Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
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.
I glanced over at him and realized that was the opposite of what I wanted. I leaned over and bumped his arm with mine. The water-repellant fabric of our parkas shushed together.
“Is there any way we can pretend I’m not your boss today?” I said without thinking. “I mean… I seem to recall you talking smack about my skiing prowess a minute ago. What if we agreed to some kind of… contest?”
“Oh, now you’ve done it, Thatcher Pennington.” He shook his head sadly. “Don’t you know better than to challenge a Wellbridge?”
He turned his head to face me, but instead of teasing aquamarine eyes, I saw the reflection of my own face in his sunglasses. I wanted to lift them off his face and fling them hundreds of feet to the snowy ground below. Instead, I clenched my grip on my ski poles.
“I think I can handle it,” I told him and said a silent prayer of gratitude that there were no shades covering up his giant, gorgeous grin.
Chapter Nine
Reagan
I was desperate to know what Thatcher’s ex-wife had called about.