Second Chance Summer Page 34

  But the lift held and she didn’t fall, and ten minutes later she glided off without stumbling, and she really wished Sexy Cranky Pants could have been there to witness it. Or that anyone she knew could have seen.

  Bailey had grown up in Denver, about two hours from Cedar Ridge. Though just about everyone she knew was a big skier, she was not. She’d gone a few times but mostly she’d been concentrating on other things. Today, with the wind hitting her face, the sun warming her cheeks, the feeling of being in control for once … it’d all given her a small taste and she wanted a bigger one—which she was hoping her business here yielded.

  Beaming with pride, she straightened on her skis and glanced over at the lodge. From here she could see the entire north wall. Unlike the rest of the building, which was sided with wood and glass, gorgeous and rustic-looking, the north wall was smooth stucco. Easier to maintain than wood, especially since it took the brunt of the weather.

  She’d been hired to paint a mural there.

  Painting was important to her, very important. It wasn’t what she did for a living, but it reminded her of her grandma, whom she missed so very much. Which was what made today such a great day—two things off her list in one fell swoop!

  Smiling, she very carefully skied—okay, plowed—her way to the mid-lodge. Luckily it was only a hundred yards or so and relatively flat, but that meant she had to use her poles. Halfway there she was huffing and puffing and gasping for air.

  Holy crap, this was hard work. By the time she made it to the stairs of the lodge, she was sweating. Hand to her pounding heart, she lifted her head and came face-to-face with—thanks, Karma—Sexy Cranky Pants.

  How the hell he’d beaten her down the mountain, on his own power no less, she hadn’t the foggiest. “Hey,” she said, trying to act like she wasn’t breathing like a locomotive on its last legs.

  Not breathing like a locomotive, not sweating, in fact not exerted at all, the bastard raised a single brow. “Are you going to yell at me again if I ask you if you’re okay?” he wondered.

  She laughed. “I didn’t yell at you.”

  His mouth quirked a little as he stood there, all wind-tousled perfection. He was yanking her chain in his own oddly stoic way.

  And in her own not stoic way, she liked it. “And anyway,” she said. “I’m perfectly fine so you can stop asking me that question.”

  “It’s my job.”

  Oh. Right. She sighed. “I guess I didn’t realize it, but that question really annoys the crap out of me.”

  “I’m getting that,” he said dryly. “Next time I’ll ask you about the weather.”

  Look at that, Man of Few Words had a sense of humor. And she liked that. A lot. She liked him for some odd reason, and felt the need to explain herself. She wanted to tell him that the innocuous “Are you okay” question was a trigger for her, that given how many times over the past ten years she’d been asked those three simple words, they’d long ago lost their meaning.

  That instead what she heard was all the pity the words were usually accompanied by.

  And she hated pity with the same level of loathing she saved for all creepy crawlies, kale, and men in open-toed shoes of any kind.

  His radio went off. Without taking his eyes off her, he listened to the call, then turned down the volume. “I’ve got to go.”

  Good. Maybe when he was gone she could stop making a fool of herself.

  He started to turn away, but stopped and gave her one more long look. “Stay off the top, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to judge her for honesty.

  “Sir, yes sir,” she said and saluted him.

  A smile threatened the corners of his mouth. “If only I thought you meant that.”

  And then he was gone.

  She let out a slow, shaky breath. It’d been so long since she’d had any sort of interaction like this that she wasn’t even sure what had just happened.

  You just flirted with a man, a perfect stranger.

  And she’d liked it. But Lord, she was rusty. Sir, yes sir? Seriously, she needed some practice being normal. Hopefully the next time a tall, dark, and sexy guy struck up a conversation with her, she’d not make a fool of herself.

  Baby steps.