Love Me Reckless (Love Me Dangerous #2)

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

SAWYER

It snows all day Sunday and by nightfall, it’s at least a foot deep. It’s pretty, but in my experience, snow is not something to get excited about. Snow in coastal Alaska is wet and heavy. Like living in a wet sponge. And people drive like idiots. Yet from how Carson and Brody are behaving, I think I’m supposed to be stoked.

They spend the afternoon waxing their skis on the workbench in the garage and organizing their ski gear. They chatter nonstop over the spaghetti and meatballs I make for dinner.

“It’s supposed to dump all week,” Carson says.

“We might be open by Thanksgiving if it keeps up,” Brody adds.

Carson points his fork at me. “Be sure to bring your goggles for work tomorrow.”

“And extra gloves. Liners too, if you have ‘em,” Brody adds. “Soup in a thermos is awesome at lunchtime.”

“Hot drinks are a good idea also,” Carson adds.

They launch into what I’ve been calling Tower Lore, or the Shit That Goes Sideways while working on the lifts. The brutal winds. Icy temps. Stubborn mechanical parts that refuse to work like they’re supposed to .

I follow along while my mind wanders to the secret ski lesson Kirilee has set up at Bear Mountain in a few weeks. I’ve thought about canceling a hundred times. What if I make a fool of myself? What if I break my leg? What if the guys find out?

But I’ve set this ball in motion. I have no choice but to keep it rolling.

And no way am I canceling time with Kirilee.

We shared a quick goodbye at her place after the drive home from Darby, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about her nonstop.

Like when I spoon-fed her that bite of paella and her little sigh of contentment lit my hair on fire.

More, please , she begged.

Is she putting that little toy she bought in Luxe & Lush to use? I haven’t forgotten that little comment that made my dick throb. What makes you think I don’t already know what I like?

If that wasn’t a bluff, then… damn.

What gets her hot? What gets her off?

Not knowing is slowly eating me alive.

The next morning, it’s still snowing, with temperatures in the teens. I slip on my winter boots and jacket and wade through at least two feet of snow to my truck so I can get it warmed up for the commute.

Inside the cab, I start the engine and turn on the defrost. When I open the glove box to grab the ice scraper, my registration paperwork falls out. I glance at the open glove box as unease crawls up my spine. My registration lives between my owner’s manual and my Maglite and an emergency kit that includes a poncho and set of wool liner gloves and road flares. It makes no sense why it would just fall out.

Unless someone has been in here?

I unfold the paperwork, scanning for clues that aren’t there. I left my truck at Kirilee’s all weekend because we took her car to Darby. Her family’s estate is crawling with security plus the ranch is tight. If someone broke in, why would a thief choose my old rig over the luxury cars available all over the ranch? Someone could have broken in last night when my truck was parked on the street, but that makes no sense either. There’s nothing valuable here. Plus, I didn’t see footprints in the snow.

Stumped, I tuck the registration back into the glove box and jump out with my ice scraper.

After I get suited up in the locker area including the heavy winter boots and extra thick gloves and the black insulated coveralls, I join the others for the day’s briefing.

The mood in the room is definitely tense. We’re about to start the ski season and there are many steps to opening left to complete before that happens.

We’re starting the day with a drill McTavish calls “Zero Down Time.”

“If you’re at the terminal,” McTavish says, pointing his whiteboard pen at us, “anything longer than one minute out of service is unacceptable.”

We break into teams. I offer to test first, mostly so I can get it out of the way. Ski lifts are actually pretty simple. Each bottom terminal has two motors. The main one is electric, which powers the bullwheel. The backup motor is a diesel, which only gets used if the electric one fails, like in a power outage or a rare mechanical shutdown so we can unload the guests safely. This scenario has apparently never happened at the ranch, and McTavish warns it never should. It’s the reason the crews bust their asses all summer, greasing bearings and refitting and refining systems, and the reason why we train for every contingency.

While we rotate through crew members, snow pelts the plexiglass housing. I can’t hear shit over the motor up here, but when I rub away the condensation and peer out, all I see is white.

I think about my vehicle registration paperwork falling out of my glove box earlier. Could I have shuffled things in there and just not remembered? What other explanation is there?

It snows hard for five days, and McTavish pushes us extra hard to meet our opening date deadline, which gets moved up. We run a final check on every tower, chair, grip, and do load tests and countless stop tests on each lift. It’s demanding, physically and mentally, and the harsh weather takes some getting used to, but work is ever-changing and interesting, and the guys are great to work with. The best part is we’re too busy for anyone to notice I never put on a pair of skis.

On opening day, I volunteer to work overtime because I want to be on the mountain to see everything come together. Carson is on shift too, and we buzz all over the mountain on sleds making sure everything is ship-shape. The moment I finish my opening checklist on Glory Basin chair, a bubble of pride surges up through me. Seeing happy skiers load up for that first chair feels oddly surreal.

“It’s the Men in Black!” a kid calls out from the lift line as we climb down from the terminal.

“At your service,” Carson replies with a grin.

When we’re inside the transmitter building to complete our final check, I give him a look. “Men In Black?”

He stomps the snow off his boots, and it clicks—the lift mechanic’s winter uniform mainstay are these black insulated coverall suits. “Soak it in, bro. They love us.”

By the end of the day, after getting several thanks from cheerful guests, my smile practically cracks my face in two.

It’s not normal to be so excited about this, is it?

I get a text that night from Kirilee.

I hear opening day was a huge success thanks to you

Not just me. It was a team effort.

You itching to get on the slopes?

Our ski lesson is a week away, and hell yeah, I’m itching, but it’s not for skiing.

I’ve been working on my foreign accent

She sends a laughing emoji and Can’t wait!

By the time the ski lesson comes around, just putting the boots on gets me sweating, then the process of carrying my skis and poles to the base of the ski area, across ice patches, and dodging people driving like maniacs gets me fearing for my life.

Once I’ve climbed the slope to the ticket booth, I search for Kirilee in the crowd of skiers.

Just like Finn River’s setup, two lifts run from the base, each leading to various parts of the mountain. Though at Bear Mountain, instead of the steady trickle of guests in the lift line and the near-empty slopes, it’s a zoo. Clearly, Finn River locals are crazy about this sport because I’m betting every one of them is here.

What’s also different is a beginner lift that accesses a gradual, short grade, plus a conveyor belt thingy inside a plexiglass tube that takes newbies to the top of an even shorter slope.

Kirilee stands at the flat area outside the base lodge in a black jacket accented with white embroidered flowers and faux fur, and white ski pants. Her strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, the curls drifting in the wind. She looks completely at ease, standing there watching for me, holding two lift tickets.

Huffing like a gorilla in heat, I trudge up to her and try not to look as out of place as I feel. “Hey.”

She smiles. “Hey yourself.” She slips the ski area ticket through the zipper loop on my jacket pocket, her subtle cocoa scent wrapping me like a hug. “You want to do a little pre-lesson on the magic carpet, or head up?”

“Up,” I say because after working for two months on ski lifts, my faith extends only that far. Plus if I stick around here, the audience factor increases by about four thousand.

“All righty, let’s go.” Kirilee sets her skis flat on the snow, puts a pole in each fist, and steps into her bindings with a solid click, click .

I try to copy her. Set skis down side by side. Hold poles for balance.

“Downhill ski first,” she says when I lift my uphill leg to step into the binding.

I give her a suspicious glance. “Why does it matter?”

“When you fall, it’s easier to get upright again if you start with the downhill ski.”

“Who says I’m gonna fall?”

To my delight, she laughs. “Don’t worry, Karl, you’ve got this.”

With that, she pushes off using her poles, doing a kind of scissor-swish with her skis to move across the slope toward the beginner lift. She moves with total grace and fluidity, like a dancer. If there was an award for best-looking ass in ski pants, she would win the gold medal.

I force my attention back to snapping my boots into the bindings. It takes me several tries, but I finally get locked in. Then I push off and try to scissor-swish like Kirilee.

My skis feel like little sleds, and my swishing only seems to make me swish faster until my arms are windmilling and my thighs are on fire. The ground comes rushing up and I sprawl face-first. To make it even more awesome, both of my skis pop off.

With the cold snow down my neck and my body pretzeled, I roll to my back and start laughing. How can I not? Plus, if I can’t laugh at myself, I might cry.

I roll to my knees and stand up. This time, I pick up my skis and poles and carry them to the base of the beginner lift, where Kirilee is waiting just outside of the lift line.

“At least you’ve got your first fall out of the way,” she says with a smirk.

This time I manage to get into both skis on the first try, then I stick to Kirilee like glue as we make our way to the back of the lift line. Thankfully the slope is flat so all I have to do is use my poles for leverage with mini swishes from my skis.

“You’ve probably ridden the lifts plenty by now,” Kirilee says, leaning in close. “On skis though, when we get off, it’s important to go straight. Okay?”

“Got it.”

We’re paired with a dad and his four-year-old son for the ride up, and he chatters with Kirilee about his favorite lodge grub and his dog Daisy and his big sister Rossa here with their mom somewhere higher on the mountain.

It makes me think of my mom and the zero-budget adventures we used to have. Would she have liked skiing?

When the lift approaches the top terminal and slows down so we can unload, I’m too mesmerized by the machinery operating above us to remember that getting off the lift requires my attention. The chair slows and everyone stands up. Suddenly the chair is crossing the red UNLOAD HERE marker with me still on it.

Kirilee looks back in surprise as I push off the chair a little too hard in an effort to catch up. My skis take off, and because my poles are in my lap, I have no way to stop, so I crash into Kirilee from behind. I’m so surprised—and terrified—that I wrap my arms around her waist and hold on for dear life.

Kirilee shrieks, and we go flying down the ramp as one, past the dad and son who are watching us, mouths hanging open. Kirilee tries to slow down but my skis are stuck between hers and I’m like a lead weight and we crash spectacularly at the bottom of the ramp.

Panic floods my veins as I wriggle free because I’m sure I’ve just broken several of her bones.

“Kirilee? Are you okay?” She’s not moving. “Where are you hurt? I’m so sorry.”

I get free of my skis and scramble over the pile of gear so I can get to her.

Oh fuck, she’s crying.

“I’m… fine…” She exhales a squeaky sigh and blinks at me. Then she cackles with laughter.

The lift operator has stopped the lift so he can pick up my abandoned poles, which are causing a safety hazard for the people unloading behind us.

“You guys okay?” he asks.

“We’re fine,” Kirilee says as I grab her around the waist plop her back onto her feet.

“Whoop,” she chirps in surprise.

I cradle her shoulders and fix her with a serious gaze. “You sure you’re okay? Nothing broken?”

Kirilee smiles. “I’m okay.”

Her eyes sparkle and her cheeks are a rosy pink and I instantly wish this was not a ski lesson. I want to kiss her and untangle her long hair and make her laugh like this, smile like this. Though not by accidentally tackling her.

Her eyes turn serious, like she’s reading my thoughts. “Maybe we should, um…” She swallows “Get out of the way.”

“Right.” I pick up my gear and follow her to the top of the slope.

After some pointers, I follow Kirilee down the slope until just above the bottom of the lift.

She makes it look so easy and fluid and I’m so distracted by how good she looks on skis that when she stops to the side of the ski run I don’t slow down in time and we do a version of our chair lift dismount only in slow motion and I’m the only one who ends up on the ground.

I lay there, panting. “I’m okay!”

She reaches over and unclips my bindings, then offers me a hand.

“Is it time for hot chocolate yet?”

“Not even close,” she says. “You’re learning so fast! We’ll be off this beginner lift by lunchtime. ”

“Love the optimism.”

She winks. “Stick with me, Karl.”

At some point, my toes go numb but I sort of forget about them because I’m soaking up everything Kirilee is trying to teach me. We make more wedge turns down the mountain together, and though it’s not exactly fun, I can see how maybe someday it could be.

Though without Kirilee, the fun factor would take a serious hit.

In a little over a month, she’ll marry douche date. And while we can fool people here that I’m some long-lost cousin, we won’t be able to fool her family, and my ability to spend time with her like this will end.

Permanently.