Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
His voice pins me in place. “You wanna talk about this before it escalates into a fight?”
I exhale, snatching a bracelet off the dresser. Metal clicks against my wrist as I fasten it, gaze drilling through him. “No. We're good. I get it. You ghost me and then roll up with a fiancée. Message received, loud and clear.”
I move to brush past him, but his fingers lock around my wrist.
My heart erupts and spits lava, tearing through my veins.
“Don't fucking do this shit, Ivy.” He yanks me closer until we're both pressed against that same wall. He searches my face, between my eyes and my mouth. “All you've ever had to fucking do is say the word and you know it.”
I rip my hand free, jaw angling up to meet his stare. “And all you ever had to do was not wait for me to say it.”
I dart around the wall's edge before he can respond. Or before I do something like throw him on the bed and fuck him in front of his fiancée. Consequences be damned.
“Everyone ready?” I beam, way too chirpy for someone who wanted murder and sex a second ago.
I slam the lock home and punch the button on the standing machine that cranks the gondola to life.
Atlas drinks in every corner of the space until his attention snags on the narrow closet packed with boards, boots and gear.
“Ah,” I say, tracking his line of sight. “Those are for guests.”
He glances between me and the gondola suspended behind him, then lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I never thought I'd say it…”
“Say what?” Camille's voice breaks through ours, and Atlas grins, looking back at me.
“Oh, nothing. I'll clip us up.”
I gesture to the boards behind me. “Help yourself.”
Camille doesn't move, but the tension and anger rolling off her is palpable. Whatever. This is why I don't bother with people, because all they are is drama, especially girls like Camille.
Ten minutes later, we're all inside the hut of the gondola, and I'm tapping buttons on the remote control. It jerks forward before the doors open behind in a spray of sunlight.
My favorite time to hit the slopes is when darkness bleeds across the mountains, and because of all the drama this morning, I'm drained. Too drained to care about Punk filling the cramped space with endless chatter.
I prop my leg on the edge and pivot toward the window, tracking the thick blanket of snow-covered trees as the ground drops away beneath us. Honestly. Anything to avoid eye contact with the two people across from me, especially Asher, who's planted right fucking opposite. The gondolas are spacious, but Atlas and Asher are massive, so with them crammed inside, the walls press in.
Punk's laugh tangles with Camille's as they jabber about some TV show one of them binges. Probably The Witcher. Punk watches that shit on loop. Can't say I blame her.
I tug the ties at my hip loose, convinced everyone's eyes are glued to me even though they're buried in conversation. Arms through the loops, shoulders locked in. Beanie tugged down, hair spilling out to shove under my jacket later. Goggles dangling around my neck.
My foot settles as Asher stretches his leg out, all lazy confidence while he answers Atlas.
I'm clocking every single move he makes. Since fucking when?
Why do I care?
Only now, if I'm looking at the position right, he's trapped my legs inside of his own, the position intimate.
Or I need to get laid.
Camille twists toward whatever Punk's pointing at through the glass, and my gaze climbs the man across from me until it hits those trademark blues.
Thick lashes frame them, dark as the ink covering his skin, matching his dense brows and hair. His jacket's zipped high, mask hiding half his mouth, hands buried in pockets. I’d be lying if for a brief moment I didn’t imagine climbing him like a damn tree.
Especially now, spread out like a cheese platter.
“What?” I mouth quietly when I think my heart might flatline if he keeps looking at me the way he is.
He shakes his head, and even though I can’t see his mouth, I damn well know he’s smirking. Then his eyes drop to my lips and stay there.
The look hits somewhere deep. Somewhere I've locked down tight.
Punk's thigh presses against mine, and Atlas clears his throat. Maybe we were obvious. Maybe I don’t fucking care.
“This is so pretty! It reminds me of,” Camille turns into Asher, grabbing his hand and tilting her face toward him. “What was that place you took us to?”
I battle my instinct to react, returning my attention to the scenery beyond the glass, but Punk's tap against my thigh suggests I failed spectacularly at keeping my disdain hidden.
“What?” Asher couldn’t seem more interested if he tried. “I don't know.”
“Yes, you do!” She purrs, her voice dripping in a tone that would make even a toddler hurl. “Remember! It had the lights, and the town was, like, all Christmassy!”