The idea sounded more and more attractive. Or maybe that was the three glasses of champagne she’d had. Whatever. She took another bracing sip. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Serial date. Twenty-five men … one year.”
“This I’ve got to see. Bet you a hundred bucks you either back out or you don’t make it past man number five without getting attached to him.”
Ha! Unless the fifth guy was a puppy hiding in a man suit, she didn’t see that happening.
“Make it ten men. No, wait … all twenty-five. And backing out is not an option.” She waggled her shoulders back and forth, her courage growing with each passing moment. “Tell you what. Next New Year’s Eve we’ll see who pays whom. Your turn. What’s your resolution? And it’d better be good!”
“Well, if you can swear off serious relationships, I can swear off men altogether—maybe work on myself for a change, take on a project. And I’ll bet the same amount of money that I will follow through.” Ellory’s expression had taken on a serious note, totally out of character for her fun-loving friend.
But with the hands almost at the top of the dial, she didn’t have time to question her. “Okay, so we each have a hundred dollars riding on our resolutions, right?”
“Right.”
She’d just gotten the words out when a cacophony of voices began chanting backwards from ten. Ellory clinked her glass against Mira’s and they downed the last of their drinks.
Confetti rained all around her, the cheers and laughter of the crowd forming a frothy wave of mirth that carried her up and out of her funk. Mira caught her friend up in a tight hug, so glad Ellory had come to stay with her for a while.
She stepped back, about to say something, when a masculine voice came from behind her. “Well, well, well. Looks like I’m not the only one without a date tonight. Or are you two together?”
Mira’s eyes widened when she realized the slightly slurred tones were far too close to her ear for comfort. Still holding onto one of Ellory’s hands, she raised her brows in question. Surely not.
“Turn around,” her friend mouthed. “He’s talking to you.”
Knees quivering, Mira released her hand and pivoted on the spiked heel of her shoe until she was face to face with a beefy hunk who could have stepped straight out of an ad for a gym membership. He was tall and buff, and his too-tanned-to-be-real neck rose from a pressed white shirt and black tux. His blue eyes gleamed with something that looked like … interest. Or boredom. She couldn’t decide which.
“I—I …” Her mind went blank, and she scrabbled for the nearest coherent sentence. “Er … hello.”
How the hell did one serial date, anyway? She’d have to ask Ellory for some pointers later.
The man’s smile grew. “I waited a whole ten minutes to make sure no irate boyfriend was going to bust my jaw for coming over here. I noticed you as soon as you walked through the door. Are you alone?”
Oh, no. Not this fast.
She glanced back at her friend, who opened her beaded purse and tipped it toward her with a knowing jiggle. “You want to pay up now, honey?”
Egads. The woman knew right where to hit.
Straightening her spine, she turned back to the man in question. “Yep. I’m alone.”
“What say I buy you a drink, then?”
Since the booze was free, that was hardly an enticing offer. But if her job was to stay unattached, this guy seemed like the obvious choice.
“What say you do?” Mira tried for a purr, but it came off sounding like an asthmatic wheeze.
Before she could chicken out, she handed her empty champagne glass to Ellory, who stared at her with undisguised shock. Mira leaned forward and whispered two words, drawing them out for emphasis. “Game. On.”
JACKSON PERRY WAS going to fall.
No matter how many times he tried to stab his ski poles into the snow, they ended up flailing around like twin javelins about to be launched by a drunken athlete.
Make your skis into a wedge to slow your rate of descent.
The instructor’s mandatory lesson played through his skull, but actually obeying that advice was almost impossible, since he was too busy trying to find his center of gravity as his body continued to pick up speed down the slope. He tried to ride it out like a surfer on a killer wave. Only skis were nothing like the smooth, wide surface of his well-waxed board. And the ground looked a whole lot harder than the soft embrace of the ocean.
Wobble.
Correct.
Wobble.
Correct.
Not. Gonna. Freakin’. Work …
A brilliant plume of white spray rose up as Jack belly-flopped onto the snow, his skis detaching from his boots—thank God. He bounced his way over some moguls, instinctively tightening his abs to absorb as much of the impact as possible. Fifty yards later he slid to an ignominious halt, still facing the bottom of the hill. He had one pole in his hand, the other was long gone, probably back there with his skis.
Good thing he hadn’t tried a tougher slope.
Sucking down breaths into lungs that felt like they were on fire, he assessed his body bone by bone, tendon by tendon. Knees? Undamaged. Wrists? Still there. Ego? He’d come back to that one later. Skull? Intact, although he wondered about his sanity in agreeing to this damned vacation.
He raised a hand to wipe away some of the snow on his face, only to find his gloves were also covered in the stuff.
Hell!
Take a vacation. Have some fun. You need a break.
Or else.
His coach may not have added those last two words, but Jack had seen them written in the tight lines of the man’s face when he’d been late to yet another early morning meeting. The product of a recurring nightmare followed up by a sleeping pill. He hadn’t even heard the alarm the next morning.
Go skiing, Jack … or I’m afraid we’ll have to find ourselves a new doctor.
So, was the plan working?
Oh, yeah. So far, he was having a blast.
And every damn memory he’d been trying to forget had followed him right down that hill, crashing into the snow beside him.
Several more skiers sailed by, none of them seeming to have any trouble with the so-called “bunny slope.” Nothing like wiping out on your very first run.
A pair of skis came into view. Angled just like the instructor had described. Perfect. He glanced up, squinting to see past the blinding midmorning sun.
“Need some help there?”
A vision in a white ski jacket and matching snow pants stood before him, the light seeming to halo around the figure’s shoulders and head.
Maybe he’d hit the ground harder than he’d thought.
He shook his head and then struggled into a sitting position, but the slick fabric of his own suit caused him to slide down the hill a few more feet. The person matched his downward trajectory inch for inch, again coming to a halt right as he did. Still on her feet.
A quick feminine laugh met his ears. “Here, take my hand. Your boots should help you gain some traction. I’ve already picked up your skis and pole.”
He glanced up again and saw that the woman—and she