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“I’m Dove,” the first guy—a blue-eyed ginger—says. He jerks his thumb at brown eyes, beside him. “This is my buddy, Breck.”
The dark one pulls a glove off. Holds his hand out. “John is the name.” He cuts his eyes at Dove, who shrugs.
“I think I know you, too. Weren’t you in a movie?” Breck-or-John asks.
I smile. “Was I?”
“She was,” Dove says.
I flirt with them until the lift lets us off at the top of one of the easier black diamonds—the only one that’s open at this moment for night skiing.
Even in my Elvie-distracted state, I’ve learned these two are in “the service,” probably the Service-My-Cock-Tonight arm of the military, because they claim the last time they were here, they were skiing alongside President Obama and his family.
“You think I believe that?” I ask, cocking a thin, shaded brow at them.
When we all get off the lift, the one called Dove hands me a small pair of binoculars and says, “Watch and you decide.”
I watch them until the course turns so sharply, they move out of sight. I have to admit, they’re really fucking good. They ski like pros, and I would know. My younger cousin is one.
I find them beaming at me at the bottom of the slope. Jamie is standing by them, chatting animatedly, as if they all are friends.
When I stop, they ski over. I give her a confused look, and she smirks. “I see you’ve met our neighbor and his friend.”
“We have a neighbor?”
John holds his hand out. I hand him the binoculars, giving him a skeptical look.
“That’s cold.” But he’s grinning.
I shrug. “That girl is cold.”
We end up in The Slopes Bar with them, sipping some weird, organic, spring water something or other vodka called Snow Queen.
“Not bad,” I admit, although honestly, I’m not paying attention. I’ve got my phone in my lap and am texting with one of Elvie’s tech girls, Louise, a pretty native New Yorker who dates mostly girls and sometimes drives E home when he’s too drunk and I’m not there.
I’m hoping if I follow the conversation here with half an ear, the guys won’t notice my rudeness.
“See, I knew she’d like it,” one says.
“It’s the spring water.”
Jamie elbows me. “I’m going to take that thing,” she hisses.
When we go to the ladies’ room an hour later, she says, “C’mon, girl. They’re nice, and they just moved into that house. Before then, they lived somewhere smaller, but the dad is Mayor Ferrara.” She blinks, dragging her eyes wide open after.
“What does that mean?”
“Mayor Ferrara. He’s the mayor of Breckenridge. You don’t pay much attention to politics, do you?”
I roll my eyes. “Absolutely none.”
She snatches the phone away. “He’s not a texter. You know that. I’m keeping this.”
I sigh dramatically and refresh my lipstick.
“Do you even want to stay out?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’m cool either way.”
