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Still.
“That’s all well and good,” I said, shaking off the memory of Reagan’s contagious smile as he’d described the elaborate small-town festivities. “But it just means I need Reagan to work for me. Not that he and I should…” I cleared my throat. “I do like him. I want to see him succeed and be happy. And you know my track record with relationships. He and I would never work out long-term.”
McGee hooted. “Jesus, who said anything about long-term? I meant road trip nookie. I meant hot and heavy back-seat hookups. A scenic detour down the orgasm highway. A quick pit stop for a full-service lube job. I meant don’t come a’knockin’ if the luxury coach is a’rockin’. I meant sex,” he clarified when I only stared at him in horrified fascination.
“Yes, I got that. Loud and clear.” I shook my head, trying to clear the mental images away. “But it’s still an epically bad idea. Impossible if Layla’s joining us. Besides, I thought you were anti-hookup these days.”
“Oh, me.” McGee waved a hand. “That’s because I’m a sensitive soul, but no one ever sees it beneath my hot-as-fuck tattoos.”
I snorted. “And your overwhelming modesty?”
“That, too.” He smiled. “All I’m saying is you’ve got an opportunity here: a guy you want who wants you back. And sure, there are complications, but it doesn’t have to be complicated if you just stop overthinking. Why deny yourself a little bit of enjoyment? Why deny him that?” McGee leaned toward me. “You know what else you taught me when I was a kid? Opportunity knocks, but it doesn’t pick locks. You gotta open the door.” He winked and slid out of the booth.
As McGee put away his cleaning supplies and went back to his bunk to rest, I signed on to my next call and tried to put his little pep talk out of my mind—to put Reagan out of my mind, to focus on my work and my priorities—but it was impossible. When January texted an hour later to say Layla was still positive for flu and would have to delay her trip by at least a day, I gave up trying. I closed my laptop and decided to make the most of my solo time with Reagan while it lasted, starting with our afternoon on the mountain.
Once we were both dressed in the gear Reagan had bought, we took a ride share to the slopes and got fitted for rental equipment. On our way to get in line for the lift, I realized I had no idea how much ski experience he had.
“Are you a Timberline guy, living it up on the logging trail, or do you favor heavier stuff like Widowmaker?”
Reagan wrinkled his nose in thought. “I can definitely hang on Widowmaker, but it wouldn’t be pretty. I’d say my sweet spot is a good blue run like Tote Road. What about you, old man?”
“I skied for Cornell,” I said, feeling my chest puff up.
He laughed. “Pfft. Isn’t that a club team?”
I nodded. “Yes, but it was established in 1932. Do you dare impugn the honor of the Big Red?”
The teasing sparkle in his eyes was brighter than sunlight on snow. “Oh, I dare.”
His gorgeous face and exciting company were almost enough to distract me from the fact that I was going to have to get on a ski lift in a moment. In many areas of my life, I could get around my fear of heights, but I hadn’t found a work-around for mountains where the only method for getting to the top was ski lifts. Which meant today, I had to white-knuckle it.
But right before we got on the lift, my phone rang, giving me a temporary reprieve.
At least until I checked the caller ID.
“Thalia, what’s up?”
At the sound of her name, Reagan veered away from me a little to give me some privacy. It wasn’t necessary, but I appreciated the gesture.
“You sound different. Where are you?” Her voice had its usual clipped tone, like she was on her way somewhere and running late.
“Colorado. About to go skiing. Everything okay with Brant?”
“He’s fine. I spoke with him a little while ago. He apologized profusely to his stepfather and says he’s ready to make amends.” She sighed. “Paul offered to give him back his production assistant job at the studio, but… this is it, Thatcher. Last chance. And we’ve made it very clear to him that our financial support is at an end, too. He can continue to live in our guest house, but beyond that, he needs to take responsibility for himself. I’m sorry if that leaves you carrying the weight, but?—”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Don’t apologize. I understand.” I only wished I had a magic solution for our wayward son. “Now’s not a good time for me to talk, but… I’ll handle it.”
“You sure? He’ll be done with his program in about a week, and then you might want to meet up with him to have a conversation. I wish you could find a way to get through to him. He has so much potential, but no matter how much of a boost we try to give him, he can’t seem to appreciate the chances he’s being given.”
“Yeah,” I said gruffly. “I’ll handle it,” I repeated, softening my tone. “I promise.”
She blew out a breath. “Thanks, Thatcher. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
I ended the call and followed Reagan on autopilot while my brain churned through thoughts about Brantleigh’s future and our collective past.
It wasn’t until the chair lifted my boots off the ground that I realized we’d even boarded the ski lift. I took a deep breath and held it. The sky was a cloudless blue, and though it was plenty cold, the sun made it feel less bracing than I usually felt while skiing back East. I forced myself to drop my shoulders and pretend everything was fine. “This is nice. Thanks for suggesting it.”
“Pretty sure that was you, boss,” he said softly, almost as if he was allowing me to stay distracted in my own thoughts.
