Page 15 of Christmas With the Convict

“They’re calledlifts.”

Wendy drifts beside me and pokes my leg with her pole. “You sure about this?”

“Nope,” I grunt, breath puffing out in a thick cloud. “So, please, don’t leave me up there.”

We slide into line behind the others. Everyone is bouncy and smiling.

I can’t stop watching the chairs swoop down and swing around so fast that I’m sure this will kill me.

“Stay right beside me,” Wendy says. “And just sit back with me onto the chair.”

Her aunt and uncle go.

Then her cousin and brother-in-law take off whooping.

When it’s our turn, I let her yank me forward, feel the chair smack the back of my legs, and plop my ass down. The ground flies away, and I hold Wendy’s leg like it’s the emergency brake.

She laughs, pulls a metal bar down onto our laps, and rests her head on my shoulder.

“You’re brave,” she says. “When my prom date came to pick me up, my dad nearly made him piss his pants. He was still a cop back then.”

Once a cop, always a cop.

The wind bites at us as we soar above trees, skiers, and huge ramps and rails for showoffs to nail dangerous tricks. We snuggle up together, and Wendy takes off her glove to hold my hand.

“If prison taught me anything, it’s that you don’t back down when someone is staring.”

“Is that why you couldn’t stop staring at me during class?”

“No.” I look down and meet her gaze. A bit of snow lands on her button nose. “I stared for the same reason I do now: You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Wendy smiles up at me. “Only because you’ve been in prison.”

“Bullshit, I’m inAspen, and I’d still rather look at you.”

I lean in for a kiss—the taste of cinnamon on her lips still warm in my mind from last night—but she stops me short.

“Later,” she says, gesturing behind us. “You think my father is admiring Aspen right now?”

Sure enough, I spot Richard in the distance, rooted to the chair behind us, staring right at me. We’re up through the lowclouds now, but it’s not enough to provide the cover we need. Wendy’s mother is sitting beside him but he pays her no mind.

I look straight ahead, trying to ignore how high up we are.

“He hates me,” I say, warming my hands in hers. “His perfect Christmas gift would be me in the back of a squad car.”

“He’s hated every boy I’ve ever brought home.”

“I bet none of them were felons.”

“No. You’re at a slight disadvantage there,” she laughs. “But you have something they didn’t.”

Ahead of us, the others are soaring into a landing and sliding off their chairs. I look at Wendy hopefully, and she hooks her arm in mine again.

“They were just crushes,” she says with a wink. “And none of them kissed me the way you do.”

Our skis touch down on the smooth landing. It immediately dips and we fly away from the chair. We’re in a clearing among the trees, mostly flat with people adjusting their gear, talking, or sitting on the many benches near the landing.

Somehow, I stay up and sail smoothly. Wendy even lets go of my arm, cheering me on. “You got it! Pizza!”

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