But the rest? It was easier than breathing. There was no pressure with Weston. I didn’t have to be perfect. Didn’t have to rush to see if my makeup was fresh. Didn’t have to coordinate my outfit to see him. The man had seen me at my actual worst and hadn’t batted an eye.

  He also saw me every single day.

  I finished editing my last batch of pictures I’d taken on this morning’s heli-skiing trip and uploaded them to Weston’s portion of the Madigan site so the guests could download. My butt was going to be numb if I spent much more time at the dining room table. Turned out that people would pay top dollar for photos of themselves hurtling down a mountain, dodging trees, and risking their necks on twenty-foot drops. Reed had hired another photographer, bringing our team up to three, and I’d spent most of my mornings on the helicopter this last month. To be honest, once I swallowed past the anxiety that threatened to eat me alive whenever it was Weston doing the hurtling, I had to admit that the pictures came out pretty cool.

  The man had no sense of caution, at least not that I could tell, and Theo was just as bad.

  I opened the last picture I’d taken of Theo and shook my head. The shot itself was gorgeous—he was mid-flip off one of the bigger cliffs, and I’d positioned myself somewhat to the side and beneath him, capturing not only the jagged, exposed rock of one outcropping but the pristine fall of new snow spraying against the crystal blue sky as Theo rotated midair. Gorgeous picture.

  Reckless stunt.

  “That’s a good one,” Weston said, looking over my shoulder and kissing me on the cheek quickly. Kisses were never slow until Sutton went to bed. Then all bets were off. His hair was damp, and he smelled like bodywash and shampoo, fresh out of the shower. “Is Sutton still out on the slopes?” He glanced over at the clock.

  It was a little after four.

  “Nope. She said she had to stay after school for some project, but she’s due home any second. She asked Halley to bring her home.”

  “Halley?”

  “She, Ava, and Raven are the closest she has to aunts, so I stay out of their way. With my luck, she’ll come home with pink streaks in her hair.” I grinned at the thought. Sutton would look pretty fierce with pink streaks.

  “Well, since she’s not here…” He leaned in and kissed me, long, slow, and thorough. It was enough to send heat racing through every one of my veins, and I wasn’t nearly satisfied when he pulled back. “Was that yesterday?” He motioned to my laptop screen.

  I blinked and tried to pull my head out of his pants. The man had some serious skills. “A couple days before.” I pulled my knee to my chest and studied the photo. It was the first picture I’d taken out there where I didn’t immediately think of something I would have done better. It was the perfect picture to submit to the gallery…once I was brave enough to chance rejection again.

  “It’s really incredible.” He stood. “You could enter it in that internship competition, you know.”

  I tilted my head and really examined the photo. Was it good enough to enter in something that big? What if it was? What if I won? My stomach sank. I’d have to choose between doing what I wanted and doing what was best for Sutton.

  And Sutton would always win. Choice made.

  “Callie?” Weston asked, his hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ll think about it,” I answered. Maybe next year, or the year after, or when Sutton turned eighteen.

  “Did you get any new shots of our girl?” He walked to the refrigerator and pulled out two sports drinks.

  I loved that he called her our girl when he talked about her skiing. It was only because he was the one coaching her, I knew that, but the word still took my heart and blew it up another size.

  “I did on Tuesday,” I answered, scrolling through my folders to open the one I kept just for Sutton. Her pink hat and gloves were always a fun contrast against the snow. She was getting braver up there with Weston, taking bigger jumps, choosing harder lines. “She’s getting…”

  “Good?” he teased, cracking the top on one of the bottles and putting it down in front of me. The fact that he knew my hands ached after taking pictures all morning and editing them all afternoon was just another reason to love him.

  There were too many reasons.

  “Reckless,” I countered. “Just like you.”

  “I take full credit.” He laughed. “I could always have Theo take over her training.”

  I scoffed and clicked through the pictures. “He’s just as reckless. You and your best friend are quite the match made in heaven.”

  “Hey, it’s not reckless if you’re skilled, baby.” He flashed me a grin.

  I rolled my eyes but flushed at the endearment. It made me want to shout from the top of the mountain that he was mine and I was his, but there was still Sutton to think about. She adored Weston, loved having him coach her, too, and if something went wrong between us, she’d be devastated.

  Loving Weston meant knowing I’d be heartbroken eventually, but I couldn’t accept the same fate for Sutton.

  “Skill isn’t luck,” I muttered as the front door opened hard, blowing into the doorstop.

  Both Weston and I looked over. What the hell?

  “Hi!” Sutton stumbled through the door with an enormous cage in her arms.

  “Oh, merciful God,” I whispered, pushing back from the table to stand, but Weston was across the room before I’d even gotten my feet under me.

  He plucked the plastic-bottomed cage out of her grip with one arm and caught her with the other, saving her from a face-plant on the tile.

  “What is that?” I squawked, my voice pitching opera high.

  Weston steadied Sutton, then carried the cage to the dining room table and set it down on the surface. “It looks like a gerbil.”

  “Guinea pig, actually.” Sutton stripped out of her coat and boots, hanging them in the closet like it was no big deal that she’d just brought a guinea pig home.

  I sent my daughter a glare for good measure, and then my gaze flew to Weston to gauge his reaction.

  He’d stepped back from the cage and crossed his arms over his chest. The man was a master at being unreadable sometimes.

  “And why, dear daughter, is there a guinea pig in my house?” I asked, my voice dropping to the I-mean-business tone.

  “His name is Wilbur, and he’s our class pet.” She brushed the remnants of this morning’s French braid out of her face.

  “Still not an answer to my question.” I put myself in between her and Wilbur. “That’s a direct violation of rule eleven!” My arm swung as I pointed in the direction of the contract on our refrigerator. I was soooo not mentioning all the rules Weston and I had already broken.

  “It was Piper’s weekend to take Wilbur, but she got sick, so I said he could stay with us,” Sutton replied, her chin lifting in a manner I knew all too well.

  “You didn’t even ask,” I retorted, trying like hell to keep my cool. “It’s not just you and me here, kid.”

  “Weston won’t care.” Sutton turned those big eyes on him. “Right? I mean, I know you said no pets, but it’s just the weekend, and I can keep him in my room.”

  Weston’s gaze jumped between Sutton and me like the conversation was a ball in a tennis match. “Not getting in the middle of this.” He put his hands up.

  “You couldn’t have called and asked?” What the hell was the solution here?

  “We didn’t realize it until the end of the day, and I didn’t want him left all alone at school over the long weekend.” She pressed her lips in a thin line.

  “The long weekend.” Right. Because I’d forgotten it was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day on Monday.

  Sutton nodded.

  “Did you know about this yesterday? Is this why you asked if Halley could pick you up?” I stared her down.

  “No!” She shook her head vehemently. “I swear. That was just…luck.” She shrugged.

  “Because you knew I’d say no.”

  Sutton’s gaze hit the floor and she nodded slowly. “I just didn’t want him to be alone.”

  The pig chose that moment to scurry though his box, sending wood shavings flying all over the dining room table. Weston was going to melt down.

  I looked over at him to find that he was already watching me. “It’s your rule,” I said softly. “I’ll call every single guardian on the PTA roster and find him another home for the weekend.”

  “Mom!” Sutton whined. “It’s just three days. Well, three and a half. Please don’t make me the weird kid who can’t have a guinea pig for three days.”

  I kept my attention on Weston. I knew his cues pretty well by now. The set of his jaw said he wasn’t happy, but there was a touch of laughter in the tiny lines at the corner of his eyes. “West?”

  “This is between you and Sutton.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “I refer to rule number five.” Callie rules all.

  An exasperated sigh ripped through my lips as I cocked my head at my daughter. “Who is going to feed him?”

  “Me! His food is in my bag, and I know the schedule.” Hope bloomed in her eyes.

  “And what about cleaning his cage?”

  “Me! I have a bag of shavings in my backpack too.” She bounced up on her toes.

  “And water?”

  “Every morning. I know how. We do it at school.”

  I glanced at the black-and-white pig. “Fine. But three days, Sutton. Do you hear me? Three days.”

  “Thank you!” She launched at me, hugging my waist, and then skipped away to hug Weston too.

  “What’s that for? I wasn’t the one who said yes,” he said with a chuckle.

  “That’s me hoping you’ll carry his cage upstairs for me. It’s really heavy.” She grinned up at him.

  “That, I can do.” He lifted the massive cage into his arms and followed after Sutton as she walked up the stairs.

  There went rule number eleven.

  “What are we doing?” I asked Sunday evening as Weston led me to the couch. Dinner was done, showers had been taken, and I was exhausted. I’d manage to edit all of today’s heli-skiing photos, but Charles, one of the assistant photographers, had severely mislighted the group ones from the top of the lift, and I probably had another two hours at my computer before I could call it a night.

  “Sit right here,” Weston said, gesturing to the couch.

  “What is going on?” I sat, my eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Just wait right here,” he answered, a hint of a smile on his lips. “And remember that I’m just the facilitator here.”

  Now my curiosity was piqued.

  “Sutton, you’re up!” Weston called up the stairs.

  She skipped down the stairs in dress pants and a blouse, her hair perfectly combed and held back by a black headband. “Do you have it set up?” she asked as she skidded around the end of the banister, marching straight for the kitchen.

  “Almost,” he answered, plugging his laptop into the television.

  A Presentation by Sutton filled the flatscreen.

  “Is that a PowerPoint?” My eyebrows hit the roof.

  “She made it.” He grabbed a small black remote off the coffee table as Sutton came back into the living room, her hands full as she balanced a tray.

  “Chocolate chip cookies and milk,” she said, putting the tray on the coffee table. “Because every good presentation has snacks.”

  “It does?” I leaned forward, snatching one of the cookies. PowerPoint or no, there was no reason to waste chocolate chip cookies.

  “It does.” Sutton turned to Weston, and he handed her the remote.

  “Good luck, kid.” He took the seat directly next to mine, and I crossed my legs under me just so I’d have an excuse to rest my knee against him.

  “Is this for school?” I stared at the PowerPoint. “Are you practicing on me?”

  “Oh no.” Sutton shook her head, standing just off to the side of the television. “This is just for you.” She looked at Weston, swallowing nervously, and he nodded.

  What the heck were the two of them up to?

  “Have you seen this?” I asked him.

  “Nope.” He settled in and stretched his arm across the back of the couch, just behind my head.

  “Mom,” Sutton began, straightening her posture. “You’ve raised me here at Madigan Mountain from the time I was born.” She clicked the remote, and the next slide appeared. It was a set of pictures from when she was a baby, one of her standing in the snow after her first birthday, her snowsuit bigger than she was. The second showed us both, me with my photographer parka on and her strapped in on my back under a shaded canopy.

  Man, those days had been tough. I’d worked with her on my back, in my arms, or on the ski slope right beside me until she’d been old enough to spend part of her day in the resort kid’s club.

  “The slopes are my second home.” She clicked through the next slide. It was another collection of pictures, this time of her in ski gear from the time she was three all the way to nine or so.

  I took a bite of my cookie and chewed, my suspicions rising.

  “As you know, I’ve been training with an expert backcountry skier for the last two months.” She clicked and the slide changed to pictures of her with Weston up on the mountain. They were some of my favorite new photos I’d taken.

  I lifted an eyebrow at my daughter, clearly seeing where this was headed.

  She fidgeted nervously but clicked again. This slide displayed a quote. “Sutton Thorne is a remarkably gifted young skier with a rare combination of raw talent, determination, and good judgment,” Sutton read. “The quote is from Weston.”

  I gave him a slow, sideways glare.

  He glanced between us. “I mean, it was just for the application.”

  “With that in mind”—she clicked again—“I propose that you, my mother, sign the following permission slip for me to join the county’s big mountain team.” She scurried forward and picked up a manila envelope I hadn’t noticed, putting it into my hands.

  I sighed but opened the folder. The entire application had been filled out, and sure enough, there was Weston’s quote in his own handwriting. “Et tu Brute?” I whispered with more than a little side-eye.

  “Hey, I just helped her get her ducks in a row. Nothing more.” His arm shifted down and I leaned back, his forearm supporting my neck.

  “My proposal has been well researched, and I believe I have eliminated all but a few reasons to say no.” She clicked. The cost was on the next slide. I wanted to vomit. “Because I’d be starting two months later, the coach of the team has already dropped my fee to this much more manageable one.” A new number popped up.

  My daughter and I had very different views on manageable.

  “I’ve also spoken to the”—she glanced at the screen—“Director of Madigan Mountain’s Heli-skiing Division,” she read right off the television, “who has told me that if I’m the only big mountain skier from Madigan Mountain, I might be able to secure a sponsorship.”

  My jaw dropped. “Ducks in a row, huh?”

  “And what was the caveat?” Weston asked.

  Sutton’s brow furrowed.

  “Conditions,” he said. “What were the conditions?”

  “Oh!” She clicked the remote for the next slide. “I, Sutton Thorne, will keep my grades up, my equipment well cared for, and get my mother’s permission.”

  I set the folder on the end table and shoved the rest of the cookie in my mouth. It tasted like defeat.

  “I know you have concerns.” She clicked again, and a picture of caution tape filled the screen. “My dad died before I could even meet him, which has made you worried about my safety my whole life.”

  I choked on the cookie. Weston pounded my back and handed me the glass of milk. Two swallows later, my airway was clear. “That’s rather inappropriate, don’t you think?”

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “He was my dad.” She clicked and stats slid onto the page. “You see, only eleven skiers were killed last year in Colorado, and none were under the age of fourteen. That makes the chance of death point-eight-nine per million…” She started shaking her head as she looked at Weston, a perplexed look on her face, and I turned to see Weston shaking his head vehemently.

  “Not helping,” he muttered.

  Okay, this was on the ridiculous side.

  “Oh. Right.” She clicked. “As you see here, the rate of car crashes is way higher, so I’d be far more likely to be hurt or killed on my way to practice—”

  “Not helping either,” he mumbled.

  “I mean, to school, than I would on the mountain.”

  The fact that my daughter thought statistics played into any part of my fear was so ludicrous that I laughed.

  She took this as a good sign and smiled, clicking again. “Because Weston trains with me in the afternoons when he can, the county coach said I only had to come once a week.”

  My eyebrows shot up. That was a serious concern. Breckenridge was forty minutes away, and I wasn’t exactly swimming in free time over here.

  “I’ve already solved that problem by securing a ride.” She glanced at Weston.

  I stared at him with a cocked eyebrow.

  He shrugged. “She asked. I said yes. It’s once a week.”

  “And when it comes to competing”—she pressed the remote—“there are only two competitions I’d have time to qualify for this year. One is at Breck, and the other, Steamboat, and that’s not until the end of March, so you’d have plenty of data by then to make a choice.” She clicked. “And my last point. You should try everything once, just to know if you like it.” Her eyes landed on me. “I’m quoting you there, Mom.”

  Well. Shit.

  She clicked one last time. The sign read please.

  I breathed out a sigh. The days of keeping her tucked away and safe in the little snow globe I’d created just for her were over. I could say no, but she’d be back next year, asking again. Or worse, she’d just stop asking and start doing.

  “You care about this so much that you made a PowerPoint?” I asked.

  She nodded. “It’s all I want.”

  Man, did I know that feeling well.

  I sagged back against the couch, leaning my head on Weston’s shoulder. “You think she’ll be safe?”

 

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