"Now we use a Scotch-Brite pad and rub the surface of the board to get the wax up. Some boards are harder than others to clean. This one's pretty clean to start with."
The board was clean. Their relationship was complicated and messy as hell. He ran the pad along the board, trying not to take his frustrations out on it.
He stepped back and stared at the board, meeting Tara's eye. "I'm satisfied this board is pretty clean. But I'm going to go over it another time with a paper towel." He grabbed one from a roll nearby, ran it over the board, and held it up for the class to see. "Not bad, but there was still a bit of dirt. Seems like there's always something under the surface."
As he tossed the paper towel away, he took a deep breath. Stay calm.
Which was practically impossible with Tara watching him with those assessing eyes. He grabbed his heat gun. "Next we're going to heat the board up to open the pores." Like we should be opening up a dialogue and a new relationship so we can heal. "So the wax will really soak in.
"Now the board's nice and warm." But not as hot as Tara looks. "Which is just the way you want it."
Ryan grabbed a block of wax. "This is a cold-weather wax, perfect for average December temperatures as the Basin. It'll be harder to scrape off, but worth the trouble for the smooth, fast ride it will give us."
Tara's cheeks were flushed. Which gave Ryan an involuntary thought of a ride he'd like to take with Tara. In the bedroom.
"Now we melt the wax onto the board. I like to melt it down the middle of the board. This looks like about enough to cover. You don't want too much or you'll be waiting forever for it to dry and scraping it off late into the night."
He set down the wax and picked up his iron. "I like to iron in a good, long stroke. Then go back side to side along the board, making sure the wax covers the entire surface. You might have to make a few passes at it." He looked Tara directly in the eye. Yeah, he'd like to make a pass at her, but only if he thought there was a chance of succeeding. He smiled at her. She stared calmly back at him, unreadable.
"Finish up with long, horizontal strokes." He lifted his iron and set it down on the bench next to the board. "And now we let the wax harden."
Ryan couldn't figure out why Tara hadn't abandoned the workshop yet. Or why she'd fixed herself up since he'd seen her in the lobby and suddenly looked so damn hot.
Was she trolling for a teenager? He was the only other single guy in the room under fifty. And the rest of the guys over twenty were all married. Yet there she sat in her perfect, figure-hugging, long sweater with a deep V-neck and skintight black leggings. Knee-high boots with stiletto heels—boots that didn't belong anywhere near snow.
Her lips were pink and glossy, her eyes made up to look bright and sexy in varying shades of pink. And her cheeks and cleavage sparkled and caught the light, like she'd powdered them with holiday glimmer dust. She looked ready for a Christmas party. The joke was on her. This was no party. Or maybe the joke was on him—he still desired her. And worse, he was probably still in love with her. He wasn't sure he'd ever been out of love.
She sat with her legs crossed, bouncing one foot like she did when she was nervous.
He fielded a few questions as the wax dried and called up several volunteers with their boards, helping them clean and apply the wax while his demo board dried. He expected Tara to hightail it out. But she stayed, sitting silently in the back row.
Fifteen minutes passed. Ryan tested the board. The wax was dry and he was ready for the next skirmish.
"While the other boards are drying, I'm going to demonstrate the next step." He grabbed his triangular
Plexiglas wax scraper and demonstrated how to use the notched edge to clean the wax off the edges. Then he looked around the room. "This next part takes elbow grease. I need a volunteer to help me scrape."
Six teenage boys raised their hands. Ryan ignored them.
"Tara! Great. Thanks for volunteering." He started toward her.
She looked shocked and about to bolt. "I didn't volunteer."
"Sure you did. You showed up, didn't you?" He quickened his pace and grabbed her by one crossed arm before she could escape.
"I taught Tara how to wax her board years ago. Let's see if she still remembers how to do it." Ignoring the wild look in her eyes, he practically dragged her to the front of the classroom.
"No. I really can't." She was shaking her head.
He thrust the tri scraper into her hands. "Of course you can. It will come back to you." He grinned at the crowd. "Come on, people. Give her a little encouragement."
She was still shaking her head as the group applauded.
"I'll help you out." Ryan positioned himself behind her, which was probably a mistake. He got a whiff of her perfume. She was hot and bothered. Definitely heated up.
He put his arms around her and clasped her hand, holding the scraper in his, then guided all hands to the board. "A lot of people don't wax the tip and tail. But I believe in doing a complete job. Waxing the entire board makes it look extra nice."
In his arms, Tara was stiff as a board herself.
"Start at the tip and always pull the wax with the scraper. Never push."
"I believe you've been pushing this whole time, Ryan," she muttered to him.
He ignored her and smiled at his audience. "A nice, long stroke is what you want. Firm pressure. Enough to get the wax up, but not damage the board."
Even as an unwilling captive, she felt good in his arms. He nodded to the other boys in the room, the guys he'd helped apply wax. "Come up here and grab a scraper and start on your boards. They should be dry by now, too."
He slid his arm around Tara's waist and pulled her toward the other end of the board. "When you're done with the tip, move to the tail."
He could use a little tail. With Tara in his arms, he felt like a desperate man. All he wanted for Christmas right now was Tara, willingly. She was fighting him at every step. Even now, resisting his efforts to help her clean the board.
As he guided the scraper in her hands, applying pressure and helping her pull the wax off the board, he realized she was trembling. And it wasn't from desire.
Something splashed on the sleeve of his sweater. What the—
He looked down at her just as a tear slid down her cheek. She's crying?
"This is my board." Her voice was soft and vulnerable, almost cracking.
"I believe it's still mine," he said without accusing. "You refused it. Maybe rightly so. I was being a jerk back then—"
She looked up at him, her chin trembling. With a sudden movement, she let go of the scraper, pushed his arms away, wrenched free of his grip, and ran from the room.
Leaving Ryan to feel the cold blast from the open door and the sting of her public rejection. Everyone was staring at him. What did I do now?
He forced a smile. "Apparently, not everyone appreciates the pleasure of waxing." He picked up his scraper. "Anyone else feel like quitting?"
No one moved.
"Good," Ryan said. "I thought not. Let's get on with the job. Then we can have refreshments. Wax off..."
7
Tara ran out into the cold and wiped a tear away with a flip of her hand. Damn Ryan for using my board and bringing up memories best left forgotten.
But even as she cursed him, she realized her anger was misplaced. It wasn't really Ryan she was railing at—it was the situation and herself. Chad had died ten years ago. She should have moved on and made something of her life, found happiness again. Rediscovered the joy of the holidays and enjoyed them like Chad would have wanted her to. Like Ryan had seemed to.
She envied Ryan, even as the thought made her unaccountably sad. I'm stuck in my holiday misery.
Back in the safety of Seattle, with its urban environment that felt light years away from Echo Bay, she'd even imagined she had healed. The truth was, though, maybe she'd only hidden.
That snowboard had felt good beneath her fingers, like youth and life and fun. Waxing it in Ryan's
strong, warm arms, with the feel of his body next to hers and the smell of his cologne surrounding her reminded her how much she'd missed him. Since Ryan, men had pretty much come and gone in her life. There'd never been anyone she wanted to get serious with and she had to ask herself why.
Not that she really wanted to examine herself for the answer.
Ryan's workshop, and now the cold air stinging her cheeks, felt like a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past, raising memories of being young and flying down the slopes chasing Ryan and Chad. Why was it that those two always beat her? She believed it was their bigger body mass—gravity working on all that weight to pull them down the hill at top speed. Ryan and Chad had always maintained they were handicapped by greater wind resistance, and it was their superior skill that made them faster than Tara. They'd all laughed and ribbed Tara about being a tail chaser. Tail-chasing Tara. Though there'd really only ever been one tail she'd chased. And that had been Ryan's.
The thought of beating Ryan in a race down the hill almost brought a grin to her lips. Just to prove her point and make a small revenge. Though she had to admit, he had the advantage of a whole lot of practice on her.
She'd given up snowboarding as penance for her part in Chad's death. Not because she'd suddenly lost her love of snow and slopes. Not even because she was afraid. She was, though not as terrified as she'd been right after Chad died. She was even more frightened now by her reaction to being in Ryan's arms.
She should have been furious with Ryan. Instead, she felt furiously determined. She didn't want to end up like Ebenezer Scrooge, an old person regretting an entire lifetime, repenting at the last minute. She still had time to make good Christmas memories. Starting now.
If she could avoid a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future, that would only be a good thing. That ghost had always scared her more than the two other ghosts combined. More so now, as she applied the situation to her current state and life.
Ryan's workshop had solidified what Tara had known deep down—this community was built around a few seasonal activities. Hunting in the fall. Fishing and water sports in the summer. And skiing and snowboarding in the winter and early spring.
If she was going to continue her grandparents' legacy and honor her brother's life and memory the way he would have wanted her to, she was going to have to get back up on the mountain. If she wasn't willing to do that, she may as well pack up and leave Echo Bay and Christmas to heartache.
She stepped into the lodge and up the stairs to her room, where she dropped onto the bed and stared past the open curtains of her room to the lights sparkling on the ski runs on the mountain.
She was trembling as she grabbed her laptop and ordered a pass to the mountain before she overthought things and lost her nerve. She was getting back on the slopes as soon as possible. As a tribute to Chad. Yes, he'd like that. Rather than fearing the slopes, before she left for Seattle after Christmas, she'd ski the last run he had. And maybe leave a memorial on the run Chad had loved best.
She frowned. She needed boots and bindings. And a board. Ryan had the perfect one. But there was fat chance he'd sell it to her.
The next morning, the lodge was softly lit with Christmas lights down the banister and around the windows as Tara came downstairs dressed in athletic thermal pants, a body-fitting long-sleeve base layer top, a sky-blue fleece pullover, wool socks, and boots. Functional boots. If she was going out in the woods to look for a tree, she was going to be warm while fighting the raging storm of emotions and desire Ryan raised inside her.
She paused on the landing to stare down at the spot where the tree should have been. With their permit, they could only get a twelve-footer, maximum. The two-story space called out for an even larger tree. Wrestling in even a ten- or twelve-foot tree would be a challenge.
Next year would be so much easier on her grandparents, provided they accepted the hotel management company's terms. The hotel management team would simply order one delivered. They'd hire a decorator to come in to decorate it and the rest of the lodge in the most current Christmas theme. Easy-peasy. No muss, no fuss. And, well, any other rhyming cliché Tara could think of.
This having to traipse through the woods in the fog and cold and the latest layer of snow that had accumulated overnight was bogus and frustrating. Even if it had been tradition—way back during Tara's childhood. Life should be simpler.
Speaking of the smell of the forest, the aroma of fresh fir and pine boughs, pinecones, coffee, and cinnamon floated up to her. Along with the sound of dishes clanking, the pleasant white noise of happy holiday chatter, and der Bingle, as Harry called Bing Crosby, singing "Christmas in Killarney."
Yeah, all the folks were home in Killarney in Bing's world. And the same was true here in Echo Bay with one "folk" Tara really wished would head to Hawaii or someplace far away. She'd much rather Ryan sing "Mele Kalikimaka" on a beach in Maui this year than "White Christmas" here. One less Ghost of Christmas Past to deal with would make her holiday brighter.
Gram's choice of music was certainly homey and familiar. And stuck in 1950. Or, to put it another way, middle of the last century. Time to get something a little more contemporary.
It was just before eight, but the sun barely skimmed the eastern horizon, lighting up the lodge lobby in shafts of light filtered through evergreen trees in a way that was magical.
Carter Kennedy was making an artful arrangement of newspaper and kindling in the massive stone fireplace in the lobby, just as he'd done every day for the last thirty years.
Carter operated in his own world on his own time. That was what his mama had always said. However, ever since Harry had given him the job of keeper of the lodge fire way back when Carter was a junior in high school, Carter had kept fire time faithfully. He lit a fire every morning at eight and every evening at seven. Precisely. Coming to the lodge from his parents' cabin just up the road through rain and sleet and dark of night and morning. He was more reliable than the mail service. He chopped kindling and cleaned and maintained the fireplace, too.
Tara came down the stairs and admired his work. "That's the making of a beautiful fire, Carter. You are the master."
Carter grunted as he kneeled on the hearth and worked a bellow to fan the small flame he'd started. When Carter was working, he was all focus.
Tara waited while the flame took hold. Carter set the bellows down and fed kindling piece by piece into the growing flames. Finally he looked up and his face lit up. "Tara!"
He pushed up to his feet slowly and caught her in a bear hug. "Back for Christmas? I knew you'd come. Didn't I tell Harry you couldn't keep away forever? Not our Tara."
She laughed. "You knew better than I did, Carter. There was a time when I wasn't sure I was ever coming back for Christmas."
Tara glanced across the room to the breakfast counter. Harry's usual chair was empty. "Have you seen Grandpa this morning?"
Carter shook his head. "Nope. Haven't seen him yet."
Tara frowned. Her grandfather was always up at the crack of dawn. The crack of dawn came late this time of year, like right now at eight. Harry should definitely have been up having his coffee and dreaming of fishing season in the spring.
A piece of kindling popped, startling both her and Carter.
"The fire," Carter said.
"Oh, yes, sorry to disturb your work." Tara patted Carter on the back. "Don't mind me. You'd better get back to it. The guests are expecting a crackling blaze this morning."
She left Carter and wandered toward the kitchen looking for Harry, just as Rick Dempsey came in for his morning cup of coffee before making his rounds of the woods for the forest service. He stomped the snow off his boots on the mat inside the door and looked up to see her. "Well, if it isn't the prodigal granddaughter."
"Nice to see you, too, Ranger Rick." Tara delighted in teasing him. She'd read Ranger Rick Magazine as a kid. Her mom's idea. This Ranger Rick looked nothing like a cartoon raccoon. Rick had actually grown into an attractive man with a tea
se in his eyes. She used to think Rick was okay, maybe even idolized him a bit when they were young and he hung around with Chad and Ryan.
Rick laughed. "Going Christmas tree hunting today, I hear. Better bundle up. A cold front moved in overnight."
Yeah, she knew. It was called Ryan and his waxing clinic.
"We got probably another five inches. The forest service roads are going to be a bear. Ryan's truck won't make it far up the mountain, if at all. Even with siped tires and four-wheel drive."
So Ryan had been talking to Rick. It seemed everyone knew Tara's business. "Grandpa said we'll take the Bobcat."
"Huh," Rick said. "Hope you have some hand and toe warmers. It'll be a cold ride."
Didn't she know it.
"There's a nice little glen I told Ryan about. I've been keeping my eye on it all fall as I make my rounds. It has four or five decent trees. Nice size, pretty decent shape to them, healthy. I told Ryan about them. Even marked a few with yellow forest service do-not-cut-diseased-tree ribbons to keep the would-be tree thieves away."
Tara cocked a brow. "How thoughtful. But do you really think that's going to fool a savvy tree-hunter?" She winked at him. "Which tree did you mark for yourself and what kind of ribbon did you put on it? Protected species?"
Rick's laugh boomed as he pulled his stocking cap off and tucked it in his pocket. "Every job has its perks. I never wait until the last minute. I got mine last week. It's already up and decorated."
"How very efficient of you," Tara said. "Speaking of those perfect trees you mentioned—you wouldn't have had a hand in shaping them, would you?"
Rick shook his head. "You really think I'd use my forest-service-issue saw for something like that?"
"Do you want the truth, or a well-polished lie?" She grinned at him.
They walked toward the breakfast counter past booths bustling with guests filling up on ham and eggs, waffles, or breakfast scrambles before hitting the slopes for the day. Stormy came out of the kitchen, loaded up with plates of eggs and pancakes that smelled suspiciously of gingerbread and were piled high with freshly whipped cream. Since when did the lodge serve anything besides the standard commercial-mix pancakes?
Christmas Duet: A Big City, Small Town Christmas Romance Bundle Page 22