Seduction on the Slopes by Tamsen Parker

Author:Tamsen Parker [Parker, Tamsen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2018-01-16T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Miles

Of all the team traditions, this might be my favorite but also the most embarrassing. They’ve been doing it since I was a kid, and just never stopped. Twenty-something years of team dinners, and my parents still love to hold court. My mom sits next to me, my dad sits next to her, and Ted sits next to him. The seat on my other side is noticeably empty.

It’s supposed to be for Crash, because as he hastily beat a retreat from our suite earlier, I’d reminded him about tonight. The time, the address, told him to text me if he forgot. He hadn’t, hasn’t, and now I’ve spent a good part of dinner looking toward the door, waiting for him to spill into the place, red-cheeked and crazy-haired because he’d gotten waylaid by some fans or run into an old buddy of his, or just plain old got lost. None of that would surprise me.

Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am a little surprised that he’s not here, and there’s no sign he will be, and no messages on my phone. I might have checked. Twice. Okay, eight times.

There’s a nudge to my shoulder and when I turn my head, my mom’s looking at me with that half knowing smile she gets. “What are you waiting for, baby?”

“Nothing.” I know I sound like a surly teenager but I’m embarrassed. It’s bad enough Crash is blowing me off, but to have to tell my mother? That is a bridge too far.

“It’s that Crash, isn’t it? Are you worried about him?”

Truth is, yes, a little. Which is insulting to Crash. Guy’s made it on his own since he was sixteen. He doesn’t need life advice from a thirty-one-year-old trust fund baby who still lives with his parents and has no earthly idea what he’s going to do with himself after the SIGs are over. At least Crash has a goddamn clue what he’s doing with his life once he’s done here. No matter the outcome, the only way his fortunes could go is up, whereas mine will just be . . . over.

I shrug. “Not really. He’s a resourceful guy.”

“Something’s bothering you.”

Why must she always be able to tell? The bangles on her wrist clank together as she rubs my shoulder, and she takes a sip of her wine while she waits for me to spit it out. Except I take too long, so she starts in on one of her other tried-and-true Yvonne Palmer methods to crack her reticent son wide open, same way she’d crack eggs over the skillet one-handed on Sunday mornings while she read the Arts & Leisure section of the paper: looking effortless and stylish.

“Are your knees hurting?”

“No more than usual.”

“Are you worried about your race?”

“No more than usual.”

“Have you been getting enough iron?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Is Ted giving you a hard time?”

I smirk in the face of her rapid-fire interrogation, and also because Ted turned when he heard his name. “No more than usual.”

“So it’s this Crash boy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.

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