Page 48 of A Heart of Bluestone

He looks put together—and so I guess he spent the handful of time after his snow-rugby game resting up to refuel for the weekend, eating, showering, napping.

That’s good news for James.

No Dray on the slopes.

But bad news for me, since the glass shards of his eyes cut to me, instantly, and I hate that he has some instinctual sensor for my presence seemingly built into his fucking soul.

My face pinches into something ugly.

I turn back to my magazine that’s mostly made up of fragrance adverts than articles. Something from the krum world, left behind by a half-breed maybe.

Courtney reads from the pages of a brew magazine, one hand loosely cupping at now-lukewarm copper mug of tea.

We sit a while in comfortable quiet.

Even as the atmosphere of the pub starts to pick up into shouts and laughter, mugs smacking down on tables, glasses clinking together, we stay sat—and silent.

Then I finish the magazine.

Stretching my arms above my head, I look up at the clock above the fireplace.

12.30PM.

James isn’t here yet.

He wasn’t among the skiers who poured into the crammed pub—at least, it’s crammednow. The annoyance of it shows in my pout as I look over my shoulder at the bar.

It’s packed, full. People reaching over shoulders to wave down the bartender, shouts calling overhead for friends to order on their behalf, and a whole lot of spilled drinks.

Not teas, coffees or cocoas.

The liquor is coming out now.

Vodka, whisky, the kind that warms the body inside out.

I turn to Courtney, her nose buried in the magazine. “Want to head back now?”

Raucous energy always puts me a bit on edge.

Not a mystery why.

She only lifts her brown eyes from the pages for a fleeting heartbeat before she shakes her head. “We’ll pass James on the gondolas. It’s easier to wait—we can go back together.”

I nod because it makes sense.

But I bite down on the insides of my cheeks because, over at the couches and coffee table that hug the fireplace, laughter suddenly booms much too loudly, and I recognise the sound of Landon teetering on drunk. He made quick work of it.

If I am going to be stuck here for another moment, I will enjoy a drink of my own. Just one. Can’t let down my defences around the Snakes.

I wait until most of the invaders have gotten their orders from the bar and dispersed before I get up to join the remains of the queue.

I lean into the edge of the bar, the soft wood biting into my ribs. Still, I push further into it to better lean over enough that Ican make out the beers and ciders and sweet canned pops in the fridges under the liquor shelves.

It’s not a place to order a nice wine, or to expect the best ale on the market. Standard stock, and I trust what comes in cans better than what comes out of the bottles above them.

The barkeep, Jim, is quick to find me.

“Two watermelon pops,” I order. But the uncertainty of my decision is in the slow enunciation as I eye up the treats on offer. A peppermint chocolate cake in the glass stand, tucked beside the old, dusty till that rings and rattles too loudly for my liking.

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