Crazy Over You (Love with Altitude #2)

by Daisy Prescott

  “To new friends.” I clink my glass against his.

  I’m relieved I like mine. Not a whiff of old corn nuts or sweaty socks. The orange is a nice touch. Makes drinking seem healthy. Like how sangria is healthier for us because it’s a giant fruit cocktail. Or how potato vodka counts as a vegetable.

  “Good?”

  Smiling, I nod.

  “I knew you’d like it.” His lips curve into a smug smirk.

  Is it the pom-pom? I take off my hat and set it on an empty chair. My hair springs back to life after I run my hands through the roots at the crown. The joy of curly hair.

  “How?” I clear my throat. “We met five minutes ago.”

  “It’s my superpower.” He winks at me, and I’m reminded of Gilderoy Lockhart in Harry Potter. Landon thinks highly of himself and his charms.

  “Have you worked as a bartender?”

  He scoffs with a frown. “No, bartending is for losers.”

  Pretty rude words given we’re in a bar right now.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  My question is drowned out by a series of whoops from a trio of guys high-fiving him from the other side of the barricade separating the sun deck from the slope. Two of them hop the barrier when the table behind Landon opens up. Never mind if there’s a wait for tables, they claim it as their own. They shift chairs around to create a longer table with ours.

  Landon doesn’t introduce me. I wait for him to make introductions, but give up after a few awkward moments. Instead, I smile and sip my beer while people watching.

  By people and watching I mean I’m staring at the crowd waiting for Jesse to show up.

  Chapter 4

  Jesse

  THE RADIO SQUAWKS to life with a report of a woman sitting down on the final section of Powderhorn.

  “I’ve got it,” I respond and grab my skis.

  Outside the ski patrol shack, I go into autopilot as I ski down the upper part of the run. I grew up in these mountains and could probably ski with my eyes closed. Not something I’d recommend anyone do.

  The whole point is to not over think.

  Focus on what’s happening now.

  Get the job finished and move on.

  Always be in control.

  I could be referring to skiing. Or my job.

  Hell, anything in my life.

  Ever since Cody.

  Out of the three brothers, I’m the only one still living here. Aspen’s silver town saloons and honky-tonks are long gone, but the craving for wealth is alive and well in the Roaring Fork Valley. Instead of prospectors mining for their share of the silver, now the town is filled with capitalists who made their fortunes elsewhere. The town still makes it easy to spend money and flaunt wealth.

  If that’s your thing and helps you sleep better at night.

  For us regular folks who live in the valley, it’s kind of a pain in the ass.

  Good luck finding affordable housing.

  Looking for a cheap place to rent? Don’t think about the trailer park in Woody Creek. It’s out of your price range.

  Most regular folks live down valley. Where the mountains are still as pretty but the air is less rarified.

  We try not to let reality spoil the illusion.

  Gingerbread cottages sell for millions. So do fractional ownerships of condos. Want a week or two a year of the good life? It’ll cost you.

  Living in paradise isn’t cheap.

  Most of us work a couple of jobs depending on the season.

  Ski patrol in the winter, maybe construction in the summer. Or bartender. Or retail.

  We do it because we feel itchy over the thought of living anywhere else.

  My brain feels heavy at sea level. The real world stands on my chest, full of oxygen and bad memories.

  I prefer to stay at high altitude and away from the city.

  Chasing fame, power, or money has never appealed to me.

  I’ve seen firsthand what it does to people.

  I chatter away while I ski Mara down to the chair lift even though I’m pretty sure she’s not listening. Probably in shock from the panic attack, she stares straight ahead most of the run, only making eye contact a few times.

  She’s not a bad skier. In fact, she could’ve made it down the rest of the run on her own with more confidence and a little guidance.

  After dropping off Mara, I speed down to the base village to catch the high speed six pack back to the patrol shack. As I pass the beer garden, I catch myself scanning the crowd for her ridiculous hat. When I see she’s found a table, I smile. Until I see she’s sitting with Landon Roberts.

  What the actual fuck?

  My smile dies on my face. The happy bubble I’d been in since finding Mara bursts.

  It can’t be ten minutes from when I left her until now.

  The man is a master at the pick-up, but this has to be a new record for even him.

  “What an asshole.”

  “Mom, he said a bad word.”

  I forgot I’m sitting on a lift with a kid.

  Cursing in my uniform. Great.

  “I said, ‘Look a castle.’” I point down to the snow sculptures on the side of Fanny Hill.

  “I don’t see it.” The kid wiggles around.

  “Hey, hold still, little guy. We’re kind of high up and it’s a long way down.” I brace my arm across his chest to get him to settle. Over his head, I mouth “sorry” at his mother.

  “He hears a lot worse from his father.” She lifts her goggles and gives me the once over.

  Cougar alert, Village Express lift. Patroller trapped.

  “Diesel, do you want to ask the nice patrolman any questions?” she asks him while still undressing me with her eyes.

  Diesel? People name their kids weird things.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, swinging his pint-sized skis.

  Start at the basics. Good move, kid. “Jesse.”

  His mom giggles softly. “Do you have a girl?”

  Enough with the Springfield jokes.

  Yes, we all know the song.

  Yes, my name is Jesse.

  Believe it or not, I have heard this all before.

  Like my entire life.

  Sorry, you’re not original.

  Better luck next time.

  Considering my brothers got named Wyatt and Cody, I lucked out with Jesse. My dad had a thing for Westerns. Maybe because the good guys always won. Simpler, more straight forward times.

  “No, ma’am.” I hope the ma’am conveys my polite disinterest. She’s nice, pretty even, but I’m not interested. I focus on Diesel, pointing out the various runs we can see from the lift. I’m using her own kid to block her advances. A few more minutes and I’ll be free.

  Okay, here’s the deal.

  Women like vacation sex.

  Do I have a scientific study to back up this fact? No.

  What I do have is a firsthand knowledge from every man I know in the greater Roaring Fork Valley.

  It’s one of the biggest perks of life in a resort town.

  A constant supply of women on vacation looking for the kind of local color that doesn’t hang in one of Aspen’s many art galleries.

  One of the best parts of living in a ski town is never having to face your one-night stand again once her weekend or ski week is over. Or at least not until next season. By then, a forgetful mind and a vague, friendly smile can ease many an awkward situation when you can’t remember the name or the face, but you recognize the familiar look in her eyes. Sometimes it says she’s up for another round. Sometimes there’s shame.

  Listen to me, life’s too short for shame.

  Own your impulses.

  Maybe the lack of oxygen at high altitude can be blamed for stronger Jell-O shots and lowered inhibitions.

  Maybe it’s the charm of the local mountain men.

  Best not to analyze it too closely.

  If it works, don’t tinker.

  We’re all consenting adults here.
/>   Well, except for Fern. She’s only two and a half. In dog years, she’s still a teenager.

  She’s the best girl a guy could have. Doesn’t stop her from being a pain in my ass, but at least I know she loves me unconditionally. Trust me, she’s the only bitch I’ll ever put up with.

  Life’s too short for strings and attachments.

  Might sound harsh, but we all know what we’re doing here. Consenting adults who right swipe the moment.

  Don’t call us sluts or manwhores. Most of us are nice guys.

  And if we’re not, does it matter if you’ll never see us again?

  Aspen during ski season is Tinder in real life.

  Hell, in Snowmass we even have a run called Grinder, although I’m pretty sure it predates the app.

  Part of the joys of being a vacation hook up is avoiding the awkwardness of seeing each other again.

  Unless we’re part of the monogamy brigade, who pair off like it hasn’t stopped raining for over thirty days and the bearded guy down valley is building an ark.

  The rest of us run in a wolf pack, sticking together, watching each other’s backs.

  I never take advantage of a girl who’s too drunk or too high.

  I’m not an asshole.

  Some guys are. As long as a woman is conscious and breathing, they don’t see a problem.

  The things I’ve heard bragged about in the patrol shack or after a rugby match make me want to punch something. Or someone.

  I’ve never had a black book or notches in my headboard, but if I’ve slept with a woman, I remember. At least her face.

  I’m typically excellent with faces. Names are tougher to remember.

  Mara looked familiar to me, but I can’t place her.

  I’m ninety-five percent certain I’ve never seen her naked. Or had sex with her.

  I’d remember.

  I’m sure of it.

  Even during my wildest days with Cody, I never forgot a woman I had sex with.

  Kissed? Hell, that was another story.

  When he was around, women threw themselves at anything with testosterone within his general vicinity. Kind of like jumping into one of those ball pits, and about as sanitary.

  Being part of his posse meant always being a runner up or honorable mention, but still got me laid.

  Thanks, little brother.

  After being the first off the lift, I give Diesel a friendly wave and a smile to his mom before skiing over to the shack. A pair of rescue toboggans rest against the wall where we also park the snowmobiles.

  Okay, it’s nicer than a true shack, but not by much. Ski patrol has several of these buildings on each mountain. This outpost is typical of the bunch. Brown wood siding and big picture windows cover the exterior. Nothing fancy. There’s a ramp to the front door. Inside is the operations office, a locker room, kitchen, and a lounge with a wood stove. Basic.

  Throughout the day, the rooms will fill and empty with employees. It always smells like coffee, ramen noodles, wet GORE-TEX, and woodsmoke. There really isn’t a decor, other than clutter. Boots, parkas, hats, and gloves fill lockers and spill on the floor. Old ski posters cover the walls and ceiling. The break room counters hold cups of soup, hot chocolate packets, and enough mugs for an army. Basically, anything you can eat or drink with just water and heat. Packs, emergency kits, and medical supplies line the shelves opposite the kitchen area. Behind a locked door live the explosives and other equipment for avalanches.

  Nothing about the space is glamorous or charming, but it’s the heart and pulse of the mountain.

  Without us, there’d be no happy skiers.

  We break up fights.

  We save the drunks from themselves.

  Break a bone, we’ll get you to medical help.

  Lose your way, we’ll find you.

  Freak out, we’ll talk you down.

  I open the front door and whistle. Fern comes bounding out of the lounge area. She stretches in front of me. Her eyes are sleepy.

  “You and Zane have a good afternoon?” Fern’s boyfriend, Zane, a black lab, is another ski patrol dog. They spend their downtime snuggled on an old recliner near the fire.

  It’s a rough life.

  Earlier today we had an avalanche drill. To the dogs, it’s a big game of hide and seek. When Fern first started her training, we hid her favorite toy in the snow. Now we hide a human in a hole and she finds us. Same game to her, with a bigger reward.

  I hope we never have to put her training into action, but I know if we do, she’ll do her best.

  Fern wags her tail and stands up to get her ears scratched.

  “Ready to clock out?” I ask, giving her a chest rub.

  She replies with an enthusiastic bark.

  Like me, she wears a patrol uniform. I remove her working vest and hang it up next to my gear in my cubby. Finding my name magnet on the board, I slide it to the “off duty” area.

  I wave to Nic in dispatch on my way out the door.

  “Good work today,” she says as I pass. Pretty sure she says the same thing to me every day we work together.

  Outside I bump into Abe and Johan, two of our most senior patrollers. While Abe is craggy and bearded, tall and broad, Johan stands five foot eight in his socks and resembles a blond otter with his large eyes and slim build. Both men are in their early fifties and have spent over half their lives on these mountains. Talk about life goals, I want to be them when I grow up.

  “Be well,” I say as I put on my skis.

  “We’re going to be doing some blasting tomorrow,” Abe says. “Be sure to get here early if you want to be on the team.”

  He knows full well I won’t miss it. “I’ll start the coffee for you in the morning.”

  First one to arrive always starts the coffeemaker. The inside joke is Abe and Johan have never made a pot of coffee in their twenty-plus years on the mountain.

  I pat my chest. Fern takes a running leap, lands on my thigh, and then bounces up to my shoulder. I scoop her into position. Sometimes I let her run between my skis, but it’s the end of the day. We’ll get down the mountain quicker if I carry her.

  A silly pom-pom flashes into my head followed by Mara’s laugh.

  I know that laugh from before today.

  A certainty hits me square in the chest.

  We’ve met before.

  The details are still fuzzy, but now I’m ninety-nine percent sure we’ve never had sex.

  I’m sure I’d remember.

  My number isn’t that high I wouldn’t. Or can’t.

  She didn’t say anything.

  Maybe she doesn’t remember me.

  Or maybe she forgot me on purpose.

  Neither of those options put a smile on my face.

  Both of them pretty much suck.

  The when, where, how of our first meeting doesn’t come to me, but now I’m a man with a plan to remember.

  Chapter 5

  Mara

  LANDON HOLDS COURT at our table. Apparently, he knows everyone on the mountain, waving and smiling in greeting to new arrivals. One time, he even winks and gives someone the double thumbs-up like a slimy movie politician. I don’t really say much, but he fills the gaps in conversation with local gossip and trivia. The man gives excellent floor show.

  Currently, he’s telling me about Ted Bundy’s infamous courthouse escape and my mind begins comparing him to classic serial killer profiles. He ticks off a lot of the key profile traits: intelligent, self-assured, and charming.

  I’m not saying he is a serial killer. Or a psychopath. Or even a sociopath. Of course not. He’s the one who brought up the subject.

  Just saying he is a charming charmer.

  Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. Jesse swooshes to a stop near the ski rack. He’s carrying a dog on his shoulders.

  There’s a dog hanging out on his shoulder like it’s totally comfortable and normal. In fact, the dog looks like she’s smiling—huge grin on her face. Can you blame her? />
  Let’s slow down and rewind this scene, shall we?

  Tall, dark, and rugged man skies down the mountain with a dog on his shoulders.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything more sexy.

  The fluffy brown dog, who I assume is Fern, jumps down when they come to a stop. Her whole body wiggles as she wags her tail in joy.

  Happy dog is happy.

  I’d be wagging my tail if I were her, too. When he joked about carrying me down the mountain, I didn’t take him seriously. Sadly, I don’t think him carrying me would be nearly as adorable. Or sexy.

  I press my lips together to keep my jaw from hanging open. Or drooling. Reminding myself he didn’t remember me, I attempt to calm the racing of my heart.

  He’s no longer wearing his ski patrol parka. Instead, he’s switched to a mossy green fleece and a gray beanie, but unfortunately, he’s still wearing the same ski pants.

  He sees me and waves, stomping toward the deck in his boots, Fern following close behind.

  Two women at the table next to me loudly sigh. Or maybe it was me.

  “How do you know Jesse?” My new buddy Landon watches Jesse weave his way through the growing crowd to our table.

  “We met on the mountain today.” I leave out the near-death experience.

  And the one-night stand two years ago.

  “Doc, you did good.” Jesse stops at the end of our table. Fern jumps up and puts her feet on the edge. “Bad manners, Fern.”

  She glances up at him and hops down.

  “Good girl.” Smiling, he pats her head.

  I catch myself grinning at the two of them and their cuteness.

  “This is Fern. She’ll give you a proper shake if you ask her.”

  “Nice to meet you, Fern.” I hold out my hand. “Shake.”

  She gives me her paw in greeting.

  “She’s normally well behaved, but we’re working on her crowd skills.” Jesse’s smile dies as he stares at the Viking sitting across from me. “Landon.”

  “Hayes.” Landon gives him one of those classic bro nods. Neither men smiles in greeting.

  Interesting.

  Jesse sits in the chair beside mine. I feel Fern squeeze between our legs and lie near my feet. I can’t resist reaching down to pet her thick brown fur.