Dropping In (Snow-Crossed Lovers Book 1)

by Carrie Quest

  “I’ll be sharing it tonight,” she says. “You’re coming, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll meet again next week,” she says after we’ve paid the bill. “I know you’ve already sent this out to agents, but I suggest you hold off on querying anyone else until you’ve had a chance to process all of my feedback. A few little revisions could make this manuscript much tighter and stronger.”

  “But can I change it now? What do I tell the agents who already have it?” My heart races. Have I messed up querying already?

  “It’s a fairly common situation,” she says. “If any of them ask, you can outline the revisions and offer to send the updated manuscript to them when you’re done.”

  I sigh. “Okay. I can do that.”

  “Of course you can. Your assignment between now and next week is to beef up the romance. On the page and anywhere else it seems appropriate.”

  She holds up a hand when I start to protest. “Try it. If it doesn’t work, then you can always go back. Get some inspiration from that hot little flame you claim to have doused.”

  She winks and walks away, her wild curls bouncing. I wander in the opposite direction, toward the path along the creek. I’m not ready to go home and face Ben, not yet. I need to get my own thoughts straight first. The creek is home to plenty of noisy ducks, so I don’t clue into the fact that my phone is blowing up for at least ten minutes. I need to change that ringtone.

  I’ve got a ton of missed calls and I nearly don’t even check who they’re from, because I’m still not ready to talk to Ben. But it’s not him who’s calling. It’s my sister.

  I stumble to the edge of the path and sit down hard on a rock, my heart beating way too fast. Allie never calls me. She’s too busy for the phone. We email once in a while and occasionally get tipsy and bond during family holidays, but otherwise we’re hands-off, so the only reason I can think of for this barrage of calls is that something happened to my parents.

  I make myself call her back, moving my fingers slowly so I don’t fumble the phone and drop it. She picks up right away, thank god.

  “Nat?”

  “What’s wrong?” I squeak out. “Is it Dad? Mom? Did they get in an accident? Do I need to come home?”

  “What?”

  “What happened to Mom and Dad?” I yell, loud enough to scare away the ducks and a couple joggers taking a break to stare at the water.

  “Mom and Dad?”

  I want to growl. “Yes, Allie. Mom and Dad. What happened to them?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. They’re downstairs.”

  Tension leaves my body with a whoosh, and I lie back on the rock, staring up at the sky. “Then why are you calling me?”

  “I’d say you’re being harsh, but that’s fair,” she says.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s not like I ever call you, either.”

  We’re both silent for a minute and then she startles me by busting out a laugh, which gets me started as well. Soon we’re both hysterical, wheezing into the phone, and I’m wiping tears off my cheeks.

  “Shit,” she finally gasps out. “My stomach hurts.”

  “Mine too.”

  “I haven’t laughed that hard in years,” she says. If she were anyone else, I’d say her tone was wistful, but my sister doesn’t hold with the mythical wist. She’s too much like my mom.

  “Anyway,” she continues. “I’m just calling to talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “You, actually.” She lowers her voice and I hear a door close. “I heard Mom and Dad discussing your writing class last night.”

  Fuck. Did they find out? All of a sudden, I’m extremely aware of all the places the rock is jabbing into my back.

  “What about my class?”

  She laughs. “Mostly the fact that it’s not physics or business and that you’re never going to be able to make an honest living and you’ll end up exactly like Uncle Patrick: a starving artist with subpar health insurance.”

  I scramble back up to a sitting position. I am not going to lie down, literally or figuratively, and allow her to lecture me. But before I can tell her to shut up and mind her own business, she surprises me again.

  “Don’t let them pressure you into giving it up,” she says fiercely. “You do what makes you happy, Natalie.”

  “I’m trying,” I say. And then, because she is the big sister who used to save me from monsters under the bed, I give voice to the deepest and darkest fear I have. “But what if they’re right, Allie? What if I do end up like Uncle Patrick?”

  My uncle is a nice guy, and he seems happy enough with his life from what I’ve seen, but my parents have zero respect for him. He dropped out of college and lives on a boat in the Caribbean, painting weird landscapes and making stuff out of driftwood.

  “You do realize that Uncle Patrick is famous, right?”

  “What?”

  “He’s totally famous, Natalie. He’s, like, friends with movie stars. They all want his paintings. Leonardo DiCaprio had one hanging on the wall of his house when he was profiled in that huge architecture magazine.”

  “Seriously?” Go, Uncle Patrick.

  “Seriously,” she confirms. “Google him sometime. You can’t trust Mom and Dad’s perception. They think anyone without a string of letters after their name and the ability to do open heart surgery is wasting their life.”

  “No wonder they’re freaking out about me, then. At least they have you, I guess.”

  She snorts. “Yeah. For now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Nothing. Look, I don’t have much time and I didn’t call to talk about me. I just wanted to tell you to stay strong. They’re going to pull out all the punches trying to get you to focus on business, but don’t give in, okay? Fight for what you want. You’ve always been good at that.”

  “No, I haven’t,” I say.

  “Yes, you have,” she says. “You took time off from school instead of caving into them. You went on that trip and got a job to pay for it yourself when they told you it was a waste of time. You’ve done your own thing since you were in second grade and you decided to fuck the 500-meter dash and dive into the bushes to hunt fairies. Don’t back down now.”

  “Mom always says I was hiding in that bush,” I say. “It’s one of her favorite ‘Natalie doesn’t finish anything’ stories.”

  “I’m the one who dragged you out of there, and I’m telling you, there was no hiding involved. You wanted to catch a fairy and harvest some pixie dust, so you could fly to the moon and eat cheese.”

  Huh. A quest for cheese definitely sounds like me.

  “You’re a fighter, Nat. Don’t let them tell you any different, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, dazed. I’ve spent a lot of time being jealous of Allie, sure that she was the lucky one because she wanted the things my parents told me would make me happy. But now it sounds like she’s been jealous of me too. Damn.

  There’s a knocking sound and I hear Mom’s voice, muffled but totally familiar. “Shit,” Allie says. “I’ve got to go. They’re taking me to the hospital to show me their new surgery suite.”

  She doesn’t sounds thrilled about it, which seems un-Allie-like, but I don’t have time to question her.

  “I’ve got to go,” she says again.

  “Thanks for calling,” I say. “We should talk again sometime.”

  “Soon,” she promises, and then there’s a click, and she’s gone.

  I stay by the creek a long time, watching the water rush over the rocks and reconstructing childhood memories in my head. My parents always told me I was running away from things, and I believed them, but what if running isn’t always a bad thing? What if I’ve just been searching all along? First for pixie dust and cheese, and then for a life that makes me happy, even if they can’t understand how or why?

  What if I’ve finally found it with writing?

  What if I’m running away from B
en when I should be standing my ground? Sure, it’s early days, but I’ve never liked anyone this much before and I know I’ll regret it forever if I don’t see where this thing with him could go.

  When I finally stumble up hours later, my ass is numb, but my will is strong. Allie is right: I am a fighter, dammit, and it’s time I figured that out. I’m not going to give up this time, not on the writing and not on the romance. No way.

  I’m going to go hear Monique’s poem about sexy times surrounded by gaping French skulls, and then I’m going to march straight home and fight for Ben Easton, even if it means I have to kick his ass.

  18

  Ben

  Fucking Boulder, man. I figured tracking Nat down at a poetry reading would be simple. How many poetry readings could possibly be happening on a Tuesday night?

  In a normal town, maybe not many.

  In Boulder? My friend Mr. Google found eleven on his first try.

  Most of them are on the Pearl Street Mall, so I’m hanging out under a tree, scanning the entries and trying to remember exactly what Piper said.

  She’s going to an open mic poetry reading with her writing group.

  No clues there.

  The streetlights click on and tipsy people push past me, giggling and shouting, making plans. I’m fucking starving because I went straight home to walk Thor after the hospital, then began my search. It ended up being an awesome day with Adam. We played beanbag basketball until Dawn kicked us out, and then I read to him until his parents showed up for dinner. They brought enough for me, but I wanted to get back and find Natalie. Talking to Adam about it made me feel better, even if he was sort of a dick. Because Nat and I are friends, and I do think she’ll believe me. I just need to find her and apologize, and we’ll be back on track.

  I scan the search results again, but none of the cafe websites say anything specific. I guess I’ll just start at one end of Pearl and work my way down. Not how I ever pictured myself spending an evening on the town, but fuck it. I need to talk to her.

  How bad can a few poetry readings be?

  An hour later and I know the answer: pretty fucking awful. Actually, scratch that. The poetry was okay. It was the music that made me want to lose my lunch. Some people shouldn’t sing in public, and since when does every jackass with lips need to play the flute?

  I’ve checked five cafes so far and had a coffee in each of them, so I’m jacked up on caffeine and feeling twitchy. I’m pretty close to my favorite pizza place and the coffee is like acid in my gut, so I head toward it. I need food before I can continue the search. A guy needs to eat.

  I’m almost there when I hear somebody call my name. And suddenly I’m not so hungry anymore, because it’s Natalie. She’s stomping toward me, dodging the people tumbling out of the bar next door, and she looks mad.

  Scratch that. She looks fucking furious.

  And fucking hot.

  Her dark eyes flash fire as she approaches, and she’s glaring at the people in her way like she’s one step from shoving them to the ground. I just stand there like an idiot, grinning and waiting for her. A pissed-off girl steamrolling through drunks is probably nothing to smile about, but I’m so glad to see her.

  And to be done listening to fucking flutes.

  She rocks up to me and stops suddenly, tossing her hair behind her back and squaring her shoulders, like we’re getting ready to go head to head. I half expect her to crack her neck and then take a swing at me—I probably deserve it after this morning—but instead she raises her finger and points directly at my chest.

  “You are an ass, Ben Easton.”

  She’s not quiet, and a few of the people standing around talking turn to us, but I don’t even care.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m really sorry—”

  She holds up her hand. “Don’t speak,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare say anything.”

  “But I’m trying to tell you—”

  “Shut it!” she yells.

  I hear a few snickers come from our audience, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want to miss a second of this show. Nat’s face is flushed like it was this morning when I had my hands on those cherry panties and her chest is heaving, and it probably makes me the world’s biggest asshole to be getting turned on right now, but I guess I’ll just have to live with that.

  “Did you just tell me to shut it?” I grin and take a step toward her. “Seriously?”

  “Wipe that sexy dimple right off your face,” she says. “It’s throwing off my rage groove.”

  I nod and try to put on a serious face. “Good to know.”

  “Thank you,” she says politely.

  “No problem. Now if you’ll just listen, I really want to tell you—”

  Her eyes narrow. “I told you not to speak. You don’t deserve to speak to me, not after you left me high and dry this morning to have a little chat—” she makes exaggerated quote marks with her fingers, “—with your own personal ass masseuse.”

  “Ass masseuse?”

  “Quiet!”

  I can feel the crowd around us gathering closer, but I still don’t look away.

  “You made me feel like shit, Ben.” She takes a deep breath. “You left me standing there, and I had to watch while she ate my pancakes, and you told her I was just your fucking roommate.”

  I step closer, and this time she doesn’t pull away. “If you were just my roommate,” I say quietly, “I would not have made you pancakes, and I definitely would not have spent the last hour exposing myself to every open mic night in Boulder, trying to find you and apologize.”

  “You gave my pancakes to Autumn,” Nat reminds me.

  I reach for her hand, but I don’t try to pull her closer. Not yet.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You shouldn’t have opened the door at all.” Her hand is limp in mine. She’s not gripping it back, but at least she’s not pulling away.

  I sigh. “I’m sorry about that too. You have no idea how much I would have rather gone upstairs with you, babe.”

  She rips her hand away and pokes me in the chest. “Do not babe me, Ben Easton! We are not at the babe phase.”

  “What phase are we at?”

  “The phase where I tell you to go fuck yourself,” she says.

  “Still there, huh?” Shit. It’s possible that Adam and I severely misread this situation. A simple apology might not do the trick.

  She heaves in another breath, blinking back tears, and my gut clenches. Suddenly nothing about this is funny anymore.

  “Hey.” I grab her hand and pull her away from the gaping crowd. “I’m sorry, Natalie. I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have let her in, and I shouldn’t have joked around about it just now.”

  “Why did you?”

  I shrug. “Because I’m an ass, like you said. I didn’t realize you were this upset.”

  “No,” she says. “I meant this morning. Why did you open the door?”

  Because Autumn has my balls in a vise.

  Fuck. I squeeze Nat’s hand and look around the mall. The crowd around us has dispersed, turning their attention to a busker who’s waving swords around a few feet away.

  “Autumn was there the day Adam got hurt.” The words come out rough, which is not surprising since my throat muscles are so tight I feel like I can’t breathe. I pull on the neck of my t-shirt, like that will help.

  Nat’s face softens, and she takes a step closer. I wish I could tell her the whole truth, but if I did, she wouldn’t be looking at me like this and coming closer. She’d be running as fast as she could.

  “She was filming our run on her phone, so she’s got a video of the accident. She wanted to talk about whether or not she should show it to Adam, and I…” My throat muscles clench even tighter, like my own body is working against me, trying to shut me up and keep my secrets safe.

  Nat pulls in a sharp breath and winces. She doesn’t say a word, just tugs me into a hug, giving me comfort. I sque
eze my eyes shut and give myself ten seconds of sinking into her softness. She’s rubbing her hand slowly up and down my back, murmuring something I can’t make out.

  I count down from ten and step back, fighting my instinct to hang on even tighter and not let go.

  “Adam’s not supposed to get upset and his parents don’t want any of us talking to him about boarding.”

  She nods. “Okay.”

  “So that’s why I opened the door,” I say. “Autumn threw me off, showing up like that, and I should have handled it better. I’m not used to this.”

  She tilts her head. “Not used to what?”

  I gesture between us. “This. Thinking about someone else’s feelings before I react. I’ve never had…” I stop and swallow hard. I’ve never had a girlfriend is what I was about to say, but I have no idea how she’ll react to that. The last time I had a relationship talk with a girl was in junior high. Stacey Flynn passed me a note asking if I wanted to go out with her and I had to check yes or no. I’d heard she put out, so I checked yes. Simple.

  Whatever I have going on with Natalie is anything but simple. We haven’t even slept together yet, but I’ve never wanted anybody more. Or liked anybody more. She’s got the power to carve first tracks all over my unmarked heart, and that’s scary as hell.

  “Ben?”

  I look down and see Nat staring up at me, probably wondering where the hell my mind just went. She’s got those adorable forehead wrinkles happening again, so I smooth them out with my thumbs.

  “You’ve never had what?” she asks.

  “It’s like I said this morning,” I whisper. “It’s never been the way it is with you.” I bring one hand down to cup her face, and she leans into it, rubbing her soft cheek against my calluses.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve been saying that a lot lately, but you have no idea how much I wish I didn’t have to say it to you.”

  She turns her cheek a little more and plants a soft kiss in the center of my palm.

  “Okay,” she says.