Page 75 of Mangled Memory
“Aspen: where the beer?—”
Coherent thought returns. “Don’t you dare quote that movie to me.”
He stills.
No movement. No sound. Only his chest scraping ragged air in and out of his lungs.
His stillness triggers the same in me, and I lie stock still wondering what just happened.
“You remember?” His voice is steel when he speaks.
My eyes fly to his. I shake my head a fraction side to side. “No. But Iknow. Does that make sense?”
“Like you know Liam or Cian?”
I simply nod.
He simply stares. I can tell he wants to ask more but refrains. He hovers in that push-up above me until I reach a hand around his biceps and stroke. Ever so slowly he leans in, his mouth hovering above mine, his eyes glued to mine. “Princess, please come with me to Aspen today. If not to shoot, because it would mean something to me.”
How can I argue with that? “Okay,” I whisper against his lips. “Let’s go to Aspen.”
His lips crush down on mine. When he’s done, he smiles against my lips. “Can you be ready in an hour?”
“I can be ready an hour from coffee hitting my lips.”
He drops another kiss to my lips and pushes up and off me. “Coffee coming right up.” He struts his perfect body to the door, grabbing a robe from the hook on his way. He quotes more fromDumb and Dumberas he drifts away.
I remember. Or something. There’s a faint echo in my head of previous... I don’t know what. It’s like straining to hear a conversation or failing to place a scent. It’s close but not there.
But I’ve heard that quote too damn many times, and somehow, I know my response wasn’t for the first time.
I kick my feet and squeal a happy sound, stretching long before jumping out of bed.
I’m standing at the bathroom vanity, nothing but a towel wrapped around me fresh from the world’s fastest shower, when Christian slides a steaming hot mug of coffee in front of me.
I hum and take a sip. Caramel chocolate. “Coffee is my love language.”
He freezes in place, but, with obvious effort, moves past whatever just happened. “Yeah, Princess. You can say that again.” He flips on the shower and strips before stepping under the spray.
I finish getting ready, opting for fleece leggings, a hoodie, and boots. We have a long drive ahead of us and comfort is key.
When Christian is ready, I burst out laughing. My mountain girl chic is in stark relief to his GQ businessman apparel. He’s in a stunning charcoal suit with a deep burgundy tie.
I stand next to him in the mirror. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”
He slides an arm around me and kisses below my ear. “Absolutely,” he whispers as his lips hover there.
“You look stupid handsome, Christian, but why didn’t you bring that with us and change when we arrive?” I ask following him out of the bathroom and to the hall. “It can’t be comfortable to sit in that all the way to Aspen.”
He throws a smirk over his shoulder. “It won’t be that bad.”
I find out why it won’t be that bad. That’s because we don’t drive much further than the Centennial airport where we jump on a small private plane and fly—that’s right, fly—to Aspen. Less than an hour after we park at the hangar, we’re sitting on the tarmac in Pitkin County.
Had I had any inkling we were the other half, as they call it, I would’ve taken Christian up on that trip to Maroon Bells in the fall. Autumn in the mountains is perfect.
But I won’t argue with the beauty and stillness winter brings. The crisp, clean white snow blanketing the mountains and the rocks in the creeks as the clear water shows the dark green and browns of the bed below it.
By the time we’re seated in the back of the town car, I might as well be a kid at Christmas for how I feel. Christian’s hand lands on my knee, his pinky finger stretching toward my center, but not with any intent. It’s moving as if compelled to weave intricate circles, never quite reaching their intended destination.
