by Mignon Mykel
Surprise washes over me and I straighten. “Wait. Climbing is an Olympic sport? How did I not know this?”
Wes smirks. “Maybe because you’ve had your nose too deep in the books?”
“Yes, well, as you pointed out, we all have to pursue our passions.” I stick my tongue out at him, not caring that it’s totally juvenile. “Mine just happen to be less physical.”
He lifts a brow, but lets the comment slide, apparently deciding the double entendre is too easy.
“Wow. I’ve never met an Olympian before.” It’s incredible, honestly. I can’t imagine having that much passion or dedication for anything, let alone the talent. But Wes seems determined to keep the conversation light, so I flash him a wicked grin and bump my knee against his under the table. “Does this mean you’re going to get all famous and come back from Tokyo with a gold medal and a harem of fangirls?”
He laughs the comment off, but I don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn red. Holy crap. Did I actually manage to embarrass the unflappable Wes Kaplan?
Go me!
“I’d be satisfied with the gold medal.”
“Just satisfied?” I bite my lower lip, unsure of the protocol for asking about gold medal odds, but what the hell. “Does that mean you have a shot at winning?”
If Wes is caught off guard by my candor, he doesn’t show it. “I’ve got a decent shot at medaling. Especially with twelve extra months to train for speed.”
“Well, good luck. And if they put your face on a cereal box, you better send me one.” Our eyes meet and it occurs to me that I sound exactly like a crazed fangirl. Good one, Sky. “For the COC, I mean. I’m sure Beaumont would want to honor a hometown hero. We could do a whole marketing campaign, feature some of your favorite hometown haunts, and maybe even get those little banners to hang on the light posts on Main. It would be great for business.”
And now I’m babbling.
Red alert! Lock that shit down, girl!
I clamp my lips shut and inhale through my nose.
“You were saying?” Wes prompts, the corners of his lips twitching adorably as he flicks his hand in a go on motion.
“So, um, what does a professional climber do when he’s too old to compete?” I ask, putting the conversation squarely back in his lap so my runaway mouth can’t humiliate me further.
“Train the next generation,” he says without hesitation. “Maybe open a climbing gym.”
For the second time tonight, surprise washes over me. Never in a million years would I have imagined Wes as a small business owner, but obviously there’s a lot about him I don’t know.
“Is that what you’ll do then?” I ask, curiosity taking root. “Open a gym?”
He toys with his glass, rolling it between his palms. “I think so. I like kids and I got my start at a young age.” He pauses. “Hell, I wouldn’t even have to wait until I retire.”
“With a gold medal, you’d have no trouble recruiting students,” I muse, resting my chin on my closed fist as I think it over. “It would be smart to capitalize on any media coverage from the Summer Games right away.”
“I like the way you think.” Wes chuckles and pride fills my chest at the unexpected compliment. “I can see why the COC hired you.”
And just like that, my pride crumbles. Because I’m not here to help Wes plot his empire. I’ve got my own future—my own reputation—to worry about.
Shit. What am I doing? Sitting in a damn bar on a work night. With Wes Kaplan, nonetheless.
I glance around, taking in the noisy singles scene. It’s not like I had to come tonight. I could’ve supported Indie Week by attending any of the scheduled events. I can’t even blame Maggie for this one, because despite what Wes might think, she didn’t force my hand about coming to Station 13.
Nope. I’m here of my own foolish volition.
Still, the brewery isn’t quite what I’d expected. I’ve seen my share of dive bars, but Station 13 is nothing like the dirty shitholes my father favors. It’s bright and airy—cheerful even—and it doesn’t carry the stench of regret and forgotten dreams. Quite the opposite, actually.
But maybe that has something to do with the company. I’ve never been a drinker—not when I’ve seen firsthand the damage alcohol can do to a person—but I’m more comfortable at Station 13 than I expected, thanks to Wes.
He leans back to stretch and I can’t help but notice the way the soft cotton of his T-shirt hugs his muscular biceps. “Are you ready to do this or what?”
“Do what?” I ask, trying to remember what we were talking about before I zoned out.
“Kick some Station 13 ass.” Wes holds up the trivia sheet and waves it like a standard.
“That’s the spirit,” I tease, chuckling at his easy humor. “You better not let me down, Kaplan.”
He winks at me and my stupid heart does that fluttery thing again. “Never.”
Ten minutes later, the host has explained the rules and the game is underway.
“For our first question of the night,” the host says. “What is the official national anthem of the United States of America?”
“Is he for real?” I whisper to Wes, who’s scribbling down the answer with a pen he borrowed from me. “Seriously? This is going to be cake.”
“Don’t get cocky,” he warns. “The warm-up question is always a gimme.”
I’m not entirely convinced Wes is the bar trivia expert he claims to be because the next question is just as easy.
“Who is the youngest person in history to be named TIME’s Person of the Year?” the host asks.
Wes gives me a blank-eyed stare.
Is he for real?
“It’s Greta Thunberg,” I whisper.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I hiss, gesturing for him to write it down. “Everyone knows that. Don’t you read the news?”
He laughs under his breath—which I’m pretty sure means no—but writes it down without further argument.
“All right, question three,” the host says, his voice carrying easily across the crowded bar. “Name the iconic Shakespeare play in which Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes play star-crossed lovers in the 1996 film adaptation?”
Wes scribbles down the answer and I shake my head in disbelief. “You don’t know Greta Thunberg, but you know some nineties teen flick?”
He flashes me a cheeky grin. “We watched it in ninth grade English, remember?”
I roll my eyes. How could I possibly forget? Wes had gone on endlessly about how hot Claire Danes was in that white dress.
“What? You don’t believe in true love?” he teases.
“Oh, I believe in it. I’m just not sure it’s worth the price of admission. Not when it can destroy you so completely.”
“Wow,” he deadpans, face falling. “That’s a dark view, Sky.”
I tap the paper, where he’s written Romeo and Juliet. “You know this story is a tragedy, right? They both die at the end.”
“Yeah.” He winks at me, that mischievous light reappearing in his eyes. “But first they loved.”
Heat floods my cheeks and I’m relieved when the host throws out the next question. “What was the age of the youngest person to scale Mt. Everest?”
“Thirteen,” Wes says confidently.
“How the hell do you know that?” I ask, not bothering to hide my surprise. I mean, talk about random knowledge.
Wes smirks, the right side of his mouth curving up in that oh-so-sexy way of his. “Climber, remember?”
Right. My cheeks flush because duh.
“Up next, name all four books in the Twilight series—in order.”
Wes looks at me again, panic in his eyes. I grin. What is it with guys and their fear of sparkly vampires?
“Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Breaking Dawn,” I whisper smugly, leaning in close so no one else can hear. And, okay, maybe it’s just an excuse to get closer to Wes, but who can blame me? The guy smells divine. I may be an indoors kind of girl, b
ut that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate his crisp, outdoorsy scent.
He turns to face me and lifts a brow. “Apparently the news isn’t all you’re reading.”
“What? I went through a vampire phase like every teen girl ever,” I say, giving him a healthy dose of sass. “Don’t judge me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Oddly enough, I believe him.
We go on like this for nearly two hours, taking turns answering questions, trading barbs, and bickering over the correct answers. Turns out, I love bar trivia. The company isn’t half bad either.
When the scores are finally tallied and the host announces Team Wesky as the winner, I don’t even care that Wes gave us the awful portmanteau or that he put his own name first.
“We did it!” I squeal, sliding off my stool, the thrill of victory pulsing through my veins. God, I love winning. “We beat the Station 13 team!”
There’s a raucous applause and some half-hearted trash talk from the in-house team as Wes scoops me up in his arms and spins me around. The hard press of his body against mine feels like the most natural thing in the world and I find myself hoping it will never end. Which is ridiculous.
Obviously.
Wes’s grip loosens and I slide down his body, my breasts skimming his chest before my feet find the floor again. He towers over me, his long, lean form a stark contrast to my own, which is short and curvy. His hand lingers at the small of my back, fingers pressed gently against the soft cotton of my dress. Heat flares low in my belly and for once I don’t fight it.
His warm brown eyes search my face as he says, “We make a good team.”
“Yeah,” I agree hesitantly. “We do.”
Maybe too good. Too good to be true, anyway.
“Yoga tomorrow?” he asks casually, as if the answer doesn’t matter, but I can tell it so does. It’s written all over his face and in the way his shoulders tense as he waits for my answer.
I should say no. It’s a terrible idea. A distraction neither of us can afford.
But I’m tired of playing it safe, of worrying about what the Beaumont gossips will say. I’m twenty-three years old for fuck’s sake. Don’t I deserve to have a little fun? Just this once?
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Wes
Training ran late and yoga is just about to start when I roll into the studio. The instructor directs me to an empty mat in the back row, right behind Sky. She gives me a tiny wave and I’m not gonna lie, a thrill races up my spine at the sight of her. She’s wearing a pair of fuchsia leggings and a matching sports bra that shows off all her curves.
She looks like one of those athleisure-wear models and I’m here for it.
If only I’d gotten here earlier, maybe I could’ve gotten a mat next to Sky. How the hell am I supposed to talk to her from back here? I’m about to ask the woman next to her to trade spots when the instructor begins introductions, putting an end to my brilliant plan before I can even set it in motion.
That’s what you get for hesitating, asshole.
Ten minutes later, I’ve come to the realization that me and yoga? Not a thing. My body is twisted like a pretzel and just as salty, proving that despite my pre-climb stretching routine, there’s always room for improvement. Why the hell did I pick yoga of all things?
Sky glances over her shoulder, ponytail swinging, and flashes me a brilliant smile.
Right. Because I’d wanted to see Sky again and yoga seemed like something she’d enjoy. Which is stupid, because it’s not like I have time for a relationship.
Not that I think Sky’s looking for a relationship, but…
Fuck. I don’t know. I’m probably overthinking it. Sky tends to have that effect on me.
She always has.
Even when we were kids, I knew she was out of my league. Sky’s always known who she is and what she wants and she doesn’t let anyone stand in her way. And despite all my ribbing, I admire the hell out of her for it. She’s smart, focused, driven. I guess I am too, but not in the same way.
The instructor tells us to get into downward dog and for the first time since the class started, I’m not complaining. Not with Sky’s pert little ass in the air. My form may not be great, but with a view like this, who cares?
“Head down, Wes,” the instructor calls in her melodic tone. “Toes pointed toward the front of your mat.”
Busted.
Nothing like getting called out in front of thirty strangers. Our instructor’s as flexible as Gumby and she’s been watching me like a hawk since I stepped through the door. Just one of the many downsides of being the token guy in the class, I guess. But, come on, how am I supposed to focus on my form when Sky’s luscious curves are on full display?
Talk about an impossible task.
Sky giggles and when I glance up, she’s watching me from between her knees, one upside-down eyebrow crooked in a knowing accusation.
I shrug and drop my head before the instructor calls me out again.
We hold the pose for what feels like eternity as she explains its many benefits, including increased blood flow to the head. She’s not wrong about the increased blood flow, but I’m pretty sure we aren’t talking about the same head.
She leads us through several more beginner’s poses and I’m finally starting to get the hang of it when a phone trills, shattering the silence. The studio was quiet before, but now it’s so still I can hear the woman next to me breathe. The phone rings again and there’s a subtle shift in the room as everyone looks around, trying to determine who’s to blame for the disruption. The number one rule of yoga is no phones in the studio, so I’m shocked when Sky—who’s always been a stickler for the rules—breaks form and pulls her cell from beneath a towel at the corner of her mat.
“Sorry,” she says, lifting the phone to her ear as she bolts from the studio, worry creasing her brow.
What the hell?
I don’t stop to think, just grab my towel and follow after her. If Sky’s leaving, there’s no point in staying. Besides, what if it’s an emergency? She might need help.
In the hall, I find Sky staring up at the ceiling, eyes closed and palm pressed to her forehead.
“No, I understand.” She heaves a frustrated sigh, her chest rising and falling in quick succession, and even though I know I shouldn’t be looking, I can’t help but notice the hint of cleavage peeking out of her fluorescent sports bra. “Yeah, I’ll be right there. Thanks for calling.”
I keep my distance, not wanting to impose any more than I already have on what was obviously meant to be a private call.
She disconnects and turns, catching sight of me lurking in the corner. Following her had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, as she stares at me with wide, panicked eyes? Not so much.
Too late to turn back now.
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” She blinks and shakes her head, as if clearing her thoughts. “I—I have to go.”
She grabs her sneakers off the shoe rack and yanks them on with jerky movements.
“Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you’re obviously upset.” I join her at the rack and grab my own shoes, slipping them on with ease. “What’s going on?”
“Like you said, it’s none of your business.” She squats to tie her laces, not meeting my eye.
“We’re friends, Sky.” I don’t know why I’m pushing this so hard. Maybe I should respect her wishes and let it drop, but instinct tells me it’s important and I’ve learned over the years to trust my instincts. On a route and on the ground. “You can talk to me.”
She straightens, back stiff, chin held high. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got this, okay?”
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but I’m coming with you.”
“What? No,” she snaps, narrowing her eyes and pointing a shaking finger at my chest. “Absolutely not.”
The
re’s steel in her voice, but I can’t back down. Not if she’s in trouble. “God, you’re stubborn. Whatever it is, I can help if you’d just let me.”
Sky levels me with her gaze, but she’s not the only one with a stubborn streak. I hold my ground and we stare at each other like that for God knows how long, the tension between us simmering just below the boiling point.
Eventually, she cracks, but it’s a joyless victory.
“My dad is wasted and I have to go pick him up. Is that what you want to hear? That the Jones family is at it again?” Anger flashes in her eyes as she looks up at me, but there’s vulnerability there too. Her chin trembles as she asks, “Are you going to run and tell your friends? Or better yet, your mom and the rest of the Beaumont gossips?”
The words sting, just as she intended. It doesn’t matter that I’m not the kind of guy to spread rumors or listen to gossip. It only matters that Sky thinks I might be. And while it grates, I can’t exactly fault her. Not when a lifetime of small-town talk has clearly taught her to strike first.
“Give me some credit, Sky. I’m no saint, but I’m not a total prick.” I touch her arm gently and I’m relieved when she doesn’t pull away. “Your hands are shaking. Let me drive you.”
She chews her bottom lip as she thinks it over and the flash of vulnerability nearly does me in. This is a side of Sky I’ve never seen before. One she’s obviously taken great pains to hide.
“I’ve been dragging my father out of dive bars since I was fifteen. I can handle it.”
Fuck. When I was fifteen, I was playing Xbox and breaking curfew. I sure as hell wasn’t shouldering that kind of responsibility.
“I know you can handle it, Sky, but you shouldn’t have to. Not alone anyway.” No kid should have to clean up their parent’s messes—not like that—but family is family and I respect the hell out of her for looking out for her father. “What do you say?”
Skylar
“Whatever. Let’s just go.” What else can I say when every minute we stand here arguing is another minute my father has to get into trouble? He’s a pleasant enough drunk, but when he realizes he’s been cut off, he’s bound to make a scene. That’s the last thing I need right now, especially when the gossips have only just stopped whispering about him passing out in the park last month.