Alder

T oday has been…a day, and it’s only eleven thirty. I’m in the middle of a private lesson with a family that seems like they would rather be anywhere but here. The father is trying to connect with his kids, and all they really want to do is take pictures of themselves in their very expensive gear and check their phones.

I couldn’t care less about that, except it’s my job to make sure, if they decide to go down anything more than a bunny hill, that they at least know how to stop safely. Or else it will also be me paying for it later when I have to lead a search party up the side of the mountain. That happens more frequently than you’d like to think. I love flying, but typically, when we have to get the helicopter involved for a rescue, it means someone is in a higher-risk situation. Going in on foot means that the conditions are still manageable without an airlift.

I look up to see the daughter of the group staring at me. Again. If it’s not the mothers, it’s their daughters. Sometimes it’s both. I walk a very fine line between keeping guests happy and keeping them from slipping their numbers. I would be lying if I said that I didn't slip a few in my pocket. Ray and I were reckless with our jobs and never thought about the consequences. He always made our most boring days here fun. I miss that. I miss him.

“So how long have you been working here?” the teenage girl asks, looking up at me from under her lashes. I inwardly groan.

“Oh, I’d say since you were probably in diapers.” This doesn’t always deter them, but I take a gamble. It pays off. She wrinkles her nose. Her game is not quite as fun as before.

“Right,” she says, walking back over to where her parents are arguing. “Daddy, I’m going back to the chalet. I’m bored, and it’s cold,” she tells him, trudging by, not waiting for a reply. She would have been waiting a while if she had. Her father continues to talk in circles with her mother. Their son sits on the snowboard he hasn't bothered to strap into. I’ll try one more time to get him interested.

I head to the top of the hill and come down the steeper side, making sure to hit the two small jumps we have for the intermediate riders. I do a front hold on the first one and decide to do a Rodeo on the bigger one. I launch myself high and flip myself forward, twisting at the same time, landing goofy footed. It’s clean. A practiced move I’ve done more times than I could count. The man and his wife cheer for me, and she even claps. I chuckle.

The son does take notice, though, and stows his phone in his mom’s jacket pocket.

“Whoa, do you think you could teach me to do that?” he asks, excitedly.

“You’re probably not quite there yet, but the best place to start is getting on the board and getting comfortable,” I say. He nods and goes to strap into his board. Movement up above in the lodge’s big window catches my eye, and I peer up to see Ivy. She’s standing by a Christmas tree. Looking as beautiful as she was when I saw her this morning. Her all-black spandex thing she was wearing with a puffy vest over it was so damn cute. It also gave me a great view of her long legs. I wave, expecting her to look away. She just stares and then barely lifts her hand before backing away.

Ivy Rutherford is an enigma to me. Half the time, I think she hates me, and half the time, she looks at me like she wouldn’t mind climbing me like a tree. Both are becoming a problem for me because my body reacts the same either way. I like her fire. The way she handles herself. She asserts dominance, and damn if I’m not all in for that.

She’s gorgeous and tempting, but I can tell there’s so much more to her than what I see. I want to know her. But damn, she is prickly. Maybe I’ll go see if she’s running hot or cold after I finish up with my class.

An hour later, I’m walking down the warm, now holiday-scented hallway to my office. I think back to a few days ago when I found Ivy curled up on my couch and chuckle. She was so short with me when she woke up all flustered and embarrassed. Her office door is open, so I peek inside. I take just a moment to observe her. She’s got her hair up on top of her head with a purple pen stuck through it, and she’s chewing on the end of another one. She’s looking at a notebook in her hand. The sight makes me smile; she looks so fucking cute.

“Do you buy those pens in bulk?” I ask into the quiet space. She jumps, knocking her chair back, and the look on her face tells me I should have knocked. I should have announced my presence. I should have thought about how she punched me in the face the other night outside the bar. I feel like shit. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Or, well, surprise you that much.”

Her hand is on her heart, and she glares at me like she’s about to shoot lasers out of them. I’m starting to believe she may be able to. “What. Is. Wrong. With. You?” she says slowly. Like she’s barely containing a little demon inside her. It’s so fucking cute, but that’s not the point right now, I try to remind myself as I smash my lips together and cough.

“I am sorry,” I tell her sincerely. She stands up straighter and puts her hands at her sides.

“Was there something you needed, ?” she asks, her voice regaining its steady tone and also the icy bite that’s always lingering just under the surface.

“I was just checking in. I finished my classes for the day, and there is a couple arriving later today staying in the chalet on the west side of the property. I think it needs some snow cleared. Do you want me to get Terry over there to take care of it?” This is only the backup reason I stopped by, but she doesn’t need to know that. She tilts her head, suspicious of me.

“That would be great,” she tells me., “I should probably get a basket ready to send out too,” she mumbles more to herself than to me.

“A basket?” I ask. “For what?”

“Yeah, I’ve started gathering some local items and putting them together into welcome baskets. I’m starting with the bigger chalets, but eventually, I would love to have a scaled option for all guests,” she says while busying herself with some papers on her desk until she finds what she’s looking for. “Actually, I need to speak to Winnie about a couple of ideas I had for some pre-made mixes to have in the gift shop as well,” she continues.

“Gift shop?” I sound like a fucking parrot repeating everything she says, but we don’t have a gift shop.

“Yes, . A gift shop.” She says it slowly, like I’m a small child. And why am I just as happy when she’s treating me like I’m dirt under her boot as I am when she’s laughing at something stupid I said only to make her laugh? Ivy Rutherford is a mystery I am all too willing to investigate. Sign me up.

“When did we get this gift shop, princess?” The nickname she so aptly has earned makes her green eyes snap to mine, narrowed—stunning.

“We don’t have one yet, Mr. Holloway,” she huffs out, then walks around to the front of her desk, leaning back against it and crossing her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts together. It feels calculated, but she can’t help it that she has really nice tits. I swallow. Now could be a good time to mention that I’ll be the one finalizing these plans of hers, but she keeps talking. “I’m working on getting one up and running before the Christmas and New Year’s rush. I’ve been talking with as many local businesses as I can, as well as two clothing shops to print merchandise for us. Edgemont sweaters, hats, beanies—” She points to my head. “Sweatpants, T-shirts… you get it. I feel like it’s a missed opportunity here.” She shrugs her narrow shoulders.

“And you think people will want to buy things that say The Edgemont on them?” It’s a little of a foreign concept to me. I’ve worked on the mountain since I was a teenager, and I love it here. I mean, I moved to my cabin from town, but for someone to want a souvenir? Interesting.

“They absolutely will. People, families especially, love having keepsakes,” she tells me, and I think about that for a minute. How many sweatshirts does Lo have from all her trips? How many do I have from all our vacations growing up? A lot. I can’t believe no one thought of it sooner. It’s nice to see her care about this place. It’s nice having her here in Silverthorne.

“That’s a really good idea, actually,” I tell her, but it must have been the wrong thing to say because she snorts and looks up at the ceiling.

“Actually?” Oh. I see the error of my ways. I could have complimented her more fully. “Yes, Mr. Holloway. I actually have good ideas. Even for a spoiled princess.” She throws the words at me.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Rutherford. I was trying to pay you a compliment,” I explain.

“Yeah? Do you have much practice doing that? Because you’re sorely missing the mark from where I stand,” she volleys. Damn, she doesn’t give a fucking inch.

“Do you ever give anyone the benefit of the doubt? You have a way of taking anything I say and twisting it into something to be mad at me for,” I ask, a little incredulous.

“No,” she says simply. I stare at her, and she stares back at me. What happened, or what she must have gone through to make her behave this way? I want to crack her open like one of my books and read all that’s between her pages. Looking at her gemstone eyes, almost glowing with defiance, I want to reach inside her and drag all the things she’s keeping hidden out into the afternoon sun.

I know she wants me to take the bait, if she didn't, she wouldn’t bait me as often as she does, but I won’t. Instead, I step closer to her. Leaving my spot against the door frame, I walk until I stand directly in front of her. Towering over her from where she’s still leaning against her desk. She looks up at me, and I see her bristle.

She’s ready for the fight. I won’t give her one this time. “Then I guess all I can do is apologize.” At my words, her face shifts from stone to confusion. Yeah, baby. Lay down that sword. “It wasn't my intention to offend you, but I can see how what I said may have been offensive. I’m sorry about that. I think your idea is a damn good one, and I’m on board to help.” Her pouty lips part. I think in shock. I’m thankful, in this moment, that Mary Holloway made sure her boys knew how to apologize to a woman.

“I…” She stops, then starts again, “Thank you for apologizing,” she rushes out and then stands to her full height, which is just shy of my six foot three. I look down to those heeled boots and back up to the mess of russet hair on top of her head and that purple fucking pen holding it in place. Her eyes flick between my mouth and my eyes. I feel myself lean closer. Her eyes leave mine and go wide at what she sees behind me. I go to look, but she grips my face in both her hands and, with a frantic look in her eyes, screams—please.

“I need you,” she whispers. That is not helping the situation happening down south.

“Ivy—” I start, I don’t want to tell her this can’t happen because it can, and I want it to. Just not here in her office with the door open and someone walking down the hall. I can literally hear their voices. “You are so beautiful, and it’s not that I don’t want—” she cuts me off with a hand over my mouth, and her eyes roll so far back in her head I can see the full whites of them. Never mind, I’m into this. It can happen here and now.

“Oh my god, Lover Boy. Not now.” Her voice is a harsh whisper that I wouldn’t mind hearing in a different position. “I need your help.” I am…confused. It must show. “, I need your help. Please just go along with it.” The please has my eyebrows hitting the ceiling. I nod. I will go to war for this woman. Please is not necessary.

“Ivy?” I hear an unfamiliar voice from the hall. Ivy releases her hands from my face, uncovering my mouth, but instead of backing away, she wraps them behind my back, pulling me closer, all while retaining eye contact. She gives me a little-help-here look, and I return her embrace. As casually as I can, considering I’ve never hugged her. She smiles. It’s— sweet? I don’t know how I feel about it. Then she turns us so we can see the doorway just in time for a man in a navy suit to step into view. She takes a breath and then greets him like she knows him. I don’t like it.

“Noah? What on earth are you doing here?”