“Fuck off, Kristie!” I forcefully yanked her hand off and zipped up my fly.
She looked miffed. “What bug do you have up your ass?”
“I’m just not in the mood.” My voice was as bitter cold as the air.
“Fine.” She stabbed the word at me and scooted away.
Relieved, I took in the spectacular view of the snow-covered mountains and trees through my goggles as our chair made its ascent. And wished I were sharing it with Jen.
When we reached the top of the trail, Kristie jumped off the lift. “Fuck you, Blake. Ski by yourself.” She zoomed off.
For the first time since I’d gotten here, I smiled.
Usually I zipped down the advanced Black Diamond trail, expertly maneuvering its sharp twists and turns, but today I took my time zigzagging on my skis through the powder-perfect snow. The skier’s high I usually got was not possible with Jennifer on my mind. I longed to be with her on the bunny slope. Teaching her how to ski… holding her as she awkwardly snow plowed down the little hill… hearing her little gasps and then scream when she lost control… and helping her back on her feet when she tumbled onto the white powder. My heart ached to have her in my arms, feel her warm lips on mine, and indulge in all the après-ski activities made for lovers—from sitting in a hot Jacuzzi under the stars to sharing a blanket on a horse and carriage ride through town.
The biting wind whipped across my face as I made my way downward. About a quarter way down the slope, it began to snow, and by the time I was halfway down, the flurries had morphed into a blinding blizzard. Distracted, it took all I had to focus and circumvent the obscured trees and other obstacles along the way. I was relieved to reach the bottom. While many avid skiers were going back up despite the storm, I’d had enough. Removing my skis, I caught the next shuttle to the hotel.
It was three o’clock when I got back to the lodge. Leaving my skis in storage, I headed to my suite, where I disrobed and took a hot bath after calling room service. Not having much of an appetite, I ordered a hot toddy to soothe away the mental pain that was coursing through my veins.
Soaking in the large steamy tub, I stretched my legs out and studied my dick. It was limp. I swear Mr. Burns was wearing a sad face. He’d never been in this state before. Desperate, yes; despondent, no. Wanking off was not going to solve the problem.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to figure out how to get you back with Jennifer.” Fuck. What was wrong with me? I was talking to my dick. It stirred as if it had heard me. Stepping out of the tub, I towel dried my pal gently. The poor guy. He hung low and lifeless.
“Call her,” I heard Mr. Burns whimper in my head.
“I can’t,” I said aloud. I’d promised her I wouldn’t. Unless it was a business-related emergency. Nonetheless, I had the burning urge to break my promise. To hear her sweet voice. To tell her I missed her. Terribly. I’d never missed a woman before. This was a whole new feeling for me. It was as if I’d had been kicked in the balls.
No, I couldn’t call her. It would be a mistake. We needed time apart to figure things out. Except I’d already done that. I wanted her to be mine.
With an empty heart, I shrugged on the fluffy terrycloth robe that came with the room. By the time I knotted the belt, I had a change of mind. Fuck it. I was going to call her. I needed to hear her voice. I needed to tell her something important.
I dashed back into the bedroom to get my cell phone. I thought I’d left it on my night table, but it wasn’t there. Balls. Where the hell had I put it? I frantically searched everywhere—tearing the room apart. I also checked the pockets of everything I’d worn. Nada. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where was it? Finally, I spotted it—under the bed. It must have fallen out of my ski pants when I took them off. As I bent down to retrieve it, a loud knock sounded at the door. Room service. I ran to the door and opened it.
“Room service.”
I gaped.
“My sister told me you were here.”
Christ. It was the other twin—Kirstie, dressed in a long fur coat that must have cost a fortune and mile-high black leather stiletto boots.
“I hope you like your pussy moist and raw.” With a flutter of her false eyelashes, she flung open her coat, exposing her bare body—tit, stock, and barrel. In a breath, she was all over me, gnawing and grappling every ounce of flesh she could find.
I found my voice and shoved her away. “Kirstie, get the fuck out of here.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she growled. She was as clueless as her bimbo sister but more aggressive, not letting my words get in the way. She fisted my hair and bit down on my lips. I pushed her away again, knocking her flat against the wall.
While she stood there fuming, I knew what I had to do. I hurried to the room phone and dialed the concierge.
“I’m the one who should be calling security,” hissed the presumptuous twin.
Not responding to her, I told the concierge to book me the next flight to Boise.
“We’re sorry, Mr. Burns. The airport is closed due to the storm. There won’t be any flights available until tomorrow.”
Fuck. I couldn’t wait that long. “Then get me a rental car right away.”
Good news. There was one available. I slammed the receiver back on the cradle and then frantically gathered up all my belongings, including my cell phone. I threw everything into my suitcase. Before closing it, I yanked out my jeans, a tee, and a heavy Nordic sweater plus a pair of after-ski boots. And a hat.
Five minutes later, I was dressed and almost out the door. “You can have the room; it’ll be good for you not to share something with your sister,” I told the dumbstruck blonde. She stood wide-mouthed against the wall, watching me as I split.
Fifteen minutes later, I was heading south on Highway 75, driving through a bitch of a blizzard in the four-wheel drive Jeep I’d rented. With the inclement weather conditions, the concierge had told me the 150-mile trip would take close to four hours. Maybe more because I made one stop in Ketchum to pick up a few things. Thank you, Jesus. The stores were open late on Christmas Eve to accommodate last minute shoppers. God bless American consumerism.
I’d done a lot of crazy things in my life, but this was by far the craziest. Despite being tethered with chains, the SUV inched along the icy road, sliding and spinning out of control. My hands gripped the steering wheel like iron clamps while every muscle in my body clenched. To make things worse, the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the rapidly falling mega flakes of snow. It was impossible to see ahead or behind me. It was all one big white blur. Only one thing was clear: I was risking my life. But Jennifer McCoy, my little tiger, was worth it.
Chapter 2
Jennifer
It felt good to be home. Our neighborhood in the North End section of Boise hadn’t changed a bit. The people who lived there and the homes they lived in were straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Middle America at its finest. So different from hectic, multi-ethnic Los Angeles with its McMansions.
Dad had picked me up at noon at the airport in his station wagon and couldn’t be happier to see me. The feeling was mutual. I was a daddy’s girl and loved my father. Of course, he was surprised Bradley wasn’t with me. I told him there’d been a change in plans and that I would explain everything to him and Mom when we got to the house. Fortunately, he didn’t press further.
“Mom’s made your favorite gingerbread cookies,” he said as we passed by rows of shingled cookie-cutter homes all decked out with Christmas lights and decorations. “We’re all going to make a gingerbread house later.” Making one of these elaborate holiday confections was a family tradition.
I studied my father as he drove. Having recently retired from university life at the age of sixty-five, he looked as handsome as ever to me. Though wrinkles lined his face and his hair was now flecked with gray, his sage-green eyes twinkled behind his scholarly horn-rimmed glasses, and a warm smile radiated on his face.
In no time, we pulled up to our stately red brick hous
e. It was one of the best decorated houses on the street. Strings of bright blinking lights outlined the framework and windows, and a charming manger scene sat on the front lawn. There was also a large wreath on the red-painted front door. Dad parked the car in the garage and helped me with my suitcase. Holding the large shopping bag that contained my parents’ Christmas presents, I followed my father eagerly through the door to our house. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted up my nose. I was home.
“Darling!” exclaimed my mother as I set foot in the kitchen. Wearing a floral-patterned apron, she ran over to hug me before I had a chance to shrug off my coat or put down the bag. She looked prettier than ever. Her gray-blue eyes sparkled, and her short ash-brown hair was now chin-length and held back by a red velvet band.
“Where’s Bradley?”
The million-dollar question. I took a deep breath and the words tumbled out. “We broke up.”
The look on her face went from joyful to alarmed. “Goodness gracious! Are you all right, darling? You look like you’ve lost weight.” The tone of her voice bordered on panic.
“I’m fine.” Without going into details, I told her that I’d discovered Bradley was cheating on me with his hygienist. Why beat around the bush?
My mother gasped. “Good Lord! How did you find out?”
“Caught him in the act.” I didn’t want to tell my parents about the video footage; it was simpler with this mild white lie. Well, it was almost the truth. “I gave him back his ring.”
“You poor thing,” exclaimed my mother, stroking my hair. I was grateful she didn’t probe for details.
My father remained pensively silent and then uttered one word: “Shmuck.”
My father said shmuck?
“Jennie baby, you can do better.”
Good is the enemy of better. Blake’s father’s favorite expression whirled around in my head. And in a millisecond, the image of my sexy, beautiful boss was spinning there too. I hadn’t stopped missing him. Last night, I’d barely slept a wink. Tears pricked my eyes each time I relived opening his gift. He’d given me a precious piece of artwork. A painting that had moved me to tears. The Kiss. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I knew why Blake had bought it for me. It symbolized us. Two lovers entwined in a passionate embrace. I still wasn’t over the shocking discovery that Blake—my boss—was that man I’d kissed blindfolded in a game of Truth or Dare on the night of my engagement party. He’d kissed me again at the office Christmas party, and from there, we’d surrendered our bodies to each other. He’d made me feel things I’d never felt. Ecstasy! Yet, I had to break away, knowing that Blake was bad for me in every way. The painting, however, had changed everything. It had turned my heart upside down and torn me apart. I could no longer deny my feelings. I missed him for only one reason. I was in love.
My mother’s gentle voice intercepted my thoughts as well as a fresh batch of tears. “Darling, why don’t you settle into your room and then come down for some lunch? I’ve made your favorite vegetable soup and baked a loaf of bread.”
“Sure, Mom,” I said, my voice unsteady. My father insisted on bringing up my bag, but I told him I could handle it myself. I needed alone time.
Glumly, I trudged upstairs to my room. I unpacked the bag and then stood by my bedroom window. I peered outside. The sky was already darkening and, in fact, looked ominous. Perhaps, it was going to snow. In the distance, I could see the snow-capped mountains, and another pang of sadness stabbed my heart. Blake was somewhere in those mountains. I shuddered at the thought of him surrounded by a dozen blond ski bunnies. I’m sure Mr. Player was in his element and already getting laid. A wicked thought crossed my mind. Maybe an avalanche would bury his bimbos.
My wishful thinking was short-lived. A tear escaped my eyes. I suddenly regretted not accepting his offer to spend the day with him and telling him not to contact me—unless it was a business emergency. Without warning, the floodgates broke loose, and tears cascaded down my face. Who was I kidding? I desperately wanted to hear his voice. Inhale his intoxicating scent And most of all, be held in his arms and kissed by those lips.
Trying to get my mind off Blake, I spent the rest of the day reading an e-book, running errands with my mom, and baking Christmas goodies. We assembled the gingerbread house and put the final touches on our Christmas tree, which stood tall and noble by the living room window, replete with charming ornaments my mother had collected over her lifetime. The fresh pine scent of the tree mixed with that of the delicacies my mother was forever baking and made the house smell delicious.
Yet, no matter how much I busied myself, nothing could distract me from thinking about Blake. In the short time I’d been home, my feelings for him had intensified instead of diminished. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my mother had always told me whenever Dad was away on an academic conference. She would keep her eyes glued on the kitchen wall clock until he returned. Count down the days, the hours, and the minutes. Even the seconds.
I missed Blake. Plain and simple. Much like my mom did with my dad. I thought about him every minute, every second of the afternoon… what he was doing… what he was wearing (or not)… who he was with. The image of him surrounded by his O.K. Corral—his bevy of blond beauties—made my stomach clench and sent my heartbeat into a frenzy. Absence makes the heart wander. The other side of the equation. I wrestled with the idea of calling him, but that would be breaking my own rule. Rules sucked.
Late in the afternoon, while I was baking sugar cookies with my mom, she noticed my anxiousness. It bordered on despondency.
“Honey, you seem a little on edge,” she commented, mixing a bowl of batter.
“I’m fine.” My voice faltered. I made up an excuse—something about Bradley. Truthfully, he was the last person on my mind. I did, however, secretly wish for Santa to bring him coal; that’s what Dickwick deserved. Upon taking a tray of cookies out of the oven, I burnt my middle finger. Served me right for my wicked thought.
Christmas Eve came quickly. My mother was preparing her traditional meal with my help. Taking a break once everything was in the oven, I played a game of Scrabble with my dad. It was hard to beat the former English professor. Plus, I had a rack full of shitty low-point letters. Then I spotted an opportunity. The word I had in mind sent a rush of flutters to my core.
“O-R-G-A-S-M-I-C,” I spelled out, using all my tiles. In addition to scoring fifteen points for the word, I earned another fifty bonus points for using all my tiles. A grand total of sixty-five points. I smiled smugly at my dad. I was now significantly ahead of him. I might even win the game. I had Blake to thank.
My father’s brows shot up. I think it was more in response to the word than my feat. “Good one,” he muttered. My victory, however, was short-lived when he laid out all his tiles and spelled the word “EXQUISITE.” In addition to also accruing fifty bonus points, he got double and triple letter scores for the eight-point “X” and ten-point “Q” plus a double word score for a total of two hundred twenty points.
“Sheesh, Dad,” I moaned. Two hundred and twenty points. It had to be a new Guinness Book of Records high. No matter what I did, I could never beat my dad at Scrabble.
The sound of Christmas music outside our house stopped me from contemplating my next word. Of course, it was carolers—a group of locals from our church who made it a yearly tradition to go house to house on Christmas Eve.
My mother heard them too and dashed out of the kitchen. Together, we hurried to our front door. My father opened it, and the carolers, which included several children, stood before our house. It was hard to distinguish their faces because there was a thick layer of fog. And snowflakes were falling. I caught one with my tongue. Wouldn’t that be something—a white Christmas?
My parents and I huddled together in the doorway as the carolers sang a succession of traditional Christmas songs. I loved Christmas music; it moved me to tears. Every which way it was sung—be it traditional renditions of the songs or contemporary rock ones, instrum
ental or acapella. My favorite of all was The Little Drummer Boy, which, to my delight, they sang before dispersing to the next house.
After the carolers departed, my parents retreated to the living room while I remained motionless at the doorway. There was one remaining lone caroler.
He stood tall before me, his hands tucked inside the pockets of his heavy down jacket. A knit ski cap with reindeer antlers covered his head, and somehow that silly hat made him look more heart-stoppingly adorable than ever. My heart drummed against my chest and then jumped into my throat. My eyes clicked open and shut like a camera lens, taking a snapshot of this moment I wanted to keep forever. It was him. That man who made me delirious with lust and desire. Blake!
A giant lump swelled in my throat as he sang, “All I Want for Christmas is You.” His sexy, raspy voice resonated like a rock star. My rock star! Tears poured from my eyes as I broke into a broad smile. In the background, I could hear my mother yelling, “Jennifer, close the door. It’s freezing in here.”
I was on fire. I could no longer contain myself. Before he could finish the song, I bolted out of the house and ran up to him—in my sweats and barefoot. He swept me into his arms and swung me around and around. As the flakes of snow danced in the moonlight, his lips latched onto mine in a fierce, passionate kiss I wanted never to end.
“What are you doing here?” I managed, my arms clinging to him, my mouth hungrily gnawing at every visible ounce of flesh I could find.
He held me tight. A puff of his breath warmed the icy air. “Oh, tiger. Don’t you know?”
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