Page 41 of Stuck on the Slopes

Probably not.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Chapter 12

Juniper

AsifrunningintoRachel at the gym last week and seeing her in athletic wear every morning since hadn’t been bad enough, she wore similar leggings on Thanksgiving night, a departure from her usual jeans or skirts. When I’d gotten back to my suite that first day, I made myself take a cold shower to atone for how creepy I’d felt. That was now a recurring trend, my self-loathing at an all-time high because of it.

Now in a flannel with a button a smidge too tight across her chest and her black leggings hugging her hips, the desire to grip her curves returned. In moments like this, I wished I still thought she was the fake, corporate shill type. It would be a lot easier than wanting her.

“So,” she said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Every single time she did that, I wanted to be the one to do it for her, but I had to stand with my hands in my joggers’ pockets because I didn’t know what else to do with them. I didn’t trust myself to not run my fingers through her voluminous curls and down her sides to feel every dip and curve of her silhouette. I didn’t—

“Juniper?”

“I’m sorry. I just took my meds, so I’m a little spacey.” A partial lie to cover my ass, but at least it was based on the truth. “Can you repeat that?”

“What can I get started on?”

“Oh! Right. Uh, I already have the turkey in the oven.” Feeling like a total dolt, I completely froze, somehow forgetting everything I picked up at the grocery store and every Thanksgiving side dish in existence. Ironic, given the sides were the best part.

No, sitting across from Rachel was the best part. Not having to spend it alone, instead enjoying the company of someone who couldn’t give a rat’s ass how many titles and trophies back up my name, was far superior to anything else.

“Rosemary’s a good choice,” she said. “I know you said not to bring anything, but I do make a killer pecan pie, so.” She walked around me to set the bag hanging over her shoulder down on the table. From it, she retrieved the dessert in question, which called an aluminum and plastic pie container home. She popped it in the refrigerator and began pulling some various ingredients out.

“Thanks. I’ve got pumpkin in there, too.”

Rachel returned to her bag and moved it to hang off the back of a chair. Then, she grabbed something wrapped in a plastic gift bag. She untied the ribbon holding it together and then approached Sasquatch who sat on his dog bed. He perked up as she crouched down beside him and held out a cookie, shaped and decorated to look like a slice of pumpkin pie.

“And I didn’t forget about my favorite living thing in the whole wide world, no I didn’t!” She spoke in that almost-baby voice she used with him when he wasn’t working, and Sasquatch couldn’t have been more elated. He gnawed at the dog treat without hesitation, slobbering all over himself in the process.

“That was really sweet of you,” I said.

“There’s more in there,” Rachel said. “I found this cute little pet bakery, and they had so many Thanksgiving-themed treats that I couldn’t decide, so I may have gotten one of each.”

I could kiss her. I shouldn’t, but I could.

“Well, Sasquatch says thank you, as do I. If you want, I can cover the mac and cheese if you want to be on potato duty. I’ve already got noodles cooked, and the potatoes peeled and diced.”

“Solid.” She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and then tied her hair back, revealing today’s earrings: cans of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. It was probably her quirkiest pair yet.

“Are your earrings…?”

“The superior way to enjoy cranberry sauce?” She tested the softness of the potatoes, confirming I’d boiled them since I realized I hadn’t actually told her that in my stupor, and then she grabbed the masher. “Absolutely, they are.”

“Oh, thank God you said that.” I moved to the pantry to grab the last few ingredients I’d need. I’d pulled the recipe up on my phone, which I’d propped up against a vase on the counter. “My mom used to make this fancy homemade shit every year, and it made me want to literally gag.”

She snorted a laugh as she started washing the potatoes. “That makes me so sad for past you. Hopefully, she’s not the one who taught you how to cook.”

“No, no. Self-taught. This is going to sound really lame, but I actually didn’t really know how to cook until about four years ago.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Never had a need to. With snowboarding, I was always on the go. But then, after the accident, I eventually got tired of living off those ready-to-bake meals at the store.”

“Oh my God, I would have gone stir-crazy if that was all I ate.”

“Yeah, it got boring after a while. I’m not great, but it’s edible.”

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