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Jared grins up at me with filthy recognition, then spends the morning on the nursery slopes holding me up and patiently teaching me like I'm a little kid. In fact, the little kids in ski school fly past, looking at me strangely.
I notice how Jared smiles at them, giving one a high five when he executes a perfect stop before I crash into him. This man loves children and what an amazing father he'd be. Unselfish, loving, able to express.
“Okay, we're ready to take it to the next level,” he announces.
“We are?”
My heart skips a dozen beats then I realize he means skiing and that's actually less scary than what I first thought he meant.
He leads me to the line and kisses my nose which must be red with chill, before we climb into the chair lift. Jared puts one arm around my shoulders and I nestle into his side, feeling the flex of power there.
“Just put your weight down and relax. Let your body feel the ground beneath you and trust,” he tells me and I think he means more than the fact that I now have to get off this thing. No option.
He gives me his arm. I mean, the man can ski on one foot so my Bambi on ice routine is no problem for him. He supports me all the way as I tumble out of the chair and somehow we glide across the snow.
“Let's get you some Dutch,” he says.
He leads me down a small slope to where, thank God, there's a bar restaurant right at the top of the mountain for fraidy cats like me to stock up their courage.
We head inside for a shot and Jared puts his arm around me to warm me up. I wish I could stay right there, protected beneath his solid bicep.
The problem is that sooner or later I'm going to have to face up to stuff and come down from this high.
And I'm not sure I can deal.
