Chapter 17
I spent the day working. Working in only the very most literal sense of the word. Because in actuality while I was doing this “work,” I was having a devil of a time getting my mind away from where it wanted to spend its time . . . with Archie. While I was revisiting the finer points of up-selling with the staff in the reservations office, I was really considering the finer points of his ass, and what a fine one it was. Especially when I thought about my hands on it, gripping it as he drove in and out of me, impossibly shallow, impossibly maddening . . . as promised. So when he looked at me across the table during the meeting and asked if I was ready for another round, I spit my coffee, and it was only after he concluded his sentence with the words of cost projections that I managed to recover and get Mrs. Toomey some napkins to clean up the blouse of hers I’d just ruined.
As I went over the books from the spa’s weekend business and saw that not only was my new special a hit, but that the team wanted to keep it going all spring and possibly into the summer, what my mind was actually remembering was Archie’s voice as he spoke low and deep to me in bed the night before, telling me to keep it going, just like that, and don’t you stop and you’re incredible to see when you come. So when he popped in to check on how spa bookings were coming along for the next month and told the ladies who had just finished their mineral bath plunge to make sure they come again soon, I coughed into my hand so hard that one of the attendants actually brought me a bottle of water.
And when the lunch menu featured a sausage bar . . . I turned tail and literally ran, covering my reddened face and struggling to keep the giggles in check. Archie saw me running from the dining room and laughed so loud I could hear him over the din of a hundred guests.
I was giddy. And giddy girls giggle. But they also try very, very hard to get through their working day. Especially when at the end of the day there was something (someone!) waiting for them.
Are you busy tonight?
Depends.
On?
What you’ve got planned for me.
Ice skating.
Oh.
Not a fan?
I was hoping for something a little more . . . horizontal.
That’ll come later.
As long as I do.
Three times, Ms. Morgan . . . three times.
Indeed. So, skating? Isn’t it a bit warm for that?
Indeed. Technically we closed the rink last weekend, but we usually leave it open for a few extra days for the staff.
I smiled in spite of myself. This shouldn’t be so complicated, but it just was.
Not sure it’s such a good idea for us to go skating. Isn’t that a little “public”?
Already thought of that. Last night was the last night for the staff.
And you’re not technically staff, so . . .
So, ice skating? 8 p.m.?
Sure. Then what?
Then the horizontal.
You’ve never seen me skate. It’ll happen sooner than you think.
8 p.m.?
Done. Meet you there, Mr. Bryant.
I’d jogged by the skating rink several times during my stint at Bryant Mountain House, but since it was set back from one of the main lake trails, I’d only gotten a little peek from time to time. With the guest count so low this spring they hadn’t really been keeping it staffed, and I’d yet to hear a single person actually mention that they wanted to go skating. It really was too bad. This place was literally made for winter sports, but with the snowfall less and less every year they just weren’t able to offer the kind of snowshoeing and cross-country skiing they’d been famous for in the good old days.
The good old days. Personally, I’d always known my best days were ahead of me, but not so for most. I’d found many people lost more time revisiting the past than they spent planning their future, whereas I’d always been planning. To get away, to be on my own, to succeed and create the kind of life for myself where I could come to a place like this, stay in the biggest suite they had, order an ice cream sundae at ten thirty in the morning on a Tuesday just because I could and not expect anyone but me to pay for it.
I could too, by the way. I had no life to speak of, but I made a great living. I lived on the road most of the time, free room and board typically, and I’d logged enough frequent-flier miles to fly first class around the world several times over . . . enough for me and a guest, should I so choose.
But I never so choose. I never even got close to so choose. I banked mileage and hotel points like they were going out of style, and I was one of the only people my age I knew who had two years’ worth of salary just sitting in an emergency fund. Like I said, I had no life.
But tonight, I was ice-skating. So I chased away those blue thoughts and filled them instead with auburn, freckly thoughts.
While still chilly enough for an oversized sweater, the air was warmer tonight, which made it nice to leave the coat and scarf behind. I wore my mittens, though, knowing I’d be spending the better part of the evening on the ice rather than gliding effortlessly across it.
There was a dip in the tree line, a narrow muddy trail with a sign marking the left turn to head up to Bryant Rink. They sure liked to put their name on things.
As I got closer, I could hear music. Just before I went around the last bend, there was a rope going across the pathway with a sign that said Closed for the Season.
“Archie?” I called, wondering if I should just head on in.
You should have called him Mr. Bryant, anyone could be in there with him.
Dammit. “Mr. Bryant?” I corrected, trying to see through the trees. And why did that music sound so familiar?
“Come on up,” I heard him call down, and I slipped underneath the rope. Coming around the last bend, I could see the rink as the trees thinned. Framed by an arched timber roof but open on the sides, the rink wasn’t big, it wasn’t small, it was just right. A small window opened to what I guessed would be a kitchen, serving hot chocolate on cold wintry days; there were a few chairs scattered around, an equipment counter for checking out ice skates, and because it was Bryant Mountain House, an enormous fieldstone fireplace, complete with rocking chairs in front of the roaring fire.
“You built a fire? For just the two of us?” I called out, still not seeing Archie. Walking around toward the fire, I saw a mug of the expected hot chocolate, still hot enough to be steaming, then heard a whoosh from behind.
I turned to see Archie skating across the white ice. He was fast, his feet laced into thick black hockey skates, and as he neared the edge he did that weird thing boys always do to girls at skating rinks.
He stopped short and sprayed me with ice.
“Is this because I don’t have a pigtail for you to pull?” I sputtered, wiping the slush from my face.
He muttered something that sounded an awful lot like ‘I’ll give you something to pull’ as he leaned over the railing. “Ready to lace up?”
“We’re just going to go right to it? No warming up, no easing in, just boom, we’re doing it?”
“I had no idea ice-skating could be so riddled with innuendo.”
“I live in the world of innuendo.”
His eyes twinkled. “I can take another pass around, shoot you with some more ice if you want, but . . .”
I shook my head. “Point me toward the skates, Hotel Boy, and you’ll see just how fast I can go down.”
He coughed, not quite smothering a laugh. “I picked out a few sizes for you, one of them should fit. I had to dip into the kids’ skates, your feet are really tiny.”
“Good thing my boobs aren’t.”
“A very good thing,” he said, and this time made no effort to contain his laughter. I chanced a look back at him, and he was skating backward away from me, holding his hands out like he was squeezing melons.
I looked on the counter and there were indeed several pairs of skates lined up. He was right, the only ones that actually fit me were kids’ skates. I knew they were for kids because they were pink and covered with kittens.
“What’s taking you so long, Ms. Morgan?” he yelled across the ice.
“The laces, they’re all double knotted,” I yelled back, struggling to get them untied. A few quick swooshes later and he was by my side, then at my feet.
“Gimme.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Bossy, please gimme.”
“That’s better,” I said, handing him the tangled mess.
He worried at the knot for a moment. While he did, I took that same moment to admire him. It wasn’t often that I got to see Archie dressed more casually, and while there will never be anything as gorgeous as this man in a tailored suit, there was something very appealing about seeing him dressed down and comfortable. Wearing well-worn jeans and a wheat-colored cable-knit sweater with just a hint of a blue T-shirt sticking out of the top, he looked relaxed and happy. Well, he was happy until he started working on the knot I’d given him.
“It’s terrible,” he murmured.
“I tried to tell you,” I protested as he set the skates down and looked up at me. His eyelashes were the exact color of his hair, maybe even a little more deeply red. Set against the deep blue of his eyes, they were mesmerizing.
“It’s terrible,” he repeated, placing his hands on either side of the wooden bench I was sitting on and rising up on his knees, “that this is the first chance I’ve had to kiss you all damn day.”
“That is terrible,” I agreed, as he brought his face to within inches of mine. I could feel his warm breath puffing against my lips.
He kissed me once, then again. Soft, gentle, warm.
He pulled back to look at me. “I thought about you.”
“You did?”
He nodded. “I thought about that little body of yours, naked in the tub, all wet and waiting.”
I licked my lips. “Not just wet from the water.”
“Jesus,” he exhaled, hanging his head on my shoulder. I took the opportunity to drop a kiss on the top of his head.
“Let’s get this skating over with so we can go be naked somewhere,” I said. His shoulders shook. “Are you laughing or crying?” I asked.
“Both,” he answered, lifting his head and kissing me soundly. “Come on, Bossy, let’s hit the ice.”
Knots untangled, he helped me slip the skates on, not without taking the time to run his hands from my ankle to my hip and back again, and then took my hand to help me up.
I waddled to the railing. “What I said earlier, about being shitty at skating?”
“Yes?” he asked, stepping out onto the ice, still holding my hand.
I took my first step out onto the ice. He looked back, then down.
“Yeah, I wasn’t kidding,” I replied, my butt hitting the ice within a nanosecond of my trying to actually stand on it.
“Oh man,” he murmured as I floundered below.
“You should definitely not help me up.” I scowled, trying like hell to get my feet underneath me but failing miserably.
“You run marathons,” he said.
“Yep.” My left foot shot out in front of me.
“You compete in triathlons.”
“Also. Dammit.” My right foot shot out behind me. “True.”
“You chased me up a mountain, for God’s sake, and almost beat me.”
“I did. Beat you.” I hung in midair, the only thing keeping me from plunging back onto the ice with my legs crossed was his hand, which I clung to like a chin-up bar.
“But you can’t skate?” He was incredulous.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” I huffed, puffed, struggled, and strained to regain my balance, and the tiniest bit of dignity. I scrambled back up, climbing Archie like a ladder, until I stood before him once more. Teetering violently but standing.
“I can’t believe I found something you’re not good at,” he said, his voice full of wonder.
“Now, look,” I started, poking him in the chest and in doing so, losing my balance once more. This time he caught me tightly against his chest to prevent me from going down again. “Don’t you make fun of me,” I said directly to his belly button.
“Oh, if I only had a camera,” he mused.
“Oh, if I only had a hammer, I’d hammer you in—”
“Let’s try something different,” he hastily proclaimed. Pulling me back up to my full height once more, he stepped carefully around, expertly dodging my flailing blade-laden feet, to stand just behind me. Grasping me around the waist firmly, he tucked me back against him. “Give me your hands.”
“What’s happening, what are you doing?” My hands were what kept me from eating ice; the idea that he was taking that away from me was scary at best, world ending at worst.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his mouth at my ear. “Just relax. Literally relax, your muscles are like knots.” Slowly, he pushed off with his own skates and moved us both across the ice.
“This is a terrible idea,” I moaned, feeling the ice passing under us. “I’ll end up taking you down with me.”
“Not possible,” he said, his own skates moving sure and steady across the slippery surface. “Get your balance, just trust it.”
“But I’ll fall. There’s no way I won’t fall, there’s no way this won’t end badly.”
“Shhh,” he said once more, squeezing my hands. “I won’t let you fall.”
“But you can’t know that, we could hit a bump in the ice or a really slippery patch or—”
“—or we could skate around this motherfucking rink as many times as we want.” He wrapped his strong hands once more around my mittens. “Now breathe. And enjoy this.”
I started to protest again, to tell him how this was a terrible idea and when I did eventually crash and burn that I’d take him with me, but just as I opened my mouth I saw the most amazing thing. Coming up on my right was the equipment counter. And then . . . the fireplace. We’d gone around the rink, all the way around, back to where we’d started.
And I hadn’t fallen. And hey look, there was my hot chocolate. The whole world had literally gone by, and was going by again, while I was in my head worrying about what might happen.
Point taken. I let out the breath I’d indeed been holding, and gave over.
“There she is,” he whispered, feeling my body relax and ease into this. “You’ve totally got this.”
“Well, I don’t know if I got this, but . . .”
“Give yourself some credit,” he replied. “Want to go a little faster?”
I didn’t. So I said yes. Because I knew myself well enough to know that sometimes the very best thing I could do was do the exact opposite of what I wanted.
He pushed off just as the music changed, and I realized why it sounded familiar.
“Is this the Dirty Dancing soundtrack?” I asked as the world began to whiz by.
“Mm-hmm.” He brought our hands down farther, letting go for just the very splittiest of seconds before he firmly grasped my hips. “You said this place reminded you of the movie.”
“It does.” I chanced a look down the mountain toward the hotel that stood across the dark lake, the lanterns winking along the water’s edge. “I thought you hated this movie.”
“Everyone who lives up in the Catskills has been asked about this movie more times than I can count,” he replied, guiding me around the turn with a speed that, if I’d been alone, could have taken out the fireplace. “But it did have great music.”
“We should have a Dirty Dancing–themed weekend up here, how is that not a thing?”
“Because we don’t want to turn our hotel into a theme park?”
“That won’t happen, unless there’s a Johnny Castle roller coaster, in which case I’m riding it.”
“You see, this is how it starts.”
“Are you going to show me your pachanga?”
He dropped a kiss on my neck, swooshed us even faster, and whispered, “You have no idea.”
We skated for a minute or an hour, I have no idea. But it was fast and brilliant and breathless.
“You should take a turn on your own.”
“But I did so well with you, shouldn’t we just chalk it up as a success and not press our luck?”
“Once around the rink, Ms. Morgan, and then you can press anything you want.”
“See, you think that’s going to work on me, but it won’t.”
“You make it around the rink once on your own and I’ll lick your pussy until you black out.”
Next Winter Olympics you’ll see me representing the good old US of A. The event? Speed skating.