Almost Perfect (36 page)

"Not a problem," he'd insisted.

And with that, she'd gladly turned the whole thing over to him. Although she couldn't wait to share the news with her friends and see what they thought. If nothing else, a man's version of a wedding was bound to be interesting.

Thinking of Christine and Amy, she headed back inside to check her e-mail. The last few days had certainly held lots of developments for Christine. Maddy opened her laptop and found a new post from Christine who was currently in Colorado. Her eyes bulged as she read the latest installment in Christine's wild romance, then her fingers flew as she typed her response.

Subject:
What
?

Message:
Details, woman. We want details
!

Julie Ortolon's recipe for

The Perfect Margarita

After years of drinking oversized, restaurant-style margaritas—which are frequently made with too much limeade from a sweet-'n-sour bar mix with a splash of tequila and triple sec—I set about developing The Perfect Margarita. First came some research. A little mystery and controversy surrounds the true origins of the drink. The stories date back to the mid nineteen hundreds to places like Aca-pulco, Tijuana, or Rosarita Beach, Mexico. Whichever tale you believe, an authentic margarita is a small drink that's strong enough to make breathing near an open flame a tiny bit dangerous. So I tinkered with the recipes a bit and came up with my own version, which can be adjusted to taste.

ounces of good tequila (most recipes call for 3 ounces)

ounce Cointreau (triple sec is a less expensive option)

l 1/2 ounces of freshly squeezed lime juice (most recipes call for less)

l 1/2 ounces of Rosie's sweetened lime juice (this ingredient isn't in any of the original recipes, but I find guests grimace a bit if I don't include it.)

Shake the above with ice.

For a Traditional Margarita: Swipe the rim of a margarita glass with a lime wedge and press the glass upside down into margarita salt. Fill it with crushed ice, and strain the drink into the glass. Garnish with a lime wedge. Then kick back and sip slowly.

For a Summer Drink to Quench Your Thirst: If the recipe is too tart or strong for your taste, add a splash of orange juice and just a hint of grenadine. Cointreau is an orange liqueur so this fits right in. Garnish with a slice of orange and a maraschino cherry.

For a Mexican Martini: This is my personal favorite. Double the recipe above. Be sure you have lots of ice in the shaker and leave the drink in the shaker with the ice. Salt the rims of two martini glasses. Spear some jalapeno-stuffed olives wih two toothpicks. Place the spears in the glasses and serve the drink a little at a time while you sit back, relax, and enjoy!

The adventures continue! Read on for a sneak peek of

Just Perfect

the next novel in

Julie Ortolon's hilarious and heartwarming new series, coming in October 2005.

Fear is a funny thing; without it, no one is truly brave. —
How to Have a Perfect Life

Christine couldn't believe she'd let her friends talk her into this. Standing in the plaza at the base of Silver Mountain, she felt her heart palpitate just looking at the chairlift. It carried a steady stream of skiers up the mountain, all of them sitting calmly in the chairs—which were nothing more than narrow benches dangling a mile off the ground— chatting away as if gravity didn't even exist. As if the thought of slipping off that narrow seat and plummeting to the ground never entered any of their minds.

Growing up, she'd had a hard enough time riding the chairlift during her family's annual Christmas vacations to Colorado, but after doing her residency in a hospital emergency room, she had an all-too-vivid image in her head of exactly what the result of such a fall would look like.

How had she let Maddy and Amy talk her into this? Of course, sitting in a bookstore coffee shop with her friends last spring, the thought of facing her fear of heights hadn't seemed like that big a deal. Well, it had. Just not this big a deal.

She couldn't back down, though. The three of them had made a pact. Maddy had already fulfilled her challenge to face her fear of rejection and get her art in a gallery, but Amy had yet to face her fear of getting lost in order to travel on her own. If Christine backed down, Amy would be off the hook.

She had to do this.

For Amy, if not for herself.

And the best approach now was to get it over with as quickly as possible—like ripping off an adhesive strip.

The one problem being her ski instructor was nowhere in sight. They'd told her at the ski school to look for a tall blond guy wearing a green jacket who'd meet her at the trail map. Granted, she'd arrived a few minutes late, but not that late.

Please, Lord, let him be late too, not already come and gone.

Rubbing her gloved hands against the cold, she turned away from the slopes to scan the crowded plaza. People moved in and out of the shops and restaurants that had been festively decorated for the holiday. Miles of garland abounded, along with big red bows and colorful banners hanging from lampposts. Last night's snowfall dusted the roofs and windowsill of the tall lodge-style buildings.

But nowhere did she see a blond man in a green parka.

Growing desperate, she abandoned her post by the trail map and headed for the lift ticket window, walking awkwardly in her ski boots. Maybe gome-one there could help her.

"Excuse me," she said to the college-age girl behind one of the windows. "I'm looking for Alec Hunter. I don't know if you know him—"

"Crazy Alec?" The girl's face lit with a smile. "Of course, I do."

Crazy Alec
? Christine frowned as the girl craned her neck to search the plaza. What did she mean
Crazy
Alec? No, no, no, she didn't want Crazy Alec. She wanted Very-Sane-Safety-Conscious Alec. The man at the ski school had said they were too shorthanded to spare one of their regular instructors for five days of private lessons, so he'd arranged for "a friend" to teach her. He hadn't mentioned anything about his friend being crazy. In fact, he'd made it sound like a great privilege that Alec Hunter had even agreed to work with her.

"There he is." The girl pointed. "That's him over there."

Christine turned but didn't see anyone who fit the description they'd given her. "I don't see him."

"Over there." The girl pointed again. "Talking to Lacy at the pub."

Christine looked again and finally spotted him. All this time, she'd been searching for a dark green parka, not an eye-popping fluorescent green. He stood at the edge of an outdoor eating area in front of St. Bernard's Pub, talking to a very pretty brunette holding a serving tray. The woman shook her head and laughed at something he said.

"Thanks," Christine told the ticket booth worker and headed across the plaza to meet her instructor, her stomach somersaulting the whole way. Maybe she should cancel today's lesson and get a different instructor. But, no, she was here. He was here. And she wanted very much to get past the first trip up the mountain. Surely after that, it would get easier.
Please, God, let it get easier
.

Her instructor stood in profile, tall and lanky with short golden hair that had been streaked lighter by the sun.

The waitress started to move away, but he grabbed her hand and placed his free hand over his heart. She shook her head even while smiling into his eyes. He dropped to one knee, holding her hand in both of his now, pleading in earnest.

"Oh, all right!" The waitress relented as Christine drew close enough to hear. "But this is the last time."

"You're all heart, Lacy," he insisted. "And I'll pay you back tomorrow. I swear."

"You'll take a week to remember and you know it." The waitress laughed as she moved away.

"Alec Hunter?" Christine tipped her head to see his face.

Still down on one knee, he shifted toward her, revealing a boyishly handsome face with the bluest eyes she'd ever seen—brighter-than-the-sky blue— accented by long lashes a few shades darker than his hair. He didn't look crazy. He looked like a choirboy. A very mischievous choirboy, she amended as his eyes twinkled up at her. "That would be me."

"Oh, good." She hoped. "I'm Christine Ashton."

"Hey, you made it." A grin flashed across his face as he stood, showing off sparkling white, per-fectly straight teeth. Goodness, this guy could make a killing doing toothpaste commercials. "I was about to give up on you."

"Sorry." She blinked at his height. Beingfive ten, she was eye level with most men, but he topped her by several inches. "I had an emergency phone call."

"Ah." His inflection dismissed the word "emergency" completely.

Not that it was any of his business, but the call had been a question about a repeat patient from the hospital back in Austin where she'd recently finished her residency. She couldn't very well tell them to please ask Mrs. Henderson to postpone any more myocardial infarctions until after her ski lesson.

Pushing the wry thought aside, she studied the man before her, judging him to be younger than her own age of thirty-three. Cute, but young. "I hope it won't offend you if I ask, but you are a qualified instructor, right?"

He flashed another killer grin. "If you're looking for someone to teach you how to ski, really ski, I'm your man."

Since that was indeed what she wanted, she refrained from questioning him further.

"Okay, Alec," Lacy returned. "Here you go."

Alec took the large to-go bag Lacy handed over. When the weight of it hit his hands, he knew he'd caught her in a generous mood. Good thing, since he was down to one power bar in his pocket and had forgotten his wallet. Again. "Thanks, darling. I owe you."

"Yes, you do. The receipt's inside. I expect a serious tip."

"Have I ever stiffed you?" He tried out a wounded puppy look, which she ignored with a snort and flounced off. Unfazed, he turned to the woman Bruce had begged him to instruct. "You ready?"

An odd look of apprehension passed over her face as she glanced toward the chairlift. Then she straightened her shoulders. "As I'll ever be."

"Great. Where are your skis?"

"I left them in a rack near the lift."

"Me, too." He headed across the plaza with her falling in step beside him, their boots clunking on the paving stones.

When they reached the racks to retrieve their gear, he couldn't help but raise a brow. Whoever this Christine Ashton was, she had money, no doubt about that. If the ice blue and white skiwear with the distinctive Spyder logo splashed everywhere hadn't tipped him off, her gear would have. Everything from her safety helmet to her skis were all brand-spanking-new and probably cost more than three months' rent on his apartment. Bruce had sworn up and down she was an intermediate skier looking to improve her skill, but her gear gave him doubts. Seasoned skiers rarely had all new equipment at once.

Darn it, he thought as he clicked into his well-used Salomen Hots. He'd actually been looking forward to this, once he'd resigned himself to playing ski instructor. The way he'd finally figured it, a week of private lessons with a decent student meant he'd get in some non-work-related ski time while burning up some of those vacation and sick days the county manager was hounding him to take. Cool deal—if it was true.

If not, his buddy Bruce was going to owe him big time for this.

His doubts grew as he watched her struggle with the bindings on her skis. There should be a law against people buying top-notch equipment they didn't know how to use just because they could afford it.

Although, even if she turned out to be a total novice, at least she offered some serious compensation in the eye candy department. His brows rose when she bent to adjust her boots and her pants tightened about her long, slender thighs. Legs always had been his weakness. The rest of her wasn't bad either—even if she had a little too much of that ice princess polish for his taste—but, man, those legs promised to have his libido whimpering before the day was over. He felt the first pitiful whine coming on as she bent even further forward. Her straight fall of white-blond hair slid over one shoulder in a slow, sexy glide. "You, um, need help with that?"

"No, I got it," she insisted, and finally managed to fasten the bindings.

"Great." He cleared his throat. "Let's get in line."

She skied to the lift line with enough ease to reassure him that she had at least been on skis before. The line was fairly long, so he opened the bag to see what Lacy had packed: ham and cheese sandwich, sour cream and onion potato chips, a can of cola to feed his sugar and caffeine addiction, and… he tilted the bag to see all the way to the bottom. Yes! A giant chocolate chunk cookie. "I
love
that woman."

"I take it that was your girlfriend."

"Who, Lacy?" He scowled at the idea. "Heck no. She's engaged to one of the guys. Here, hold these, will ya?" He handed his poles to her, then pulled out the sandwich and went to work appeasing his overactive metabolism. He'd long since given up hope that it would slow down someday. Small wonder, though, with his daily exertion level.