Up to You (Love with Altitude Book 4)

by Daisy Prescott

  Up to You

  Daisy Prescott

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  More books by Daisy Prescott

  A Note from Daisy

  Acknowledgments

  About Daisy

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Daisy Prescott, All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author/ publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by ©SM Lumetta

  Cover photos: ©Jacob Ammentorp Lund/Stocksy, ©Nyker, and ©twildlife

  Editing by There for You Editing

  Interior Design by Fiona Fischer

  ebooks ISBN: 9780998858241

  Paperback ISBN: 9780998858234

  To keep up with my latest news and upcoming releases, sing up for my mailing list.

  For my husband

  Because I was afraid of worms, Roxanne! Worms!

  —Chris McConnell, Roxanne

  Chapter 1

  Mae

  “I see one micro penis straw, and I’m out of here. Out. Of. Here. They can’t make me stay.” I’m not complaining. I’m establishing my boundaries ahead of time. Although, I have been talking about plastic phalluses the entire drive up the winding back road into Snowmass, instead of enjoying the view. Gold leaves on a few aspen trees hint at the end of summer right around the corner.

  “Are there usually penis straws at bridal showers? I thought those were banished to the drunken hours of shame and regret during the bachelorette party.” Zoe’s dark brows crease with worry. “I’m here for the cake. Obviously.”

  “Not even cake can fix this disaster. I can’t be around my mother trying to suck on a tiny penis with a straight face.” Not enough therapy in the world could help erase that memory.

  Zoe’s face falls at my dire vision for my cousin’s bridal shower. “That can’t happen. When we get there, we’ll do some reconnaissance. If we find a bag of plastic dicks, we’ll steal them. I’m pretty sure the Snowmass Mountain Club frowns upon a room full of women stirring their drinks with dicks. We’d probably all get banned.”

  She’s right. Some things aren’t done at the club. The whole place screams wealth but using a restrained indoor voice. This isn’t the typical pearls and cardigans uniform of the country club crowd. In the mountains, we prefer everything to be more rugged and outdoorsy—both our men and our clubs. Mounted elk heads mix with diamonds and tennis in the summer; furs and skiing in the winter.

  I park in the lot near the year-round tennis courts. My vintage yellow VW Bug stands out in the crowd of Porsche SUVs, Teslas, and Land Rovers. We step out of the car and put on our game faces.

  “Ready?” I roll back my shoulders and shake out my wrists. Bouncing in my wedge sandals, I throw a few punches along with some bobbing and weaving.

  “Okay, Million Dollar Baby.” Zoe ducks out of the way. “No need to cause physical harm. Let’s assume the best. This could be a lovely afternoon filled with champagne and cake.”

  I stop pretending to be a boxer and give her a look. “You can’t be serious. Have you met my family?”

  “I am serious. Positive thinking. Visualize the best possible outcome.” In her boho floral dress and booties, she’s a lovely earth goddess with her dark hair in a messy braided bun.

  “Which would be? I mean, other than turning around and leaving now.” I twirl my keys around my finger, hoping she’ll give in and agree with me.

  Like her, I’m wearing a floral dress, but mine is mostly black with the occasional red rose. Zoe made me change out of the all black outfit I’d picked out, saying it was more suited for a funeral or a goth club. Either of those options sounds like a better choice than sitting through a bridal shower with my pretentious extended family.

  Undeterred by my grumpy attitude, Zoe continues, “I barely know the bride, so I have zero emotional investment in today. I’m hoping for several options for cake and more cake in the goodie bag.”

  “You’re obsessed. You and Justin should get married. Then you can do a cake tasting. Or several.”

  Her dark lashes flutter as she thinks about this option. “I like your thinking, but a wedding is an expensive way to get cake when I can buy one any time I want. Lifetime commitment in exchange for buttercream is a little extreme, even for me.”

  I’m about to ask her if she and her cowboy have discussed marriage, when Sage’s vintage, wood-sided Wrangler swings through the lot and parks a few spaces down the row. For someone who could afford any car in this lot, I love my friend even more for driving her old Jeep.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Sage jumps down from the driver’s seat and then jogs over to us, her flowy, light blue maxi dress billowing behind her. Her face switches from apology to confusion, a line forming between her brows. “Why are you hanging around the parking lot? Are we sneaking edibles before we go inside?”

  “Why? Do you have some?” I ask her, curious. “I could use a little help from a special gummy bear.”

  “No, I don’t have edibles.” She frowns at me.

  “We should’ve planned ahead.” I’m not upset at her. I’ve failed myself.

  Sage nods in sympathy. “So, if you’re not tailgating by the cars, what are you doing out here?”

  “Mae was warming up with some boxing moves before we go inside,” Zoe answers.

  Sage dips her chin and studies me.

  “Stop with the look. My family isn’t normal. Everyone will ask about my dating life and click their tongues about me still being single. Then give my mother pitiful looks of sympathy for having a spinster daughter. I’m older than dear cousin Twyla by four years. We’re too young to imagine the horrors of having a spinster daughter. How will my mother ever recover from the shame?” I hold out my hands in a pleading gesture. “How?”

  Sage gives me a side hug and Zoe joins us, closing the circle, both of them enveloping me with their arms.

  “That’s why we’re here for you. None of us are married. We’ll be sure to flaunt our naked left ring fingers whenever possible.” Sage shows off her ringless hand. Zoe puts hers over it and bumps my hip to encourage me to add mine to the pile.

  When I rest my palm on Zoe’s hand, Sage says, “To the unmarrieds! Long may we live in sin!”

  I laugh, but I really want to point out that while they’re unmarried, they’re not single. Like me.

  “Let’s do this.” Sage links her arm with mine and then Zoe’s. She may be petite, but her dancer’s body is disturbingly strong.

  River stone decorates the grand entrance, which sits un
der a huge portico held up by giant logs and thick beams. Obviously, size matters at the Mountain Club. The interior of the club is a mix of hunter green and tasteful plaid with more wood and flattering light cast from antler chandeliers and wall sconces. Somehow it manages to be both rustic and elegant.

  The afternoon is warm enough that all of the French doors lining the far wall of the banquet room are open to the terrace facing the ski mountain and Mount Daly. Clear sunshine pools on the thick carpet and sparkles off of champagne flutes on the table.

  Three tables are stacked high with pastel-wrapped gifts for the new couple. I drop off the small box with a gift card to La Belle Femme creperie near the top of the pile. Couples love crepes and it’s one of the most romantic restaurants in Aspen. I might be biased since I work there.

  Sage adds an envelope and winks at me. “Gift card from Cheeks. No way am I picking out lingerie for your cousin.”

  Equally tasteful women cluster together in small groups like flocks of colorful birds. Conversations and laughter are kept to a respectful murmur. An occasional burst of giggles elevates the general subdued feel. We linger near the door and I glance down the hall to the main bar, thinking if I’m in the building it should count as attending the bridal shower.

  Subtly, I take a step back, shifting my weight to that foot to pivot in the direction of freedom.

  “Uh huh. No escaping,” Sage whispers. “Smile. We’re all delighted to be here. Fake it if you have to.”

  Parting my lips, I show her my teeth.

  “You look like you’re thinking about eating me. Less menacing and more happy.” She grins at me, leading me into the room.

  Off balance, I stumble forward before catching my footing. When I glance up, my mother is shaking her head in disbelief and disproval.

  Resigned, I tap Sage’s arm. “I’ve been spotted. Suppose I should go say hello to my mom.”

  “We’ll get you a drink.” Zoe gives my hand a squeeze before releasing me.

  Inhaling, I straighten my spine and pretend I have a stack of books on my head. Posture matters to these people. Slouching is considered a personal insult in my family. I believe my grandmother once told me that if you can’t be bothered to keep your head up and your shoulders back, you must not have an ounce of respect for yourself or your parents.

  I greet my mother with a kiss to her cheek and plaster on a reserved smile. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Mae. You look lovely.” She touches my shoulder and covertly tucks my bra strap under the fabric of my dress.

  “So do you. As always.”

  She brushes a hand over her perfectly tailored blue dress—simple, but obviously designer. Her hair has the same rich brown waves as mine, even if hers is colored to hide her grays. Once she joked she stole a lock of my hair to give to her stylist. I totally believe she’d do it.

  “Mae and Margaret.” A woman with a neat, blond bob air-kisses my mother in the general vicinity of her cheek. “I swear you two could be sisters.”

  “Oh, Gwendolyn. You’re so good for my ego.” Mom giggles.

  I’m not sure Gwen is good for mine.

  “Mae, you remember Gwendolyn Roberts. We’ve known her and her husband for longer than you’ve been alive. I believe you and her son were in school together.”

  For a moment I blink in silence at both women as they stare expectedly at me. Roberts.

  “Landon Roberts?” I squawk, my voice a little too loud for polite company.

  Sage appears next to me with a mimosa in each hand. “Ugh, that tool. Who is he screwing over now?”

  The three of us still, like Sage is “It” in a game of Freeze Tag. I’m not sure my mother is breathing.

  Unaware of the foot sticking out of her mouth, Sage scans the room. “I should warn the poor girl and give her a coupon for some self-esteem raising therapy.”

  My mother reaches for a strand of imaginary pearls at her neck. Not finding anything to clutch, she presses her hand over her heart.

  I can’t even look at Mrs. Roberts.

  “Sage, this is Gwendolyn Roberts.” I emphasize the last name to clue her in.

  Zoe chokes on her drink. I didn’t see her join us. Coughing to clear her throat, she asks, “You’re Landon’s mother?”

  Gwendolyn’s attention bounces from my mother to me to Zoe, avoiding Sage alltogether. I can’t look anyone in the eye, especially not my friends. The awkward tension is so off the charts I might burst out laughing.

  Sipping my drink and scanning the room, I wait for someone to say something to dig us out of this social faux pas pit. After my earlier freakout, I’m both relieved and disappointed not to see anyone sipping their drinks with a pink phallus. We could use a dick distraction.

  Sage pulls out her good breeding and extends her hand to Mrs. Roberts. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Sage Blum, and I apologize for my sense of humor. It’s because I’m from Chicago.”

  Zoe’s eyes widen with shock. “We’re both from Chicago. What does that have to do with anything? It isn’t like we were raised by the mob or feral cats on the shores of Lake Michigan.”

  My mother sighs with exaggerated disappointment. “Sage is one of the Chicago Blums. Of Bloom and Board.”

  Mrs. Roberts catches on to Mom’s name-dropping, her scowl transforming into surprise as she takes Sage’s hand. Nothing like millions in the bank to smooth over an awkward moment. “Oh, of course. I believe I met your parents at the Caribou Club several years ago.”

  “It’s possible.” Sage loosens her grip, but Mrs. Roberts holds tight like she finally has a lively one on her fishing rod.

  “Didn’t you date Landon?” my mother asks Sage, ignoring my not-so-subtle glare.

  “Date is a strong word. We know each other. Aspen’s a small town.” She finally escapes Mrs. Roberts’ hold.

  “Sage’s boyfriend is captain of the rugby team. They’re living together. Cohabiting in the same condo. In sin.” I don’t want to leave any doubt they’re more than roommates. I might as well announce they’re having sex. “She’s spoken for. Although Lee needs to put a ring on it, she’s no single lady.”

  Four sets of eyes widen while words keep pouring out of my mouth.

  “I think we get it, Margaret.” My mother presses her hand on my forearm.

  “Okay, didn’t want there to be any confusion.” I nod and try to sip from my empty flute. Where’d my mimosa go?

  Zoe hands me her glass and I finish it.

  “Are you dating anyone?” Mrs. Roberts asks me, sounding only vaguely interested.

  “Uh, that would be a negative. It’s the end of summer and the dating pool has dried up more than the snowmelt. By late August, we’re left with ‘been there, done that’ and the ‘still not desperate enough to touch that’s’ of single people.” I follow this up with a shudder.

  “Mae,” my mother hisses under her breath. To the mother of one of the untouchables, she says, “She’s kidding.”

  “I wish,” I say drily, taking another sip of my mimosa.

  “Then you’re bringing a date for the wedding?” My mother’s hand reaches for her imaginary pearls again. “You can’t show up alone.”

  “I won’t be alone. There are over three hundred invites to this shindig. I’ll have my tribe with me, and I assume we’ll all be sitting at the same table. No one will notice if I’m unchaperoned.”

  Mom and Mrs. Roberts exchange looks of horror. Mom lowers her voice to a whisper in case anyone is eavesdropping. “This isn’t a night of debauchery at that tavern in Woody Creek, Margaret.”

  At the use of my proper name, I shoot Sage and Zoe a silent SOS.

  “Isn’t bringing a random guy to a wedding kind of weird? Watching two people pledge their undying love to each other is a lot of pressure on a date. I know weddings make people horny, but there are less awkward ways to get laid.” I stare at my friends for confirmation.

  With their eyebrows lifted, they manage to nod, but I’m not sure they agree.

  Inside o
f my mother’s brain, tiny blood vessels are exploding with every word that comes out of my mouth. Her face remains perfectly passive, but I can tell she’s starting to simmer over this whole exchange. A small twitch appears beneath her left eye.

  “There’s a simple solution to this issue,” Mrs. Roberts speaks up.

  Clearly, I misjudged her. She’s on my side and is going to tell my mother how silly the notion of a wedding date still is. After all, she’s Landon’s mother. She raised him. There’s no way even she thinks he’s dating or marriage material. Unless she’s delusional, which is a possibility.

  When she opens her mouth to continue, I hold my breath and prepare to mentally high five her. “Landon’s single, too. He can be your date.”

  In my head, I hear the sound of tires screeching on asphalt as they try to avoid the impending impact. I imagine someone screaming and time slips into slow motion.

  “No,” I whisper at the same exact moment my mother gleefully says, “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll let Landon know when we have dinner tomorrow.” Gwendolyn, my new least favorite person, smiles and takes a dainty swallow of her champagne. “How perfect,” she says, delighted.

  No, not perfect. The opposite of perfect. The word she’s looking for is disaster or nightmare.

  “I can’t—” I try to decline, but my mother cuts me off.

  “Wait. Mae can’t wait. It’s going to be the wedding of the year. Let’s hope the aspen leaves don’t drop early. Wouldn’t it be perfect if they were at the height of their golden glory for the wedding? So divine.”