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Stanhope tugs his wife into his side. “Now, Viv, don’t get emotional.”
“We’re about to head up and do a little demonstration for the crowd if you guys want to watch,” I tell them.
“Absolutely,” Stanhope says.
Langford guides them to the side. We tighten our helmets and pull on our goggles, then strap in and head to one of the lifts.
The cameramen give up pretenses and walk right up to watch the action and get the money shots as the four of us race down the mountain.
And Zoey blows us all out of the water.
Zoey
Once the sun falls behind the mountains, everyone makes their way inside the hotel for a short concert set by Garrett and his band.
It’s a special treat to get to see him perform live.
The crowd goes wild the second he hits the stage.
Me included.
I’ve been a Garrett Tuttle fan since I was a teenager. The very first concert I ever attended was his at Ball Arena in Denver when I was nineteen years old.
Truth be told, he’s the number one reason I accepted the position here at Misty Mountain when Langford approached me.
Not that I’d admit that to anyone now.
Joanna and I manage to worm our way to the front of the stage, and the two of us dance like fools until Garrett thanks the audience and takes a bow.
I manage to get an introduction via Langford and try not to squeal like a fangirl when he wraps an arm around my shoulders so Joanna can snap our photo with my phone.
The party moves to the Summit Bar and continues into the night. I finally sneak away and head to the cabanas on foot. Letting the rest of the team enjoy themselves, as tomorrow is their last day off for a while.
I get cozy and make a pot of cocoa on the stovetop.
Just as it begins to simmer, I hear Morris’s door open and close. I peek out to see he has settled in one of the rocking chairs.
Grabbing two mugs, I fill them up, top each one with whipped cream, and join him.
When he hears my door shut behind me, he looks up.
“Why aren’t you still at the bar with the rest of them?” I ask.
“Why aren’t you?”
“It drives me crazy when someone answers a question with a question,” I say.
He grins.
“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing,” I say.
He waves a tattered paperback in the air. “Reading.”
“Really?” I ask.
“I’m offended by the tone of disbelief in your voice, Miss Phillips.”
“Sorry, let me try that again. Really? What work of literature, pray tell, has you so enthralled that you haven’t noticed that your lips are turning blue?”
