t want to be here.”
“I told you why I was mad that day,” she muttered. Was that noise the truck, spinning its wheels in the muck? Or still the hail and wind? She looked out the window again.
“You’re worried he can’t do this without you.”
She wasn’t sure if she should cop to that. There might be ramifications. What if he decided he didn’t trust her father to get the lodge running and pulled the rug on the lease or something?
“Is that why you’re here?” she challenged lightly. “You didn’t think your brother could pull this off?”
“My brother can’t get a truck up a hill.”
Okay, she had to smirk at that one. She looked for said truck and didn’t see it.
“I know what’s involved in running a business,” she said, trying to downplay her lack of confidence in her father. “It makes sense that I help Dad set up. And I feel guilty,” she admitted. “When I was younger, Mom was on deadline a lot. Dad was the involved parent and we were really close. Then puberty hit and I didn’t want to go fishing or camping anymore.” Even Pike Place Market had earned an upturned nose.
Her withdrawal had had as much to do with the hell of high school as anything else, but withdraw she had.
“I was still at college when Mom was diagnosed. I moved home and started helping out, stuffing bookmarks in envelopes, that kind of thing. Her treatment dragged on and she kept adding to my role. I decided not to pursue a masters because I wanted to spend time with her. I think Dad feels like I chose her, though. Or abandoned him or something. He wants the lodge to be ‘our’ thing. Parents are mortal so even though this lodge isn’t my dream job, that’s why I’m here.”
Judge away, Judgey McJudgerson.
“When I was nine, my mother dropped me for ski practice. She got out of the car and tried to come around to kiss me. I wouldn’t let her. She died in a car crash a few hours later.”
Glory’s heart jerked and sank like a stone. “There’s no way you could have known that would happen. You were a kid.”
His rock-hard shoulders twitched in the tiniest of shrugs beneath his snug pullover, dismissing her attempt to help him forgive himself. “I’m just saying, you’re smart to spend time with him while you can, even though it’s not strictly on your terms.”
Both his parents were gone, she recalled.
“Did you… Were you close with your dad? I mean, is that why you’re here? Because this was his dream?”
“Oh, fuck no. I was angry with him. Still am. No, I’m here because Trigg was going to do this with or without me and can’t get a truck up a hill. I don’t want him spinning Wikinger’s wheels into muck while he tries.”
The hail had definitely turned to rain. It was still coming down in torrents, but the roar had dulled and that was definitely the sound of an engine beneath the hard, steady patter on the roof. They both leaned to see the nose of the red truck trying to crest the hill while mud sprayed out behind it. It actually slid backward out of sight as they watched.
Rolf huffed a disgusted laugh. “I said ‘Get something useful.’ He had to buy that thing.”
“This might not be my place, but…” she scratched her upper lip “…you could view this as an opportunity to get closer to your brother.”
He flicked her a chilling glare that made her want to shrink into a ball.
“What?” She lifted her chin. “You got all up in my business.” How would he feel if he lost his brother and he’d been stuck up and angry all this time?
His cheek ticked, then he looked out and sighed tiredly.
*
Rolf was regretting revealing so much and couldn’t deny Glory might have a point, but Jesus Christ. Look what he was dealing with.
The genius who wanted to build a world-class training facility had finally arrived and was tearing up the place with his monster truck, drawing donuts around the stilts of the hut, sliding the back end in a wide circle to spray out huge washes of muddy water. After three or four revolutions that were pure jack-assery, he skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and laid on the horn.
Rolf opened the door of the hut. Murphy stood in the opening, staring at the curtain of rain pouring off the lip of the hut roof. At the bottom of the stairs, Nate threw open the passenger door and shouted, “Murphy! Come.”
The dog looked back at Rolf and Glory the way a rat left a sinking ship. So long, suckers. He shot through the wall of water, down the stairs, and leapt into the truck.
Rolf motioned Glory to leave ahead of him and slammed the door on his way out, catching a run of icy rainwater down the back of his neck as he ducked through it.
The truck had a bench seat and Murphy was already stamping his dirty feet all over Nate’s thighs as Nate tried to
corral him with his arms.
Glory tried to mash herself into Nate’s side so there would be room for Rolf, but they were three big men. Rolf scooped her onto his lap as he came in behind her, shoving his ass onto the seat and slamming the door on the storm. She squeaked and scrambled to find her balance on his thighs.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Trigg asked her.
“Stork,” she shot back, sitting up so straight she was nothing but bony ass and obstruction. “You said the view up here was great. You lied.”
The wipers slapped at their highest speed and weren’t keeping up.
“Be nicer to the guy who rescues you,” Trigg suggested, shooting a look at Rolf that was full of suspicion. “You should have asked me to bring you up if you wanted to come. I would have brought you in style.” He took off and the truck immediately skidded sideways, throwing them all to the right. “Slippery as goose shit out here.”
So much style.
“Yeah, we saw you were having trouble getting it up,” Glory said.
“Flirt.” Trigg kept two hands on the wheel as he started down the steep crest of the hill. The truck immediately went into a forward slide. He threw the wheel, swinging the back end in a wide fishtail, throwing them all this way and that.
Nate swore through his laughter. “Shit. Sorry, Glory. Shit! We thought it was just Rolf up here or I would have hung out in the excavator. No, Murph—Oh, shit! Watch out for that—”
Murphy barked and wriggled. Nate held on to him and Trigg hooted as their back end nearly caught up to the front.
“Oh my God.” Glory braced one hand on the dash and grabbed the holy-shit handle with the other. “We’re going to roll over. Trigg!”
“It’s fine,” Rolf told her. His brother played hard, but he wasn’t worried. “This is nothing.”
“Easy for you to say! You’re wearing a seat belt.”
He wasn’t, but he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her deeper into his lap. “We’re fine.”
The truck went back and forth, jostling her ass where Rolf felt it most. She jammed her foot on the door pocket. Her other leg sandwiched Rolf’s thigh between her own. She was trying to stabilize herself, but in a way that was so erotic, he started thinking about how it would feel to get his hand into the heat of her crotch. He could feel the heat of her against his thigh and it was really distracting.
