Melted and Whipped (2 page)

“I’ll take it from here, Simon.”

Simon gives me a friendly smile, then walks off.

I take a ski pole and jab it into the heel lever of Scooter’s skis while I push his knee forward.

“What are you doing?” he asks, so surprised that he forgets to act indignant.

“You’re done,” I snap. “You can carry your skis down to the lodge where we’ll wait for your mom to pick you up.”

“My mom’s in Connecticut,” he says.

“Then your dad. Or your nanny.”

He screws up his face. “My nanny?”

The hell if I’m current on who rich people employ to babysit their kids these days. Pretty much everything I know comes from
Mary Poppins
.

“Your butler. Your governess.” I make him step out of his skis. “Whoever shows up when I call the emergency contact on your registration form.”

Scooter’s face goes pale, and his mouth opens. “You don’t want to do that,” he says.

“Sounds like
you
don’t want me to do that.” I glance at my watch. The lesson is supposed to go for another three hours. Scooter is a pain in the ass, but taking him back early will make me look bad.

“Please,” Scooter says, twining his gloved fingers together. “I’ll be good.”

I give him a skeptical look.

“I will,” he says, all soft smiles and big eyes, turning from little demon into the physical incarnation of sincerity. He shakes his clasped hands. “Please.”

Even though I know what I’m going to do, I pretend to ponder the options, leaving Scooter hanging for almost a full minute. He’s an adorable rascal, and I bet he charms his way out of all sorts of problems. I don’t want to reinforce that behavior, but I can’t afford to throw away a private lesson.

Maybe, if I hadn’t just had a scare, thinking that something went wrong with Stacy’s pregnancy… The need to get home has taken root, and while I know I won’t be able to swing it in time for Christmas, maybe I can fly back in three weeks.

Finally I say, “Let’s make a deal. If you don’t give me any more grief, I won’t mention our little miscommunication about the terrain park and the half pipe.”

Scooter stands up straight and sticks out his hand, like he’s a kid from some fifties sitcom. “Deal,” he says solemnly. “I apologize.”

It’s a weird way for a kid to act, but Scooter is a weird kid, I’m realizing. He’s definitely spoiled, but underneath he’s only a kid. One who’s afraid of getting into trouble.

We shake on it, and he grins, revealing dimples.

While Scooter gets back into his skis, I scan the mountain, searching for Porter.

Even though there are plenty of people dressed in black, I know he’s not there. None of them have his build. When did he put on all that muscle, anyway?

To say I’m disappointed he’s gone would be an understatement, but if Porter now spends a lot of time in the area, there’s a decent chance I could run into him again at some point.

If I’m lucky.

But I’ve never been lucky where Porter is concerned. He was one of the first people I met our freshman year. I got lost on the way to orientation and stopped him for directions, thinking he was an upperclassman. He contemplated me with his golden-brown eyes while he finished his donut, then said he’d take me to the right building but he had to make a stop.

To my surprise, the stop was to buy two cups of spiced apple cider. I’d never tasted cloves before, but I knew enough not to volunteer that. Porter gave me a tip on an indie band, The Riotous Marmots, playing off campus that night. I didn’t know who he was and had never heard of his family. Well, everyone knows the Loughton name, of course—they own huge chunks of real estate in all the major East Coast cities—but I’d never considered that the business had been named after a family, or that such a relatively small group of people could own so much property.

I was instantly drawn to Porter, with his crooked, charming smile and his eyes, which were often contemplative but could turn playful in the space of a heartbeat. I went to see the band and ended up talking to Porter for hours.

At the time, my high school boyfriend and I were still together, at Mike’s insistence. It was easier to stay together than to fight him. After meeting Porter, I knew it was time to move on. It didn’t even matter that Porter and I were just friends. If Porter could leave me breathless with only a look, then my relationship with Mike was doomed.

Unfortunately, it took several months to convince Mike we were over, but in that time Porter started dating someone else. Someone from his own social circle.

Jill was beautiful, and she was also very nice. I, like the rest of the student body, envied them both from afar.

By the end of freshman year, Porter and I rarely saw each other. I started out pre-med and changed to history. During the winter months, I was busy with the ski team. Porter went hardcore with the econ courses and internships. Yet senior spring found us both taking an art appreciation class, fulfilling an elective.

I sat across from him in the smallish oval auditorium. Whenever the professor showed slides of paintings of bare-breasted women or naked heroes, I thought about Porter and blushed. What kind of women did he like? What did his body look like undressed? Other students changed seats every day, but I didn’t, not when my spot at the end of the row meant a chance to surreptitiously watch Porter. Every so often he’d catch me looking, and a slow, soft smile would spread across his full lips.

I wanted him so bad it hurt.

In those instances, I remembered the first few weeks, when we’d taken long walks together and talked about everything and anything. Rumor said he wasn’t dating anyone seriously, and I spent an eternity agonizing over what to do.

Finally one day I had the perfect angle. I marched up to him at lunch as he was returning his tray to tell him The Riotous Marmots were back in town, and did he want to go?

Even now I can smell the pizza dough in the cafeteria, can hear the roar of students. Porter’s expression went a little rigid, and I knew he was going to turn me down. I would have run, but I was frozen in place.

His exact words were,
I don’t think that’s a good idea, Emily.

What could I do? I said something, but I don’t remember what. He might have said something. In the end, I slunk away in shame, vowing to avoid him from then on. Other than that one class, I almost never saw him. It should have been easy.

Fast forward to the week before finals. I was out with friends, watching a movie. Sitting in the cramped seats was killing my knee, so I slipped out early. There was a shortcut through an alley that would save me some limping.

The alley was occupied by Porter and a gorgeous brunette I didn’t know. He was half standing, half leaning against a wall, the girl bent over his lap, her dress up over her hips.
You’ve been naughty
, he said, his voice deep and commanding. She was wearing a red thong—I’ll never forget the shade because it matched her reddened ass.

He’d clearly been spanking her.

I stood there, stunned, and Porter looked up. I was in the shadows. Did he know who it was? I didn’t stick around to find out.

He never said anything to me, and I didn’t say anything to him. Maybe, if we’d come from similar backgrounds, I would have promised him that his kinky secret was safe with me, but it wasn’t like we had friends in common. By then he was part of the group heading for Wall Street, private planes—

“Are you watching?” Scooter asks, jarring me from the painful memories. We’re staring down a hill of moguls that is blessedly empty. The bumps are just the right size for Scooter and evenly spaced. It won’t take him long to find his rhythm.

Unfortunately for me, moguls are a surefire way to aggravate my knee problems. However, there’s a smooth path to the right specifically for instructors. “Let me go halfway down,” I say. “Stop when you reach me. Have you skied moguls before?”

“Of course. Pick my line. Precise turns. Plant my skis with deliberation,” he recites. “They’re fun.”

Yeah, I used to think they were fun, too. “Think pivot, not turn.”

He’s nodding enthusiastically.

“Halfway down,” I remind him.

He gives me a thumbs-up, and I wonder at the change in attitude. It’s almost like he was hoping I’d get the upper hand so that he’d be forced to stop acting like a snot. I find myself wondering again what his home life is like. I’ve dealt with enough spoiled rich kids to know that they’re not all misunderstood or emotionally neglected. Some are little psychopaths-in-training, destined to run one day for political office or head up evil corporations.

But something tells me Scooter has a good heart. Underneath the armor, he’s anxious to please.

I nod for him to begin his descent, and as I watch him, I can almost feel the wind in my face, the adrenaline pounding through my own veins. It takes him a moment to find his rhythm, but when he does…

His balance is impeccable. The skis are an extension of himself. He drops into the zone the way most people breathe.

“Keep going,” I say. Of course he can’t hear me, so I use both arms to wave him past.

The kid really is talented, and I’m sure he knows that. Probably every instructor he’s ever had has told him he could compete professionally. For all I know, he attends a ski academy and has been winning races since he was four.

Working with someone of Scooter’s skill level is a pleasure, and the afternoon passes in a flash. Most of the crowd has vanished, likely to squeeze in some last minute holiday shopping or to start drinking.

“Thank you,” Scooter says at the bottom of the mountain. Instead of running off, he waits for me to get out of my skis.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him. “You upheld your end of the deal, so I’ll uphold mine.”

His windburned cheeks redden slightly, and he looks away in embarrassment. Suddenly I want to give him a hug, but of course that’s not allowed, so instead I squeeze his shoulder.

“If you ever come back to our resort”—I manage not to call it “our crappy little resort” like I would if I were teasing an adult—“don’t hesitate to ask for me.”

His face breaks into a wide grin, and suddenly I know why he’s familiar.

He must be Porter’s son. Has to be. I don’t know why it took so long for me to see it, but the resemblance is unmistakable.

Sadness turns my limbs heavy. I hadn’t heard that Porter was married, but it’s not surprising that he is. Attractive, rich men don’t have problems finding girlfriends. In college, Porter dated his first girlfriend for over two years—proof that he never had problems with committing.

I wonder what his wife is like. Beautiful, intelligent, accomplished. I’d bet money on it. Not that I have any.

Then I wonder what his life is like, how things are with Scooter, but of course it’s none of my business.

“I already know I’ll be back. I’m going to work on how long I can ski on one leg.” Scooter launches into a detailed comparison of all the places he’s skied. It’s hard to believe he’s the same kid who was shutting me down with one-word answers all morning.

As we enter the main lodge, I find myself walking more and more slowly under the guise of avoiding the people seated on benches, taking off their boots. I stop to allow a small group to enter one of the lodge’s many shops. I don’t know what would be worse: if Porter comes to get his son, or if Scooter’s mom shows up. Already I hate her, and I’m disgusted with myself for being jealous of someone who is likely a very nice person.

She’s in Connecticut, I remember. My brain is fried, thanks to Porter.

When I see the broad-shouldered figured dressed in black, I want to cry. It’s just nostalgia for my college days, I tell myself. Nothing to do with Porter.

He turns toward us. His hat is off, and his jacket is unzipped, revealing a T-shirt underneath. I have to approve of a man who doesn’t need high-tech layers to hit the slopes.

A smile lights his face when he sees Scooter.

Somehow, Porter has gotten even more attractive over the years. He wears his dark hair shorter than in college, but the conservative style suits him.

Then he sees me. His brow creases lightly before smoothing out.

He’s figured it out. While he’s been doing whatever it is that people do on Wall Street, I’ve been giving ski lessons for sixty bucks a day. Of course he can’t know that’s my small cut of the resort’s price tag.

Normally I don’t feel inferior because of my job, but right now it’s hard not to wonder how often parents use me as a cautionary tale.
Study harder or you’ll end up like that twenty-nine-year-old ski instructor.
There’s no shame in an honest day’s work, I remind myself.

“Hey, kiddo,” Porter says as he walks up. “Did you have fun?”

“I don’t want to go home tomorrow,” Scooter says.

“If you don’t go home, your sister will get all your presents.” Porter clears his throat and holds out his hand. “This is for you, if you were his instructor.”

Awkwardly, I take the bills and blindly shove them into my pocket. “Thank you very much.” I’ve said the words hundreds of times, and they roll easily off my tongue.

Porter reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a set of car keys. “Catch.” He tosses them at Scooter.

“I can do it on my own?” Scooter asks, excited.

“Try not to scratch up the paint or smash out the windows. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Scooter heads off, then doubles back, nearly banging his skis into one of the benches. “Happy merry, and many returns,” he says to me. He trots away, the keys jangling.

Porter watches him go, expression amused. “Something tells me I’m going to regret doing that. He’s likely to take it for a joyride. It’ll be on the six o’clock news—just wait.”

“He’s a nice kid,” I say. “You must be proud.”

Turning to me, Porter tilts his head slightly. “I am. I wish I got to see him more often. He could use some stability in his life.”

“You’re divorced,” I say almost happily, ashamed of myself but too relieved to care.

“I’ve never been married.” Porter studies me, the edges of his lips turning upward. He stops just short of that dazzling smile. “Scooter is my brother’s kid. He’s eleven but looks younger, so you’re not the first to make that mistake.”