Dropping In (Snow-Crossed Lovers Book 1)

by Carrie Quest

  I giggle again, and she scoots her chair a few inches away from me, which is too bad because she seems nice, but before I can explain that I’m actually an entirely (mostly) sane person, our professor sweeps into the room.

  And I mean that literally, because she’s wearing a long, black, velvet cape that drags on the floor as she marches to the head of the table. She fishes a stack of papers out of a battered briefcase and then swirls the cape off her shoulders and folds it over the back of her chair.

  “Welcome, writers,” she says. Her voice is deep and scratchy, like she stayed up all night smoking, drinking whiskey, and writing poems about death. The rest of her clothes are black as well, cigarette pants and a soft wool turtleneck with a shiny leather belt circling her waist. Her wild red hair curls down just past her shoulders, and she’s wearing huge sparkling rings on almost all her fingers.

  “My name is Monique Parker, and I will be your guide as we navigate the treacherous river of words that all writers travel.”

  She beams at us and we all gape back at her because, let’s face it, you don’t come face-to-face with someone wearing a black velvet cape very often. Not in Boulder. Especially when it’s eighty degrees outside and the sun is shining.

  Nobody speaks for a full minute, and then the girl across the table from me slowly raises her hand.

  “Am I in the right place? Is this Writing Children’s Picture Books?”

  Picture books? Oh, no.

  No. No. No.

  Monique beams and nods. “It is indeed. You are definitely in the right place.”

  I, on the other hand, am definitely in the wrong place. I have no interest at all in writing a picture book, and taking this class is not going to help me hold up my end of the bargain I made with my parents. I shove my phone in my bag and grab my notebook from the table.

  “Sorry, I’m in the wrong class.” My face is burning, and Wild Thing is smirking at me, and all those happy endorphins have pulled an Elvis and left the building. Because I’m missing my real class, the class I’m supposed to be in right now, and I’m going to have to walk in late looking like a chump on the first day.

  Fuck. A. Duck.

  “What’s your name?” I almost miss Monique’s question because my internal monologue of every curse I learned during my Sons of Anarchy binge last year is all I can hear.

  “Sorry?”

  “Your name?” she repeats. I shake my head, because it doesn’t matter as there is no way in hell I would ever sign up for a picture book class. But my helpful phone sex buddy can see my name on my notebook and reads out Natalie Berenson in a loud voice.

  Monique scans her list. “Looks like you’re in this class after all, Natalie. Your name’s right here. Take a seat.” She taps her messy stack of papers on the table to straighten them and passes the pile to her left. “Everyone grab a syllabus and we’ll go over the course requirements.”

  I do not sit down. I do not grab a syllabus. I push my chair back so hard that it crashes into the wall behind me and I run. Straight to the candy store, where I buy so much chocolate the salesperson asks if I need to talk. Then pull out my phone and text Piper while stuffing my face and stumbling toward home.

  Natalie: I signed up for the wrong class. Shit face in full effect. Have spent my entire savings account on chocolate. All other classes full. My parents are going to kill me.

  Piper: What kind of chocolate?

  Piper: Too soon?

  Piper: Sorry. Thought it might help. It will be okay, Natty. I’ll call you when I get home. We’ll figure it out.

  But there’s no way it’s going to be okay. I’ve messed up my new life before it even got started. Not even Felicity Burns’s email is enough to cheer me up, especially considering I got rejections from two other agents while I was buying candy.

  I know I need to buck up, put on my rally hat, pull up my socks, and basically get my shit together. I know this. And I totally will. Tomorrow. I will be all about the responsible adulting tomorrow.

  When all the chocolate is gone.

  Right now, I need to eat crap and numb my brain with stupid television. Or else I need to track down my phantom roommate and ask him—maybe even beg him—to give me another shower invite so I can numb my brain with orgasms instead.

  But that’s not going to happen.

  I am firm. I am resolved.

  I am screwed.

  Because when I get home, Ben is waiting for me.

  8

  Ben

  I hear Nat on the porch, but instead of ghosting away like I’ve been doing all week, I decide to stay. It’s fucking ridiculous to keep avoiding her like this. Clearly both of us are over the whole sorry basement episode. Plus, Pipes will be back this weekend and she’s bound to notice (and give me shit) if things with Nat are awkward.

  I’d do a lot worse than facing up to a hot girl who caught me about to jerk it in order to avoid getting shit from my sister. In the grand scheme, this is easy. I don’t even need to get off the couch.

  So, I stay planted there, and get ready to welcome her with a smile. I just got a pizza delivered so I figure I’ll offer her a slice, we’ll watch some TV, shoot the shit, and then I’ll escape and walk the dog. Friendly, sister-approved activities that’ll get this awkward situation back on track.

  I definitely won’t ask her about those cherry lollypops. Or think about the handcuffs I left outside her door.

  I’m prepared to apologize if I have to. What I’m not prepared for is to have Natalie stumble through the door, drop down into the chair next to me, and groan like she’s in massive amounts of physical pain.

  “Are you okay?”

  She shakes her head and then drops it into her hands, so I can’t see her face. Then she lets out another groan, this one so loud the dog, who had been sleeping on my feet, wakes up and barks.

  I try again. “Natalie? Are you okay?”

  The dog jumps down and runs over to sniff her head, disappearing under the curtain of her dark silky hair. Her shoulders start to shake, like she’s sobbing, and my heart speeds up because what if she’s really hurt? Not sure I can take someone else I know getting rushed to the hospital.

  “Seriously. Do you need a doctor or something?” I scan her wrists for a medic alert bracelet and try to remember if Piper’s ever mentioned that Natalie has a medical condition. Shit, I wish Piper were here. This is really not my thing.

  Hurling myself down a mountain and flipping up over twenty-two-foot walls in the half-pipe? Never used to scare me.

  Girls crying? Always been terrifying.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” she mumbles. I can barely understand her through her hands and all that hair, but then she raises her face and I see she’s not crying at all.

  She’s laughing. Fucking hysterically.

  I relax a little. She takes a band off her wrist and twists her hair up into a messy knot on top of her head. Then she stands up, grabs the bag she dropped when she first came in, and dumps a shit ton of candy on the coffee table, right next to the pizza box. She hurls the bag up the stairs with a scream, and I hear it slide along the landing and crash into her door.

  “Bad day?”

  No answer. Instead, she grabs a piece of pizza, folds it in half, and slides most of it into her mouth, which is impressive. And also kind of hot, if I’m being honest.

  She chews furiously and takes another bite before answering.

  “Yes.”

  Then she tosses the crust to the dog and grabs another piece. I guess we’re not going to talk about it, which is fine with me. I go grab two beers from the kitchen, twist off the tops, and hand her one. She drains the bottle without taking a breath, so I give her mine and head back for another.

  “You’re okay, though, right?” I ask when I’m back in my seat.

  She stares at me over another piece of pizza.

  “I mean, do I have to go kick anyone’s ass?”

  She swallows. “Just mine.”

  There are a lot of t
hings I’d like to do with her ass, but kicking it definitely isn’t one of them. I shut that train of thought right down because the girl is obviously freaked out about something and the last thing she needs is a jerk with a hard-on staring at her and having douchebag thoughts about her ass. Time to redirect this conversation.

  “Want to watch a movie?”

  She tilts her head at me, considering, then drains her second beer. “Okay,” she finally says. “But nothing with business people. Unless they get killed in hideous ways, preferably slowly. And nothing with writers or agents or kids in college.”

  “Okaay,” I say slowly, flicking through the movie options.

  “Absolutely nothing with picture books,” she continues. “And no caterpillars.”

  Caterpillars? What kind of fucked-up day did this girl have?

  She opens her mouth to give me more directions, but I cut her off. “Maybe you should just tell me what is acceptable, instead of listing everything that isn’t. Might save time.”

  “Fighting,” she says decisively. “Fighting is good. And car chases. And a character who goes rogue. I love it when that happens.”

  The last sentence is a tiny bit wistful, but I ignore that because she’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to talk. At least not to me.

  So instead of quizzing her, I get us two more beers and find the first Bourne movie because that guy pretty much goes rogue even if he’s just taking a piss. Plus, the chick is hot.

  We watch for about an hour before either one of us speaks. The pizza disappears, the beer is toast, and we make a decent dent in the candy. Nat is totally focused on the movie, not making a sound except to cheer a little whenever Bourne gets in a good shot.

  “I’m starting to get why you and Piper are so tight,” I say when she pumps her fist after Bourne takes out a bad guy. “You’re both bloodthirsty.”

  “I’m nowhere near as bad as Piper,” she says. “I keep my violent tendencies virtual. She’s got Satan’s minion sleeping on her bed.”

  I shiver. “You mean guarding her bed. I tried to sleep there the other night.”

  She grins. Damn, she’s pretty. “Didn’t go well?”

  “I shut him out, but he howled like a banshee and kept me awake, so I let him in and, well, let’s just say all the antiseptic cream and Band-Aids you left me are long gone.” Her smile fades slightly, and I curse myself because I know she’s remembering the other night. Why the hell did I have to bring that up? Then again, we’re both kind of drunk and zoned out on junk food. Maybe now’s the perfect time to totally put this shit to rest.

  “About the other night,” she says. “I’m really sorry I walked in on you while you were, um…”

  “About to take care of business?” I suggest helpfully.

  She blushes. “Yeah. I should’ve knocked.”

  “No worries,” I say. And I’m happy to call it all good, but she keeps going.

  “And then, when I saw you, I really should’ve run away. Or at least asked you to put on a shirt so I could think straight, instead of mauling your hard-on with my eyes and making up poems about your abs.” She stops for a minute. “Shit, did I say the part about the poetry out loud?”

  I snort. Yeah, she’s definitely a little drunk.

  So am I, so I decide to mess with her a little. “Hard-on? What are you talking about?”

  “You know.” She makes a fist and jerks her hand up and down a few times. “Take care of business.”

  “I meant I was about to take a shower,” I say. “The business of getting clean.”

  She presses her lips together and all the color drains from her face. “Sure, right, I totally knew that. I didn’t mean to imply that you were hard. It was probably just a really big optical illusion. Or maybe you have a troop of penis-worshipping gnomes in your pants, and they were building a tent down there.”

  I stare at her for a second, trying desperately to keep a straight face so she’ll keep talking, because this girl is fucking hysterical. But the laugh bursts out of me and in no time, I’m actually on the floor, with tears rolling down my cheeks, my abs so tight they hurt. I cannot even remember the last time I laughed this hard.

  She buries her face in her hands and her shoulders start to shake again, and soon we’re both gasping in breaths and the dog is running back and forth between us, barking and growling.

  “Penis-worshipping gnomes?” I say when I can finally speak. “Pipes told me you want to be a writer. What the fuck kind of stuff do you write?”

  She winks. “The gnome erotica scene is huge right now, for your information.”

  I hold up my hand. “I don’t even want to know.”

  The dog is still going apeshit and I reach over to grab him, but Nat does that whistle thing she did the other night and he instantly shuts up and sits at her feet.

  “Piper was right. You are a dog whisperer. Impressive.”

  “Did you give him a name yet?”

  “Pipes thinks Loki, but I’m not sure I want to take any pet advice from the MotherChuckler.”

  She pulls on the dog’s floppy ears and bends down to drop a kiss on his head. “This little guy could never be evil, but he looks like he’s going to be huge. Maybe go for Thor.”

  “Thor,” I repeat. The dog’s ears instantly perk up and he turns toward me. “Sounds good. Let’s try it. Maybe you can help me out with some training tips as well.”

  “Sure. How is he with other dogs?”

  I shrug. “Not sure. Haven’t really tried him out with any other dogs yet.”

  “We’ll go to the dog park tomorrow,” she decides. “See what happens.”

  Nice. The thought of spending more time with her is more appealing than it probably should be. I’m supposed to go see Adam, but he doesn’t really care what time I come as long as I bring food.

  “What time’s your class? We could go after that if you want.”

  She groans and all the happiness fades from her face.

  “Bad topic? Want me to go out for more beer?”

  “Tempting,” she says, then takes in a deep breath. I think she’s going to explain the sequence of events that led to the bag throwing and caterpillar hating, but instead she hits me with a totally random question.

  “What made you decide to go for it?”

  “Go for it?”

  “With snowboarding,” she clarifies.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you were, what, sixteen when you quit regular school and started boarding full-time? What made you decide that you were all-in like that? It’s a pretty big risk.”

  She’s leaning toward me, her eyes focused intently on my face. For some reason my answer to this question is important to her. I wait for the stab of pain that hits me whenever I think about snowboarding, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I smile, remembering the freedom of walking out of my high school for the last time, knowing that from now on the mountain was my classroom.

  “It’s easy to take big risks when you’re sixteen,” I say.

  “Maybe, but most people are too stressed out about getting into college or employment prospects to drop out of school, even at that age.”

  “I guess it got too hard to do both things.” I remember trying to do my math homework on the bus on the way back from competitions. Listening to Ethan Frome (the first quarter anyway) on my iPod on the chairlift when all I wanted to do was rock out to some tunes to get me in the zone for my next run.

  “I knew I couldn’t give snowboarding my full focus when I was still in regular school full-time. I was placing in competitions once in a while at that point. Nothing huge or anything, but enough to make me confident that I could do even better if I had the time and energy to dedicate to it. So I did.”

  “Just like that?”

  I grin. “First, I had to convince my parents, but after that, yeah. Why are you asking?”

  She rummages on the coffee table and unearths a bag of M&Ms. “I made a deal with my parents about taking a writing c
lass this summer, to prove to them that I’m serious about making this my career. Which I am. But I signed up in a hurry because I knew the classes fill up fast, and the descriptions were really similar, so I hit the wrong button and signed up for picture book writing, which will not be acceptable to them.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. It sucks. I tried to switch it, but every single other class has a huge wait list already. There’s no way I’ll ever get in, and I need an A and a letter of recommendation from a professor or else my parents are going to force me to sign up as a business major.”

  “Do you like business?”

  She rolls her eyes. “As a concept? Sure. As a class where I have to sit for hours and actually engage with the material? No. I fucking hate it.”

  She tears open the bag of candy and pours half of it down her throat, then hands the rest over to me.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should just accept the inevitable. There’s an entry-level business class still open that I could take. Make my parents happy and get a head start on my life of misery and defeat.”

  “Any other options?”

  Her glance slides over my face, like she doesn’t quite want to look me in the eye. “Can you keep a secret?” she asks.

  You have no idea.

  “Sure.”

  “I got a request from an agent today. She wants to read my book.” Her dark eyes are sparkling and, fuck, she is really pretty.

  I whistle. “You wrote a whole book? That is bad ass.”

  “Maybe. I’ve been sending out letters and mostly collecting rejections, but this lady loves it so far.”

  “That sounds really positive.”

  She chews on her lip. “I guess. She even asked if I was working on anything else.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’ve got a bunch of ideas for a sequel. I was going to write it as my class project this summer, but now that’s out.”

  “Can’t you write it anyway? On your own?”

  “Not if I’m wasting away in business class.”

  She’s looking at me like I’m about to bust out some words of wisdom for her, but I am the last person who should be giving anyone life advice, so I keep my trap shut. Luckily a weird noise starts coming from upstairs and diverts her attention.