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Doug stared at the approaching tower, almost willing the chairlift to pick up speed. Good Lord, how many lies would he have to tell in a ten-minute trip? He’d already skirted around how he’d lost his arm.
Bitterness burned his throat. His roundabout tale minimized the loss of hero Giles Markham and five other brave men to “a couple of buddies.” Not only that, but he also managed to make the tragedy of war sound like a bunch of drunks who’d lost control during a joyride. Wow, there was something to be proud of.
All the more reason, perhaps, why he had to tell this story to readers of The Sportsman. Odd how the more time he spent with Brooklyn Raine, the more he burned to return to his keyboard.
“Ace said you helped him when he got into trouble at JFK two years ago,” Brooklyn prompted. “Are you a lawyer?”
“No.”
Okay, deep breath. So far, he’d only omitted the full truth, not totally reconstructed it. Could he continue to slip and slide around the facts? Lying didn’t come easy to him. Never had. His tongue felt thick, and his lungs sputtered for air.
She arched her brows. “What’s the story then?”
Ha. Ace thought she feared reporters? Why would she? In fact, she’d make a great reporter herself. She had just as much tenacity when it came to a subject that caught her attention.
“I’ve known Ace since his first competition days.” When the then-thirteen-year-old lit the X-Games on fire with his signature big air trick, the Bump and Grind. In the first of many articles Doug would write about Ace Riordan, he’d forecasted the kid’s meteoric rise to the top of the snowboarding world after that one amazing aerial flip.
“Are you like his agent or something?” she asked.
He hesitated. “I’m... more like... promotion.”
Oh, he skated on very thin ice right now.
Understanding widened her eyes. Since she was a former ski champion, she must have recalled her own glory days and the entourage of legal, promotional, and athletic personnel swamping her every move. Easy enough, based on the information he’d provided, for her to assume he was just another face in a sports superstar’s crowd.
“Of course,” she replied with a wry smile. “I would imagine protecting Ace’s image is a twenty-four/seven job.”
“There’ve definitely been some scary moments in the past.” Not much of a lie there. Despite having past his twenty-second birthday three months ago, Ace was still a kid, dealing with the type of fame that sent more highly experienced adults spiraling into self-destruction. “But since my accident, I’ve been pretty much unemployed.”
“Ace fired you?” Her eyes narrowed in outrage.
For him? He bit back a smile. Well, well. The Coyote really did have a heart. Go know.
“No. Ace didn’t fire me. Technically, I don’t work for him.”
“So, your company fired you? That’s just as bad.”
“No. No one fired me. I just haven’t been able to do my job since I left the hospital.”
“Why on earth not?” Outrage transformed to confusion.
“You really need to ask?”
“Of course.”
“Yoo-hoo.” He flapped his empty sleeve with the intensity of a hawk swooping in on a disabled mouse. Thwap, thwap, thwap. “Does this little tragedy ring a bell for you?”
“Tragedy? Is that how you see your injury?”
“Don’t.” He held up his left hand, ski pole punctuating the frosty air like an exclamation point. “Don’t try to force feed me any platitudes about challenges and life not giving me more than I can handle. I’ve heard them all, and I’m not buying any of them.”
“Okay, so wait. Let me get this straight. You think because you’re missing an arm you can’t work anymore?”
“Yeah, I did.”
Her narrowed eyes glinted steel in the surrounding twilight. “Can’t? Or won’t work anymore?”
“Can’t or won’t doesn’t matter.”
“Wanna bet?”
Ah, there was the The Coyote he’d come to know!
“I said I did feel that way.” And for the first time since he’d sat beside her on this lift, he gave her the full truth. “Until I met you.”
She actually blushed, and offered a thousand-watt smile that made him feel sixteen again.
More time. He needed more time with this snow siren who both infuriated and charmed him. Oh, sure, mainly for his article but also because—oh my God, she was Brooklyn Raine.
The love-struck teen he’d once been couldn’t quite abandon his awe in his idol’s presence. How many people got this kind of opportunity? Not many, he’d bet.
Now or never.
Doug seized his moment. “Would you have dinner with me tonight?”
♥
HIS QUESTION HUNG BETWEEN them unanswered. Not that Lyn hadn’t heard him. In fact, she’d heard him all too clearly. At least, until the words pressed a blaring panic button inside her head.
Omigod, omigod, omigod. How on earth should she answer?
In a frantic attempt to find an escape, she noticed the sign mounted on the tower as they passed. Prepare to Unload. Raise Bar.
Thank God.
Feigning nonchalance, she gestured with a nod in that direction. “Put your goggles back into place, and take your skis off the footrest,” she directed. “We’re about to hit the ramp.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He noticed. The bottom dropped out of her stomach, hurtling her heart into freefall. Her gloved hand tightened on the restraint bar as she looked away from his intense stare. “I—I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” The teasing lilt returned to his tone.
Can’t, won’t. What was the difference? The mere idea of sitting across from this man over an intimate meal, where he could study her more intently, slipped an itchy sweater over her skin.
She pushed the bar up and out of the way, then sidled to the edge of her seat—more from discomfort than in preparation to ski off the chair. “Do you need help getting off the lift?”
“Are you deliberately changing the subject?”
From the corner of her eye, she gauged the distance to the incline and the gear house. “My question needs an answer right away. Yours can wait.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
Her attention swerved back to him pronto. “What is? Whether or not you need help getting off the lift? You may not believe this, but I’m pretty familiar with the Ski-Hab program, so you needn’t feel embarr—”
“Will you have dinner with me?”
The ramp loomed closer. “Would you forget about that right now? Do you need help getting off the lift? Yes or no?”
“Answer my question first. Will you have dinner with me tonight? Yes or no?”
God, no. But she couldn’t turn him down flat. Not after yesterday’s fiasco. The last thing she wanted was to hurt the man’s feelings. Again. Her skis hit the front of the ramp with a thump-swish.
“Can we talk about this later? Please?”
He shrugged, leaning back, totally at odds with her ready-to-spring-from-the-lift stance. “I can continue to sit here and take the lift back to the base lodge if you don’t say yes,” he threatened.
Well, wouldn’t that tick off Ryan? And Kevin, who was probably waiting at the bottom end of the lift with one foot out the door? Kevin hadn’t exactly been thrilled that she’d chosen his particular lift to ride after closing time. Apparently, the kid had some major video game competition at a friend’s house tonight, and her request was going to make him sit out the first round. Now, if he had to wait for Mr. Sawyer to come back down to the base area? Annoyance prickled her nape. A ticked-off Kevin would complain to everyone, and she’d become the mountain’s resident pariah.
The chair hovered near the end of the unloading zone. Her skis flattened against the crest. They had breaths of time now before the chair would swing around, and Ryan would either have to stop the lift for them to jump off or take them back down the other side, their last run of the day nothing more than a missed opportunity and a thorn in Kevin’s side.
“Yes or no, Ms. Hill?” Mr. Sawyer pressed.
Three...
Ridiculous. Aside from guests at her bed and breakfast, she didn’t dine with strangers. And certainly not dinner, which denoted a certain romantic connotation.
Two...
Besides, she had to go home. Had things to do. April, Jeff, and the kids might already be back from their day trip to Lake Champlain—particularly if they left, oh, say, fifteen minutes after they arrived there.
One...
Her arguments crumbled. “All right, all right! Yes. I’ll go to dinner with you. Now get off!” She lifted her bottom off the seat, felt the chair push her down the opposite side of the ramp.
As she made the turn around the massive steel tower of the lift, the swish of his skis beside her broke the silence. Five seconds later, the hum of the chairlift ground to a halt. At least Kevin would only miss the first round. And maybe he wouldn’t hold it against her forever.
Mr. Sawyer zipped closer and flashed a smug grin. “There now. Was that so hard?”
“No.” She clenched her teeth to bite back the rest of her retort.
“But...?” he prompted.
So much for keeping her thoughts to herself. The man was perceptive, she’d grant him that much. Somehow, he’d become fully aware she had more to say. Okay, fine. He wanted to know? She’d let him have it with both barrels.
“Look, Mr. Sawyer—”
“Doug,” he corrected.
“Doug,” she said on a sigh. “The only reason you got me to agree was because you used blackmail.”
“Blackmail?” His eyes rounded in mock innocence, sooty lashes batting surprise clearer than Morse code’s S.O.S. “I never resort to blackmail. It was a dare.”
A shiver rippled her spine. A dare. Why did he have to dare her?
She stopped at the crest of the first hill and inhaled the crisp, clean air for fortitude. When he halted beside her, she studied him cryptically. Something about Doug Sawyer put her on edge. Not in a bad way. More like the adrenaline rush she used to experience immediately before the buzzer sounded at the start of a competition. An addictive high she’d kicked years ago. Or at least, she’d thought she kicked it.
“Wanna race to the bottom?”
His question must have become mangled in her gray matter. He couldn’t possibly have asked...
She blinked. Didn’t he have any idea who he challenged?
No, of course not. Why would he?
Despite the electricity tingling in her veins at the thought of a race, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Afraid I’ll beat you, huh? Well, that’s understandable. I’m a big threat. A one-armed recent graduate of the bunny slope who’s got at least eighty pounds and about fourteen inches on you. Yes, sir. Which, anyone who took basic physics courses can tell ya, translates into a real speed demon on a downhill.”
“That’s precisely why I won’t race you,” she replied. “When I win, you’ll be crushed.”
“When you win?” He mimed an arrow piercing his chest, complete with the slight stagger backward and the exaggerated expression of pain. “Aw, now you’ve gone and wounded my male pride. Again.”
His southern drawl warmed her insides like a sweet bourbon cocktail. “Again?”
He tilted his head toward hers. Dear God, his eyes would peer into her soul if she let them. To prevent such an occurrence, she veered her gaze to the trail below them. Not quite as smooth as she would have liked. Some icy patches, one or two sparse areas where brown grass peeked up through the veneer.
“You do recall when you planted me in the snow yesterday, right?” he said dryly.
Her focus snapped back to him, face filling with heat. “I told you I was sorry about that—” His laughter stopped her in mid-excuse. “You’re teasing me?”
“No, I’m challenging you.” He shoved the point of his pole into the snow. “For fun. And to challenge myself. I was a fairly decent skier before my accident. You’ve given me my first opportunity to really find out what I can do with this.” He flapped his empty sleeve again. “Let’s open ‘er up and see what happens. What do you think?”
What did she think? A challenge. The air crackled, as if she’d pulled a woolen cap from her hair. She smiled. “What if I win?”
“If you win, I slink back to the bunny hill, honorably defeated. What’s more, I release you from our dinner date.”
Date? The smile evaporated, and she gulped the anxiety rising in her throat. A... date? He really was asking her on a date?
“And you can go back to...” He paused. “...whatever it is you planned to do tonight.”
Yeah, right. What she’d planned was basically what she always did on Tuesday nights. Dinner alone, followed by watching Mrs. Bascomb’s stellar imitation of Madame DeFarge for an hour or two. In bed by ten with the evening news and lights out before the weatherman predicted the next snowfall. Oh, sure. Rip-roarin’ times at Snowed Inn Bed and Breakfast.
“But if I win,” he continued, “we keep our date.”
“Not a date. An engagement,” she corrected, then practically bit her tongue in half. Good God, that sounded even worse than date.
And of course, his grin let her know he had no intention of allowing her to wriggle out of her own trap.
“Engagement?” He batted his eyes, cupped his left hand near his chin like a schoolgirl. “Gee, darlin’, this is so sudden. Is it okay if I take some time to think about it? I mean, I like you and all, but—”
“Okay! Okay! You’re on!” Anything to stop his inanity. Besides, the rush of icy wind from a good downhill sprint just might cool the burn in her cheeks before she spontaneously combusted. “Winner is the one who reaches the base lodge first.”
He wagged a gloved index finger near her nose. “I want you to give it your all,” he said. “No letting me win because you feel sorry for me.”
“Sorry for you?” She laughed, completely at ease with this easy-going, wacky man. “Trust me, Mr. Sawyer, the last thing I feel for you is sympathy.”
“It’s Doug,” he replied with a wink. “You think you can remember that? It’ll make our dinner together much more comfortable if we’re on a first name basis.”
“Since we won’t be having dinner, I see no reason to get comfortable.”
“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”
She practically shimmied in her boots. “Believe me, I have reason to be.”
“Okay, then.” He yanked his ski pole out of the ground. “Game on.”