Ryder

I see it from one hundred feet away.

Adrenaline takes over as Simone crashes on the slope, a hot pink blur tumbling around the curve in the run.

Jamming my poles into the packed snow, I ski as quickly as I can to her, stopping abruptly and bending to offer a hand. “You okay, sweetie?”

She winces but nods bravely. “Just a crash. I’m fine.”

I breathe a huge sigh of relief. “Are you sure?”

She looks at me, and even with the ski goggles on, I can see her brown eyes twinkle. She laughs. “I fell on my butt, and you’re freaking out.”

I am.

She’s right.

I’m completely freaking out.

I huff and act indignant, going with it. “Oh, that’s nice. Make fun of the caring, considerate uncle.”

“It’s cute. You’re sweet,” she says and takes my hand as I yank her up. “I’m totally fine. Falling is normal.”

“It still worries me when I see you do it, especially since you’re my responsibility.”

Devon and Paul are racing the black diamonds today, so Simone and I have tackled the easy to medium runs. She’s a snowboarder, and I prefer to kick it old-school on skis. This is our ski weekend trip over the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday. We already skied during Christmas and had an absolute blast.

In the last few weeks, I’ve spent more time with Simone and Devon on the weekends than usual, grabbing any chance I can to join them for ski trips, movies, and dinners out. I was so damn occupied in the fall that if I don’t keep busy now, I’ll be like one of those lonely lions in a cage at the zoo, pacing back and forth all day long.

Simone pretends to whisper, “Since I’m your responsibility, do you want to sneak off and get a hot chocolate?”

“I love the way you think. But let’s make it down the hill first.”

She nods, as she readjusts herself on her board. “Race ya.”

She pushes off, shushing down the slope with ease, and I follow as I’ve done the whole day, watching as I go. I don’t let her out of my sight. Lately, I’ve felt even more protective of her. Every time something might happen to her, my heart feels as if it’s beating outside my body. The other day when I walked her to art class in the city, I kept her even closer to my side when we neared the crosswalk. That’s just smart in New York, of course. But I was like a fucking hawk the way I kept my eye on her.

That evening after the day on the slopes, my brother and I hang in the lodge while Paul and Simone get ready for dinner back in the cabin.

Devon lifts his glass of Scotch and takes a drink as we lounge in big wooden chairs by a roaring fire. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about a woman we chatted with while skiing.”

“You chatted with a woman? Has hell frozen over?”

He rolls his eyes. “We shared a fucking chair lift with her, dickhead.”

“Oh. For a second I thought you were switching to my team.”

“The likelihood of that is about the same as you switching to my team.”

“About a ten million below zero chance?”

Devon winks. “You got it. Also, I talk to women all the time, on account of not being a sexist asshole.”

I raise my glass. “Good point.”

“Anyway, this woman was fun, smart, and I suppose she was pretty, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Pretty ladies are definitely my sort of thing,” I say, sticking out my tongue and flicking it at him.

He gazes at the ceiling. “Why do I bother to help him?”

I rub my ear. “I’m sorry, did I need help for something?”

“Yes,” Devon says adamantly, leveling me with his big brother stare. “Do you want me to invite her to dinner so you can meet her?”

I nearly choke on my whiskey. “Are you setting me up?”

This is so not my brother.

“I’m trying to. It’s been more than a year since Maggie, and you and Nicole are done with your project, so it seems like a good time.”

“I just never thought you had any matchmaking bones in your body.”

Devon waves me off. “Forget I said it.”

I lean forward in the chair. “No, seriously. I appreciate it. But . . . I don’t know.”

He takes a swig of his drink. “You’re not ready to date yet?”

I drag a hand across my jaw as I sigh. His assessment is spot on. “That sounds right.”

“Maggie, still?”

I don’t answer him at first. I take a swallow of the whiskey, letting it burn in my chest while the fire warms my back. There was a time not so long ago when I would have answered quickly with a yes. But my ex-wife isn’t front and center in my mind anymore. She might still be my roadblock, my “danger ahead” sign. But she’s not preventing me from wanting to go on a date.

Someone else very much is, and she doesn’t even know it. She doesn’t even know what she’s done to me. I barely comprehend it myself. “No. It’s not about Maggie.”

Devon raises an eyebrow in question. The answer dawns on him. “Because of Nicole?”

I heave a sigh and nod. “Yeah, turns out I kind of like her.”

“Well, isn’t that a humdinger?”

“You can say that again.”

I get my Ping-Pong partner back, but no greater clarity on my humdinger of a quandary. February flurries into town, bringing with it another epic chill, and a rounder belly to the woman at the epicenter of my thoughts. The month also means Valentine’s Day, and Cal tells me my show is going on the road for a few weeks.

“Ratings are improving,” he says as he tells me the plan. “Your columns and field guide were a hit. And the crazy thing is, you’ve got female listeners and readers now, too. We want to do some live shows and talk to the crowds about their ideas of love, relationships, and what it takes to have several great dates. The best part? We’ve got a brand-new sponsor for it.”

Sponsorship means the leash has loosened another few feet. A quick tour might also mean I can rebuild my credibility as a dating coach. Plus, I’ve nabbed my first consulting client in months in Flynn’s buddy.

All in all, I can’t complain about work anymore.

Nicole seems happier, too, now that her miserable days are behind her. She’s the picture of health and vitality, from the reddish tint in her cheeks, to the spring in her step, to the smile she’s been sporting a helluva lot more around the office. She told Cal she’s pregnant, and while she hasn’t said a word about who the father is, no one has pressed her, even our boss.

“He didn’t try to get the nitty-gritty out of you?” I asked over lunch a few weeks ago.

She shook her head. “HR rules. He can’t.”

Ironic, since he had no problem getting personal with me when it came to bringing up my ex-wife. But I do understand that Nicole’s situation is different—seeing as how she’s baking a person inside her. A few years ago, a gal in advertising who has a female partner was pregnant. She never breathed a word about where the other half of the DNA came from. I have no doubt our co-workers are whispering and wondering who knocked up Nicole. But this is Manhattan, and everyone seems to know someone who’s gone into parenthood in an unconventional way.

As we play tonight against our long-time rivals, I watch her more closely than I have before. Not just because her ass still looks great. It does. Oh yes, does it ever look bitable. But because I understand that worry I felt for Simone much better. It’s doubled with Nicole, given what she carries inside her.

Make that tripled, since our opponents are Crazy Swing Steve and his regular partner.

Nicole bounces on the balls of her feet, paddle in hand, determination etched in her eyes. Steve juts his arm out as he slams a ball to me. I stretch for it, smashing it back across the table to his teammate.

The other guy smacks the white ball in a neat diagonal to Nicole, who sends it screeching to the other side.

Steve lunges for it, his teammate leapfrogging out of the way. The ball comes to me, and we volley like that until Steve’s swing seems to exhaust his teammate so much that the guy curses loudly as he runs for the ball, swatting it wildly across the table in Nicole’s direction.

Ever the competitor, she races to the far corner, slapping the prize with a crisp backhand that sends her reeling. She’s all forward momentum, and it topples her, taking her down.

The paddle tumbles from her hand, and she has no place to go but the floor. Her arms shoot out in front of her, and she breaks the fall with a loud smack of her hands.

A rush of harsh breath.

A crack of her knee on the hard surface.

Falls are not uncommon in Ping-Pong. I’ve hit the floor a number of times. So has Steve. So has Flynn. So has Nicole.

But none of that matters. My stomach plummets and dread ices my bones the instant the pregnant woman I’m crazy for hits the floor.