A Long Way to Fall, page 12
“Is it that time already?” Kennedy asked in a clipped tone.
“Time?”
“You came here to kick me out, right?”
“No, I just came to check on you,” she said.
They stared at each other for a few seconds before Kennedy made a move to get up but stopped short. “Do you mind? I don’t have anything on under here.”
Bridget felt a blush crawl up her neck. “Of course. Sorry.” She shut the door and rushed down the hallway to the living room, where she paced from the window to the sofa while chiding herself for getting caught in the act. Was Kennedy aware of how long she’d been standing there? God, she hoped not. But her sarcastic tone indicated that, yes, she’d been awake longer than Bridget had realized.
Maybe listening to Lola was a bad idea. Keep things civil? How could she possibly do that when Kennedy couldn’t show the least bit of gratitude? No, she’d shown enough kindness. And she sure as hell should’ve insisted Lola take her down the mountain.
Bridget had her hand on the door and was about to leave when she heard the bedroom door open. She turned, and there stood Kennedy, wrapped in a towel. There was even more skin showing. Sexy, tanned legs. And a very purple big toe that she protected by flexing her foot as she limped down the hall.
She stopped a few feet away and said, “First of all, thank you for helping me. I’m sure you know I was fresh out of options, so this has been a welcome ceasefire.”
“It was my pleasure,” Bridget stammered. “I mean, our pleasure.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating the pleasure part, but it’s kind of you to say that.” Kennedy gave her a smile that was equal parts sheepish and slight. “I’m a very proud person, so it kills me to say this, but I really thought I was going to die out there, and I realize that someone who flies down mountains at eighty-three miles per hour couldn’t possibly relate to the fear I felt.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Bridget said. “Fear keeps you alive. It’s the thrill seekers who aren’t afraid that end up dying before their time.” She narrowed her eyes. “But I find it interesting that you were able to quote my fastest speed in the downhill.”
“Hmm. Lucky guess, I suppose. Is that fast?”
Bridget made a concerted effort to not let her eyes wander over Kennedy’s body when she said, “I think you know how fast it is.”
She should’ve let her eyes wander. It would’ve been better than seeing the flirtatious glint in Kennedy’s eyes when she said, “You’re right, I do.”
Bridget tucked her hair behind her ears and folded her arms. “Look, I get it. After my worst crash on the mountain, I wanted to burn everything I’d been wearing. So maybe we should throw away those clothes. Jerry won’t miss them, will he?”
Kennedy dropped her gaze. After a pause, she said, “You know what? I’m sure he’s forgotten he even had them.”
Was it just the trauma of the day that had Kennedy bouncing from hostility to flirtation to her voice cracking with emotion? And the speed with which she hobbled back down the hall made Bridget think she’d have sprinted away if she could. Was she about to cry but didn’t want to be seen doing it because of that pride she’d mentioned? Should Bridget follow her and find out?
With every step, she told herself she’d done enough for this frustrating, confounding woman. She’d put herself at risk by even letting her walk through the door of the penthouse suite. Or limp, as it were.
Even though the place had been renovated, it was still her home. Her dad’s home. Where she’d grown up. Their inner sanctum. And she’d let the enemy waltz right in as if it was nothing. She stopped and listened at the open door. She heard Kennedy sniffling. With reluctance, she walked in, and in a bolder voice than intended, she said, “If I get you some clean clothes, will you cheer up?”
Kennedy was perched on the edge of the bathtub. She looked both pitiful and beautiful, her face blotchy and tear-stained. But her eyes still held a glint of humor when she said, “Those are words I never thought I’d hear past the age of five.”
Bridget sat next to her on the tub. “Those are words I never thought I’d hear myself say until I had children. God. Did I just sound like a total mom?”
“A mean mom. Unsympathetic. I mean, where’s my kiss on the forehead? Or are you the type of mom who’d put her hands on her hips and say, you shouldn’t have been trying to ski down the road, young lady? It’s your own fault you got in the way of that snowplow. Oh, and you’re grounded for two weeks.”
Bridget smiled. “While it’s true that you shouldn’t have been trying to ski down the road, I hear you weren’t actually on the road when that snowplow went by. It’s no different than if you were walking down the sidewalk, and some jerk sped through a puddle of water and soaked you. So the answer is no, I wouldn’t be that type of mom. But I would be the kind of mom who points out that the snowplow already grounded your ass.”
Kennedy returned the smile. “Okay, so you’re in charge of dad jokes. What about my forehead kiss?”
Bridget shook her head at the ceiling. Why did Jerry Fleming’s daughter have to be so damned cute? She took one more look at the post-plowed beauty, then stood and left the bathroom. “Flirt with me again and you’re grounded for two weeks,” she shouted over her shoulder.
“I’m already grounded,” Kennedy shouted back. “Or stranded. Naked and afraid, like the TV show. Hey, are you going to bring some clothes back for me?”
Bridget stopped and tried to suppress a grin before she turned. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t break anything while I’m gone.”
“If I break another toe, can I have another piggyback ride?”
She should’ve kept going. Bridget knew that. Her better angels or demons or whatever were yelling, “Keep going.” But Bridget turned back and marched right up to Kennedy, who was now leaning against the door frame. To do what, she wasn’t sure. Was she about to lay into Kennedy? Or was she about to lay onto Kennedy? Or just lay Kennedy? There were so many options, and Bridget had no idea which one was the frontrunner. Her confusion became irrelevant once she let her eyes drop to that bare chest. Kennedy saw it, and maybe even felt it, if her quick intake of breath was any indication.
After a few seconds of holding her own breath, Bridget took a few steps back. What did they call that thing she just felt? Oh yeah. Chemistry. And wow, was it strong. It would have been so easy to lean in and kiss those soft lips without a care in the world. If she ever lacked confidence romantically, this was not that time. Looking at Kennedy’s expression, she had no doubt her interests would have been reciprocated. She knew she could retrace her steps into that whirlwind of sexual desire and mixed-up emotions and take her right up against the door. But Bridget also knew that would inevitably turn out to be the worst decision she’d ever make in her life.
She turned to leave, but Kennedy stopped her. “You had me at a disadvantage.”
Bridget glanced at the long slender fingers gripping her forearm. “How so?”
“If we’d kissed just now, this towel might’ve fallen off when I reached up and ran my fingers through your hair, and we can’t have that now, can we?”
It didn’t actually need to happen for Bridget to imagine that she’d see a similar tan line below like she’d seen up top. “No. That would be awkward for everyone.”
Kennedy let go of her arm and turned to go into the bedroom. “Has anyone ever told you you’re cute when you blush?” she asked over her shoulder.
“No. Because I’m not blushing. I’m a redhead, so I’m naturally pink. Obvi.”
As the bathroom door shut, Bridget heard a muffled chuckle and Kennedy shout, “Obvi.”
Bridget rushed into the guest bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Of course, she was bright red. Anyone would think that after living her entire life with fair skin, she’d stop trying to deny it. And why did the need to pee have to hit her just because she’d walked into a bathroom?
There were really only two downsides to being a redhead: sunburns and everyone knowing exactly what got her worked up. Unfortunately, a beautiful woman flirting would do it every time. But Jackass Jerry’s daughter? How did it get to the point where she was seriously considering telling Kennedy that the only thing she had to lend her was a skintight pair of ski pants and an even tighter T-shirt?
This needed to stop. Kennedy had somewhere to be. An Econo Lodge or something. And Bridget needed to attend to her guests. Or something. Whatever excuse it took to get her out of that suite and back on solid ground.
When she came out of the bathroom, Kennedy wasn’t there, so she went straight to the door and snuck out of her own suite. Real brave, Bridge. Real brave.
* * *
Kennedy finally felt clean, warm, and more like herself. Minus her makeup, perfume, phone, wallet, handbag, and most importantly, her own clothing. She wasn’t surprised when an employee delivered the clothes instead of Bridget. Still, they smelled like her. Something subtle, with light floral tones. She’d have to remind herself not to sniff the collar of the red quarter-zip ski sweater in public. The dark jeans were a little bit long but fit perfectly otherwise.
And best of all, she’d finally been deemed worthy of having the complimentary Boden Berg Lodge moccasins with the fleece lining. She sucked in a breath while she slipped one over her injured toe, expecting it to hurt like hell. When it didn’t hurt at all, she exhaled and said, “Thank you for thinking I have big feet, Bridget Berg.”
Anywhere else, it would’ve bothered her to walk around sans makeup and hair products, but on this mountain, she couldn’t imagine any of the other guests fussing over their appearance after a long day of skiing. Judging from the few times she’d been able to stay in the restaurant longer than two minutes, she already knew she’d fit right in. When she’d lumbered around in her father’s clothes, she’d no doubt given off a vibe of total shitshow. Now that she had more appropriate attire, she hoped she could even go unnoticed. If she was lucky. Just another tired, hungry guest in need of food and drink who sniffed her sweater from time to time. And maybe that was the point of the clothes Bridget had chosen. Not the sniffing part. That would be weird. But the inconspicuous part. Maybe she wanted Kennedy to feel like she belonged so she wouldn’t cause any trouble.
“Ha! If she only knew how much trouble I want to get into with her.” She took a few timid steps to the bathroom and decided the two-sizes-too-big slipper-shoes would be fine as long as she walked on the back of her heel. She looked in the mirror and pushed her somewhat unruly hair this way and that. With longer hair, she’d just tuck it behind her ears. This shorter cut she hadn’t quite gotten used to yet. She ran her fingers through it and smoothed down the sides, which seemed to do the trick.
Kennedy had always worn red well. Losing the military-issue parka that a small family could fit in comfortably gave her a burst of confidence. Which wasn’t to say she was ever lacking in it, more that the events of the week had taken their toll. That, along with the fact that the sweater was just tight enough to show off her assets, was a plus, since Bridget seemed to be a breast girl. It was total speculation on Kennedy’s part, but in her experience, a woman’s eyes—and where they lingered—didn’t usually lie.
Even if Bridget wanted to deny it to her dying day, there was something smoldering between them. Kennedy was certain of it. Her anger regarding a certain snowplow had morphed into a feeling of gratitude that she’d had a reason to be in Bridget’s presence wearing nothing but a towel. When Kennedy had been stripped of her dad’s old clothes, it seemed like Bridget saw not just more of her body, but maybe more of who she really was. Not a threat. Not a horrible person. Someone worth knowing. Maybe?
If nothing else, Kennedy was someone who did not leave a mess for someone else to clean up. So she tidied up the bathroom as best she could, wiping down the countertops and rinsing out the tub. She knew housekeeping would come in before the next guests arrived, but she still wanted to leave things as put together as possible. She found a trash bag under the kitchen sink to put her dirty clothes in and took a final look around. If she’d had her phone, she would’ve booked the suite for the following season just so she’d have a reason to come back when she could fully enjoy it. Then again, the Boden Berg Lodge probably had a block on anyone with the last name of Fleming. She might have to change her name.
Despite every effort to shed the vagabond image she’d so thoroughly cultivated up to that point, Kennedy left the suite with the trash bag slung over her shoulder. A few doors down, a housekeeping cart sat unattended, so she tossed the bag into the trash bin and grabbed a few chocolates off the cart. With haste, she unwrapped one and shoved it into her mouth, but before she could even bite down, she froze at the sound of giggling coming from behind her. She turned around to find two housekeepers snickering, which could only mean one thing. Everyone knew about her incident with the snowplow. And they just saw her offload trash and steal candy. Fantastic. The fact that she could continue to walk through the lodge with her head held high was really just a sign of her denial at that point.
She limped to the elevator while shoving the remaining chocolates in her mouth. She hoped the housekeepers would at least be pleasantly surprised when they saw she hadn’t left a big mess. She imagined they’d expect a lot less of her, given her undeserved reputation.
She breathed a sigh of relief when the doors opened to an empty elevator. If she could make it to the restaurant without incident, it’d be a miracle, but she was determined to keep her head down and do just that. No eye contact, no conversing, just getting to the bar and ordering some food from Kevin and asking if he knew anyone she could bum a ride off of to get down the mountain. But then she noticed a framed ad with the day’s events hanging on the wall of the elevator. It advertised private skiing sessions with Sheriff Lola. And that got Kennedy thinking. Could there be private sessions with Bridget too?
She’d stay on the mountain for that, even if it meant going back to her dad’s cold, lonely cabin. Maybe she could take Bridget with her, and they could have their private session there. They’d keep each other warm by the fire. Get to know each other better. Cuddle and drink wine. Kennedy might even get bold and lean in for a kiss. And they’d keep kissing until their tongues touched. That was when Kennedy would probably pull away and say, “God, how I want you, Bridget Berg.”
She didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until she heard someone clear their throat. She also didn’t realize she’d crossed her legs to relieve the pressure on her throbbing clit. She really needed to stop having fantasies about a woman who was only being nice out of pity. Kennedy Fleming, pitiful Floridian who would be talked about for years on Elk Mountain. The only woman who’d ever been buried alive by a snowplow. “Sorry,” she said, limping off the elevator while the guy who’d cleared his throat gave her a smarmy grin.
The lobby was abuzz with activity. All of the comfy leather chairs were taken by skiers trying to warm up by the fire. Without her phone, she had no idea what time it was, but she guessed it was nearing five o’clock. A feeling of panic had her reach for the wall and lean against it. She had literally nothing that belonged to her, down to the sports bra and panties Bridget had sent up from the skiwear shop. She felt isolated, naked without her phone and at least one credit card. But didn’t everyone these days? A phone and a credit card were really all a person needed to survive in the modern world.
To prove her point to herself, she scanned the lobby and estimated that at least eighty percent of the people had a phone in their hands or sitting on the table in front of them. She also estimated that most, if not all, would also experience fear, rage, and a profound sense of loss if that phone disappeared. None of this mattered. It wasn’t as if there was a snowmobile version of the rentable scooters and bicycles found in most cities these days. But there was Seth. And as he approached with a big smile on his face, Kennedy’s mind raced with the possibilities.
“Ms. Fleming. Can I offer you some assistance?”
The sweet kid offered his arm, but Kennedy didn’t take it. “Look, I know I’ve set a precedent with big tips for small mercies, but I don’t have any money on me right now.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Also, could you not shout that name across the lobby? Just call me Kennedy, okay? Or even Hungry Hippo. Just not…Fleming. For some reason, it doesn’t seem to be a popular name around here.”
He gave her a fervent nod. “Right. Okay. You just looked like you could use some help.”
She took his arm and said, “Yeah, that’s kind of been my M.O. since I got here, and I gotta tell ya, Seth, I’m hating every second of it because where I live, I’m actually a very capable…who’s that guy?”
In their path, about twenty feet away, Bridget Berg in all her sexy, redheaded glory, stood face-to-face with a tall, overly groomed guy. His wavy hair was slicked back the way a hedge fund manager who spent his free time killing innocent animals with Don Junior and Eric would style it. He had a lowball glass in one hand, and with the other, he seemed to be telling a very animated story.
Kennedy hated him and his stupid story that, in her opinion, required way too much hand movement. If he wasn’t careful, that drink would end up on Bridget, and then all hell would break loose because if there was one thing Kennedy hated more than a sloppy drunk guy, it was a sloppy drunk guy trying to pick up a gay woman, something she’d experienced far too many times in her life.
