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I think of Max, who had to control me. I think of the show’s executive producers, who want to minimize me by adding Shelby as my co-star. I think of Trevor, who played me while he was sleeping with Kiki.
And then I think of Michael, who watches me with that glint in his eye and that sexy crooked smile. I can’t imagine Michael ever telling me to be good, be quiet, be silent, be grateful. He’d tell me what Keith used to tell me: Go big or go home.
My fingers caress the soft orange Angel Sanchez gown and then the primal crimson Oscar de la Renta.
I’m wearing red.
Chapter Eleven
Eight a.m. Saturday morning, the day before the Golden Globes, Christie calls to invite me to go skiing with her family. They’re heading to Snow Summit at Big Bear, and they’ll meet me where Interstate 10 East intercepts Highway 38. We’ve done this before, where I’ll park in a lot on Orange Street and then jump in their massive luxury Range Rover and Christie’s husband will drive us the rest of the way. I’m not very confident driving in snow and ice, although Christie said conditions are good today.
Skiing should be the last thing on my mind. I should be working on story ideas and then primping properly for the awards by getting a spray tan, a blowout, a manicure and pedicure. But all I’ve done for the past seven years is primp and work, and doing something fun with Christie is hugely appealing.
“I’d love to,” I tell her. I haven’t skied yet this year, but I know where all my equipment is. I keep it together in the garage, the skis and poles in the cabinet and my boots and clothes in a big Roxy duffel bag. “What time did you want to meet?”
“Soon. We’re almost ready to leave.” She hesitates. “But you need to know that Simon’s meeting Michael on the slopes. Michael has a cabin at Big Bear and he’s already up there. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
My pulse does a little jump at the mention of Michael, something I find infinitely annoying. I don’t want to like him. I have no interest in the man. There’s no reason for me to react like a girl in high school.
“It’s not a problem,” I answer calmly, glancing at my watch. “And if I leave in the next half hour, I could meet you at the Dunkin’ Donuts around nine-thirty and we’d be on the slopes by eleven.”
“Perfect. See you there. Call me if you hit traffic.”
It’s a clear, sunny day and no traffic since it’s Saturday and all the college football games have ended for another year. I like driving on days like today and with my music loud— no sad songs today, just good driving music, my favorite oldie mix on my iPod of Supertramp, Abba, and Heart. It’s not the kind of music that you want to be caught listening to in public, but in the privacy of my own car I sing as loud as I can and it feels so good.
I feel good.
Who knows what will happen at work, but I don’t have to think about work right now. For once I’m going to give it all up, surrender to play. I’m going to hang out with Christie. Ski. And check out Michael’s action on the slopes.
Wonder if he’s any good. Hope he’s not one of those men who have all the great gear but can’t ski for anything.
The edges of my mouth lift.
I hit Redlands in just under an hour, giving me time to stop at the Starbucks next door to use the restroom and order a latte to go.
My cell rings and it’s Christie outside, saying they’ve arrived. I dash out to meet them, and as Christie hugs me, Simon takes the gear from my car and stows it in his. I climb into their SUV, hug each of the girls, and take my seat in the very back— and we’re off, with a very motivated Simon at the wheel.
The girls are all enrolled in ski school, and while Christie takes them to their classes, I slip on my boots and carry my skis to the base of East Mountain Xpress, the quad chairlift, where I’m supposed to meet Christie and Simon once the girls are all checked in. Christie arrives ten minutes later, tells me that Simon’s already hooked up with Michael and they’ve headed to the freestyle park, Westridge.
With two hours before the kids are returned to us, we take the East Mountain Xpress and spend forty-five minutes enjoying a surprisingly uncrowded run down Miracle Mile. Christie’s boot is bugging her, though, and back at the base, she begs off the next run to see if she can’t figure out why she’s getting a blister. I’d like to get in another run before the kids join us and am heading for the chairlifts for Log Chute when I spot Michael all dressed in black ahead of me.
I slide into line behind him and poke him in the butt with the tip of my pole.
His head turns sharply, and then he spots me. I make a face at him. “Hello, Dr. Evil. How handsome you are in all black.”
His smile is rueful. “A Mike Myers fan?”
“I did like the Austin Powers movies.”
“Then you should know— Dr. Evil wore gray.”
“How do you know that?”
“How can you not?”
I make another face.
His dense black lashes drop. “Are you on your own? I thought you were skiing with Christie.”
“Her boot’s bugging her. I told her I’d take a run and then meet back up with her. Where’s Simon?”
“He’s at the top waiting for me. I had a call regarding one of my patients.”
“So you do actually work?” I tease.
“Just a little bit.”
We end up riding the chairlift to the summit and part ways at the top, as Michael likes the triple black diamond runs and I’m more comfortable on the intermediate slopes. As he heads off, I take one of the cat tracks past View Haus for Miracle Mile, which is my favorite run here at Snow Summit. I’m enjoying myself, executing smooth, flawless turns and feeling very skilled, when I make a little turn and realize I’ve made the wrong turn.
I’m no longer on Miracle. I think I’m on Dicky’s, Dicky’s being one of the advanced terrains, and I hit a rough icy patch and go sailing over a mogul and careen wildly toward the bowl. I’m beginning to panic as I slip and slide faster and faster.
I’m scared. This out-of-control feeling is something I don’t ever want to feel. It’s turbulence when you fly. It’s a car hurtling too fast around a tight corner. It’s danger and imminent disaster.
And I don’t like disaster.
“You okay, Tia?” It’s Michael back at my elbow, and I dig my blades into the mountain as hard as I can to come to a complete stop.
I turn to Michael, terrified and yet relieved. “I can’t do this,” I squeak. “I don’t have enough control— ”
“I’ve been watching you. You’re doing great.”
“I keep falling.”
“You’ve only fallen once. And you did great over that last mogul. You were flying.”
“That was a mistake! I didn’t even see it until it was too late.”
He grins. He knows it was. “I’ll ski you down.”
“Please.”
Michael skis in a graceful zigzag down the mountain, and I focus on his back and the smooth pattern of his skis as they cut through the snow. Little by little, I relax and lean into the mountain when he does and crouch lower in my skis on turns, and the tension and fear ease. We reach the bottom and he’s waiting for me, goggles off, a light in his dark blue eyes. “You did it.”
“Thank you. That was not fun.”
“You’re a good skier, Tiana. You just need more confidence.”
I grimace, lift a hand off my pole, and show him how it’s trembling. “You think?”
“Let’s get you a drink. You’ve earned it.”
I don’t argue.
We leave our skis and poles outside and clomp upstairs to the bar, where we find two seats at the crowded wood counter.
Before I place an order, the twenty-something bartender looks at me and then does a swift double take. “You Tiana Tomlinson?”
I nod and the young bartender whistles. “You’re even hotter in real life. Drink’s on me.” And with a wink he turns to make a special cocktail.
Michael looks at me. “He doesn't even know I’m here.”
I laugh a real laugh. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
I grin. “Okay, I’m not.”
