by Jamie Beck
Ha! She laughed at herself, because that romantic notion of youth had been tarnished slowly, because her life had been commandeered by her mom and her responsibilities at the inn. She’d never broken rules, sneaked out, or done any of the other rebellious things her friends had. Partly because it wasn’t in her nature, and partly because she never wanted to risk sending her mother back over the edge.
Spending so much time managing her mom’s postdivorce depression had seriously hampered Emma’s ability to relate to and trust men, too. Worse, maybe her mom’s harping on the evils of men and sex had made her a tiny bit bitter. Could that be why she’d treated Wyatt’s supposed interest like a felony instead of flattery?
Wyatt continued talking about why he wasn’t dating. “I’ll be traveling around the world this winter, assuming I qualify for the bigger competitions. Life on the road isn’t the best recipe for a relationship.”
Mrs. Pellman waved a disgusted hand in his face. “Pish posh. You young people think you have forever to figure this stuff out. But before you know it, you’ll wonder how life went by so fast. You’ll wonder why you didn’t spend more time with people and less time at work or on those gizmos everyone always has in their hands. I swear, every time my Maureen takes me out to dinner, all I see are people sitting around tables ignoring each other to look at Snapface.”
“Snapchat?” Wyatt offered.
“It’s all tomfoolery, no matter what you call it. It isn’t real.” Mrs. Pellman leaned toward Wyatt. “Why don’t you want something real?”
Wyatt rocked back, hands raised in surrender. “I never said I didn’t.”
“You have a bit of scoundrel about you yet. Still wondering if the grass is greener somewhere else?” The old woman shook her head then reached for Wyatt’s hand. “I gardened for fifty years, and let me tell you one thing: Grass is only green when you tend to it night and day. You remember that, young man.”
Rather profound of Mrs. Pellman. Wyatt looked a little out of his depth at this point, so Emma rushed in to his rescue, thankful that the conversation had veered away from her and her secrets.
“Okeydoke. On that note, I think it’s time for bingo. Today’s prize is a home-cooked meal of your choice by moi. Who’s in?”
Emma’s heart swelled when everyone’s hand shot into the air. She may not have Kelsey’s beauty or Avery’s brains, but she could cook, and she had the affection of these wonderful, wise men and women. The opinions of those who’d lived long enough to see what matters most were special to her, even if those opinions didn’t keep her warm at night.
“For such a wholesome girl, I’m surprised you encourage this sinful bit of gambling,” Wyatt teased, disappointed he’d failed to dig up any tidbit about Emma from the old folks.
“It’s hardly gambling.” She cocked a single, red brow in challenge. “More like a raffle.”
“Raffles are a form of gambling. And if you need proof that gambling is a sin, consider the fact that all the numbers on a roulette wheel add up to 666.” He crossed his arms triumphantly.
“Only someone very familiar with sinning would know that bit of trivia.” Emma quipped, her eyes sparkling. His heart pinged when she played along, and he wished very much that they weren’t in a room full of people and cameras. He shouldn’t continue the banter with Mari and the crew filming, but he was powerless to stop himself from seeing where it might lead. He simply needed to know.
“Life without any sin is boring, Saint Emma.” Wyatt watched her eyes narrow before he smiled and glanced around the small crowd clutching their bingo cards. “Don’t you all agree?”
“I do!” exclaimed Mrs. Ritter, then she and her cronies tittered.
“You know what? I’m feeling lucky.” Wyatt turned back to Emma. “Where’s my card?”
“What?” Emma asked.
“Don’t I get to play?” Wyatt noticed Mari staring at him while whispering something to Jim. “I’d like a home-cooked meal.”
Wyatt heard Mrs. Pellman let out a little cluck behind him.
“I’m already cooking for you every night this month, saint that I am.” Emma’s smug expression amused him.
“Maybe I’ll come back some other time to collect.” Wyatt surprised himself with the comment, and then felt his cheeks heat when Mr. Tomlin muttered to someone else behind him, “Not a bad line, if I do say so myself.”
Mari whispered to Jim, who then focused the camera on Emma’s face.
Wyatt shouldn’t continue to flirt with Emma. He knew enough about her to realize she preferred to blend into the background. He just wanted . . . something from her. Something she kept withholding. Something he suspected would be remarkable if he could only experience it for himself.
Not surprisingly, Emma played it cool and handed him a bingo card without retort, which suggested she had noticed Mari’s piqued interest also. Wyatt sat beside Mrs. Pellman, who whispered conspiratorially, “I wanted to win, but now I hope you do.”
He didn’t win. That honor went to Mr. Tomlin, who couldn’t have looked happier than if he’d won a gold medal.
“When will you make me dinner? Do I get to come to the inn, or do I have to eat it here?” Mr. Tomlin’s inflection proved his strong preference for a road trip. “Will you be joining me, too?”
Wyatt couldn’t blame the man. Living confined to a place like this, filled with aging, sometimes sickly, older people, must get stifling. Even without that context, a quiet meal with Emma held appeal, too. At least it would if she acted with him as she did around most other people.
Emma smiled. “Of course I’ll join you, Mr. Tomlin, but let’s push it off until after Wyatt and his crew leave. We’ll talk later about what you’d like, and then we’ll pick a date. I’ll speak with Ms. Henley about getting you over to the inn. Sound good?”
“I can’t wait.” Mr. Tomlin sat back and adjusted his bow tie. “I need to think about what I want to eat. Something I haven’t had in a long while. Something I can’t get here.”
“The sky’s the limit.” Emma collected the bingo cards. The sunlight filtered through the plate glass window, casting her in a golden glow. Saint Emma did look a bit angelic just then, goodwill flowing off her in waves, warming those in her path even more than the sun’s rays. Wyatt felt himself straining toward her like a sunflower. “It looks like our time is almost up today.”
“When will the movie be on TV?” Mrs. Ritter asked.
“We’ll air part one in January, just before the first qualifier,” Mari replied. “Then, depending on how Wyatt does, we’ll follow him through the competition season and air part two after that.”
Depending on how Wyatt does. A reminder of the uncertain road ahead.
He rubbed his knee absently, mind racing. With Trip’s help, he should get through this month of training without being buried by another avalanche. But could Trip help him learn to read the terrain better, and quickly? Would it be enough for him to qualify for bigger competitions, or would he fall on his face—literally and figuratively—effectively ending his competition days and hopes of future film deals and big sponsor money.
He looked up to find Emma staring at his hand on his knee, her brows knitted together. Whatever part of him itched to know her better, he needed to squelch it. He’d come to this town for one purpose.
Forcing himself not to flirt, Wyatt stood and wandered off. He’d done his best to engage the seniors and give Mari the footage she needed, but now he wanted to fade away and regroup.
Earlier he’d noticed the way Ryder had disengaged from the video in order to become more involved with just one resident—a disabled man. Memories of Emma’s accusations that Ryder had changed his mind about this comeback adventure, that he was being forced to relive his accident and subsequent losses, replayed.
Throughout Ryder’s recovery, Wyatt had focused on his brother’s physical progress. With each milestone—sitting, standing, walking, talking—Wyatt had breathed a new sigh of relief. He’d believed each step brought them c
loser to the way things used to be.
Now Wyatt had the chance to work on his brother’s mental and emotional progress. Shadows and gaps existed now that made navigating their relationship more complicated, but no more insurmountable than the many snowboard tricks Wyatt had mastered during his life.
Surely Ryder wanted that connection back, too. They’d always connected best through this sport, this world they both loved—the mountains, the competition circuit, all of it. Ryder didn’t have to lose it all just because he couldn’t compete. He could still be an invaluable player. Hell, if Ryder “needed to be needed,” then he needn’t look further than his brother. Besides, Wyatt couldn’t let go of this plan for reviving Ryder’s spirit because, if this didn’t work, he had no plan B. And settling for Ryder living the rest of his life so detached was not an option.
He watched Ryder’s shoulders tense as he approached him. “Mind if I join you two? I’m Wyatt.”
Ryder merely shrugged.
“Marcus Hartley.” The elderly man gestured to an empty chair. “Your brother was telling me about the avalanche. You got lucky!”
“That’s one way to look at it.” Wyatt hadn’t felt very lucky yesterday.
Marcus held up his prosthetic hand, grinning. “When you’re dealt a blow, you learn to look for silver linings.”
“Great perspective.” Wyatt wondered if Marcus had made an impact on Ryder. “I’ve hired a guide for the rest of the month, so hopefully that won’t happen again. I’m not too proud to ask for help, which is why I’ve asked Ryder to be part of this process. I can’t do it without him and his support.”
Ryder snorted. “Don’t try to s-snow me.”
“It’s not a con, Ryder.” Wyatt backhanded his brother’s arm.
“Brothers,” Marcus mused. “You’re lucky to have each other.”
“I know.” Wyatt glanced at Ryder and then back to Marcus. “We always trained together. He knows my strengths and weaknesses better than anyone. I need his input. I want him to tell me what I’m doing wrong, just like he used to. I rely on him to keep me on track.”
Ryder looked at Wyatt for a long moment. Did he remember the way it had been? The way Ryder had been at least as good as their coach at pointing out Wyatt’s flaws—anticipating them, even? At encouraging Wyatt to overcome them? He must’ve remembered something because he nodded at Wyatt, signaling an agreement.
Finally, a breakthrough. Wyatt felt a smile tug at his mouth as he wrapped an arm around Ryder’s shoulder. “Thanks, brotha’.”
The weight Wyatt had been shouldering since last night lifted, making him feel lighter and more optimistic than he had since he’d arrived in Sterling Canyon. He’d prove to himself, Ryder, and Emma that this was the right direction for both Lawson brothers.
Emma—a puzzle. Goodness incarnate, if these people were to be believed. But he’d seen another side to her. A testy side. And no one was perfect. So why did Emma need to project this perfect image to everyone except for him? What was it about him that brought out a prickly side?
Wyatt stopped listening to Marcus and Ryder’s conversation so he could watch her now, her red hair casually hanging around her face in long layers. Her clothes were neither baggy nor tight. Neither sexy nor sexless. Dark denim jeans that clung to shapely legs. A crisp, blue-and-green striped top, unbuttoned just below the notch in her neck. Silver hoop earrings and a matching bracelet. Fresh and appealing in her own subtle way. Just looking at her stirred him deep down, where a steady hum vibrated.
He’d like to strip her down, literally and figuratively, but the timing wasn’t right. He’d just gotten his brother on his side. Tomorrow he’d meet up with Trip and learn to tackle the backcountry before moving on to Crested Butte next month to prepare for the qualifier that would take place there in January.
Wyatt wouldn’t trade his adventurous life for anything, although the past few days had forced him to acknowledge a certain grace in a simpler kind of life. But no matter what happened here in Sterling Canyon, he’d be cruising out of this town soon. For all of her intriguing mystery and physical appeal, Emma Duffy would become just another girl he used to know.
It’d be better for both of them if he followed her lead and kept his distance. Even as he thought it, his eyes sought her out, and he was oddly happier for a glimpse of her reading to Mrs. Ritter.
Chapter Eight
Emma worked quickly, stuffing small boxes with signed author copies of Steep and Deep and other goodies to send to a few of her Facebook followers in exchange for early reviews. She handwrote notes to each, thanking them for taking a chance on a new author, and then prayed that they’d enjoy her story.
If she spent any time thinking about reviews, her mouth got pasty, her palms damp. One would think that growing up with a fault-finding mother would make it easier for her to handle the idea of negative reviews. While Emma dealt with criticism better than some, it still stung. The fact that, after a day or two of curling up in a ball, she could turn negative feedback into a means of motivation didn’t mean it never hurt. It always hurt.
She’d recently read advice from other authors that warned not to read reviews, or not to take them to heart, or promised any review is only the opinion of one person, not a wholesale assessment of a writer’s skill. Yet, Emma couldn’t quite rectify how to dismiss bad reviews as insignificant while accepting good ones as true (or using them as marketing tools). At this point, she could only hope to receive more good ones than bad ones.
And what she should be stressing about was the work-in-progress, which was going nowhere. It had become intolerable to try to create fake scenes about Dallas while his alter ego rambled around the inn, throwing off testosterone and flirty smiles.
Knock, knock.
Emma froze before she remembered she’d locked her bedroom door. “Who is it?”
“Wyatt.”
Instinctively, she stretched her body to conceal the books. The cover art, which featured a shirtless Dallas, taunted her, making her question once more where the line between privacy and hypocrisy could be drawn. “Just a second!”
She shoved the box of books under her bed and placed the packages in her closet.
What could Wyatt want? Ever since the care center visit earlier this week, they’d politely addressed each other while minimizing personal contact. Contrary to her wishes, the intentional indifference only enhanced her tension and longing. Now here he was standing outside her bedroom near midnight?
Crossing the room while double-checking to ensure no visible trace of Alexa remained, she pressed her fingers to the beating pulse in her neck before opening her door a crack. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” He tried to peer into her room, but she’d wedged herself into the opening. “I’m hungry, but I didn’t want to use the kitchen without permission. I saw the light on under your door or I wouldn’t have knocked.”
“Oh.” Seeing him standing in the dark hallway inspired another fantasy—one of him playfully holding up a jar of honey before forcing his way into her room and locking the door behind him. He had, after all, enjoyed using food as a form of foreplay.
Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed the awkward pause caused by yet another daydream, because his gaze had dropped to her feet and stuck there. She looked down and stifled a groan. Apparently he’d never seen a grown woman wearing plush bunny slippers. Fur-lined stilettos were more likely his preference. “You can grab a snack if you’d like. I’ve got plenty of fruit and cereal on hand.”
He shook his head and leaned against the doorjamb, crowding her. She detected a faintly spicy scent, which brought back another visceral memory of collapsing against his shoulder and nestling her face close to his neck. Her eyelids suddenly felt heavy from the heavenly recollection.
“I’m hungry.” He shifted his weight to his other foot. “I want hot food, and I don’t know where you keep stuff.”
Midnight cooking had never been part of the deal, but Wyatt looked tired and helpless. He’d been
pushing himself all week with Trip. Thankfully, the past four days had come and gone without incident.
Resigned to her fate, she stepped into the hall, chenille robe wrapped tightly around her body.
“Let’s go see what I can whip up.” Emma admitted to herself that she enjoyed feeding others. Food comforted. It lingered. It aroused the senses, as he well knew. She rather looked forward to comforting him in this safe way. “How about poached eggs, sliced avocados with cayenne pepper, and a little multigrain toast?”
“Sounds awesome.” His hazel eyes twinkled, sending her heart aloft like a hot air balloon. What might it be like to have him look at her like that every day? The juvenile wish made her give herself a mental eye roll. Honestly. As if he wouldn’t lose that intrigued look by week two, or sooner. “Thanks.”
Unlike her, Wyatt wasn’t wearing silly slippers or fuzzy pajamas. His thin sweatpants hung low on his hips. A fitted, long-sleeved shirt clung to the defined muscles of his shoulders, arms, and chest. As usual, he exuded some kind of magnetic pull, making her body whirr with yearning.
What she couldn’t quite decide was whether it had to do with Wyatt, per se, or with the fact that he represented her one and only experience of breaking from societal expectations. Or maybe it was because she’d spent hundreds of hours with “Dallas.” Had she now confused her book’s hero with the real man, who would surely be more flawed than the fictional character? Still, she felt like the heroine in her book now, walking beside Wyatt, her pulse kicking about, her skin prickly with heat.
As they made their way along the shadowy hallway to the creaky stairs, Wyatt asked, “Would you be a little afraid to be alone in this big house?”
Suppressing a giggle, she glanced over her shoulder. “No.”
“You don’t think spirits hang out with all this old stuff?” He slid a sideways glance at a headdress near the landing.
She stopped, midstride. “Do you believe in ghosts?”