Carry Your Heart (12 page)

I smile, stepping aside, brushing away, breaking the contact before I do something stupid. He clears his throat, like he wasn’t intending to kiss me, and stands up to inspect the bowtie in the mirror.

I set my glass down on the counter. He clears his voice from behind me. “Hey, this looks pretty good, Speedy.”

“Yeah, I’m proud of that. My one accomplishment of the day,” I say.

“Let me get you another drink,” he says, coming behind me. He sets a hand on my lower back, totally unnecessarily, but I want the contact. It’s been so long since anyone has touched me like that. He smiles. “You cool?”

I nod. “Completely.”

“Good.” He grins. “More gin?”

“Please.”

“Here we go. I like this drink. It’s easy to make and I get to feel like I’m a pro bartender,” he says, pouring the gin into the tumbler, adding ice and lime. “All I need or those tiny little straws.” He spins it on the counter over to me.

“Maybe next time I’ll ask for a Cosmo.”

“Yeah, well, that might be a little ambitious…” he scoops his phone off the bed and glances at it. “We actually need to get going soon. You ready?”

“Yeah, this is about as good as it’s going to get.”

“Wasn’t complaining.” He slides on his jacket. I could definitely get used to looking at Hunter in a tuxedo.
Definitely
.

I pulled on my shell and he slid on an overcoat. I felt like an idiot.

“That’s a good look on you.”

“What? A ski coat and a dress?”

“I don’t know. I just like it,” he smiles. “You look like you’re going to prom or something.”

“Oh, so you’re into high school girls?”

“Shut up.”

We check the hallways for people and make a big deal of sneaking over to the elevators and down to the lobby. Outside, in the chilly air, a chauffeured SUV awaits us.

“You know, things would be a lot easier if you were so ashamed of being seen with me,” Hunter says, watching me as I crane my head before I get into the car with him.

I smile. “Well, maybe I would have been more accommodating if you hadn’t asked me on a
fake
date.”

“Mr. Dawson?”

“That’s me,” Hunter says cheerfully.

Hunter sticks his tongue out at me, for no real reason, as the car pulls out of the lot, and onto the country highway. I bite back a laugh, feeling like I have to behave—in such a grown-up car going to such a grown-up event.

He grabs my hand impulsively when we’re halfway there.

I look at him—a question in my eyes.
Why are you touching me?
He just looks right back at me, playing with my fingers, less romantically than jocularly.

“So, I should probably warn you in advance, my dad can be a dick.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “I don’t know if he will be. Sometimes, he’s fine. I’m not trying to, like, get into my family situation, but don’t take it personally if he’s a douchebag to you.”

“Got it.”

“Cool….oh, and he probably has a new girlfriend. Scratch that. He
definitely
has a new girlfriend. The last one moved back to Brazil or some shit.”

He lets go of my hand. “He skis though. You have that in common.”

We pull up to the red carpet. The convention center has a discreet entrance, with just a handful of photographers and no screaming crowds.

“Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Hokay. Well,” he rolls his eyes. “Come on then.”

He grabs my hand. My heart flutters.
Fake
date
, I remind myself.
This is a fake date. It doesn’t matter if anyone takes a picture.

I can’t refuse to take a picture with Hunter. His sponsor organized this party and he’s one of the celebrity guests. I don’t put up a fuss. I almost enjoy myself when Hunter snakes a hand around my waist and holds me tight. I like the feel of it. I wish I didn’t. This would be so much easier if I didn’t have a crush and we were just best friends. But I do have a crush. I
like
him.

And I want our date to be real, as much as I’m afraid of it being real.

We slip through the glass doors to the large event space. A stage with a simple podium and an elegant screen awaits, hundreds of finely-dressed people mill about, searching for their table numbers, and greeting one another. Hunter keeps his hand on my lower back, weaving to table 157.

“In the goddamn middle of the place,” he mutters.

“You’re so grumpy.”

He smiles. “I’m trying to get you out of the crowd.”

“I’m fine with crowds.”

“Okay, then I’m trying to get me out of the crowd,” he says. “Shit.”

“What?”

“My dad.”

“Aren’t we sitting with him?”

“Yeah, but I thought he’d want to mingle. Do you want to mingle? Let’s go back into the crowd. Mingle. Love crowds. Love ‘em.”

“Come on,” I say. “Just get it over with.”

He growls.

I roll my eyes and tug on his wrist. And then I see someone I know. I stop. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Doug Cannon is at our table.”

He gives me a quizzical look. “What? You’re not a fan, are you?”

“He’s a huge deal.” I laugh. “How could I not be a fan?”

“Well, let me introduce you.” Something unpleasant crosses his face and I grip his wrist tightly.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” I glance at him. “Is that your father?”

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

“You don’t have the same last name.”

“And?” There’s a hard look in his eyes, like he wants to get angry with me, or he wants me to get angry with him. He’s looking for a fight or expects one, and I don’t want to give it to him. He doesn’t have to tell me his story. I didn’t ask for it; I don’t have a right to it.

“Okay.” I nod gamely. I’m not going to freak out. He doesn’t owe me an explanation. I get that. Of all people in the world, I get that probably better than anyone. “Fine.”

“You’re a fan?”

“Of his skiing, Hunter. I don’t know him. If you say he’s a jerk, I’ll believe you,” I say. “I do believe you. Already.”

He nods. He exhales. He sounds relieved when he says, “Sorry.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t have to tell me that. I didn’t tell you who my dad was.”

“Whose your dad?”

“Sam Baker.”

He waits. “Sorry, am I supposed to know that?”

“He’s an accountant.”

He laughs.

“Well-known in accounting circles in Boulder…”

We’ve been spotted. Doug gets to his feet, with a beautiful Asian woman who can’t be more than ten years older than me.

“11 o’clock,” I warn him.

He turns. “Hunter,” Doug’s baritone is gravelly and commanding.

“Doug,” Hunter replies. His father’s face twitches dangerously.

“Let’s try Dad. Or Mr. Cannon, if you’re feeling formal. And whose this lovely young lady?”

“This is Pippa,” he says. “Pippa Baker, this is Doug Cannon. Doug, Pippa.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cannon.”

“See, she has nice manners, you could learn something from her,” he says, with a frozen smile. “This is Stephanie.”

“Hey,” Hunter says, casually, shaking her hand.

“It’s
such
a pleasure to meet you,” she says seductively to Hunter, squeezing his forearm tightly. Fake date or not, that’s not jut annoying, it’s
creepy
.

“Yeah, it’s nice to meet you too,” he says, smiling uncertainly and disentangling his arm. I can see him silently thanking the God or event planner that made the place settings putting us on the opposite side of the circular table from his father and Stephanie.

“So, who else is coming to this thing?” Stephanie asks.

“My agent’s coming,” Hunter says. “Few people from Oakley and Red Bull.” He shrugs. “I dunno…” Hunter’s list of sponsors is long and impressive. When I watched his X-Game performance on YouTube, there wasn’t an inch of his gear that didn’t sport a prominent logo.

“The snowboarding world is finally starting to get its act together,” Doug informs his girlfriend, like Hunter isn’t there. “It didn’t used to be like this.”

Stephanie nods. “Really?”

“I started Hunter out as a competitive skier,” Doug says. “Never had any idea he’d be able to make a living as a snowboarder.”

Hunter raises his eyebrows at his father. “Well, I suppose you were wrong.”

Doug ignores Hunter and continues talking to Stephanie. “There are still a lot of people who don’t consider snowboarding to be a sport.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Let’s not get into this tonight, Dad.”

Doug shrugs and finishes half his glass of wine in one, long sip. “Sure. Let’s talk about something else.” His eyes settle on me. “So, how did you two meet?”

“On a plane,” I say.

“Huh. Nice. And you’re just, what—along for the ride now?”

Hunter throws me an apologetic glance. “Dad.”

“No, I’m interested to know how this will go. What are you doing in Snowbird? Are you two living together already?”

“Ah, no,” I say, putting a hand on Hunter’s leg to prevent him from hopping out of his chair. “I’m training with Mike Ames.”

I can feel the tension in Hunter’s leg and I turn to look at him.
It’s okay. I’ve got this,
I try and tell him with my eyes. He seems to understand and relaxes.

He pauses. “Ames—oh.” He raises his eyebrows. “Ames. So, you’re a skier, then?”

I nod. “Yep.”

He seems to relax, and then he shrugs, in embarrassment. “Sorry. Hunter has dated some girls…”

“Who don’t ski? That must have been hard for you,” I smile artificially and glance at Hunter, who looks ready to explode. “I think I need a drink. You look like you could tell us where we can find a bar.”

“Oh, yeah, sure thing, sweetheart,” he says. He points towards the side of the room. “Drink up.”

I grab Hunter’s wrist to make sure he follows me.

“Jesus,” Hunter says. “I fucking cannot…”

I laugh.

“It’s not funny.”

I shrug. “No. It’s not. But you shouldn’t worry about it.

“He shouldn’t talk to you like that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. He shouldn’t. But that’s not your fault.”

I order another gin and tonic and order him a beer.

“There’s no way I’m getting through this dinner sober,” he mutters.

“That’s fine. We have a car picking us up.”

I take a sip of my drink and hand him his beer.

“Thanks.”

“Hunter Dawson,” a man’s deep voice calls out. Hunter pivots on his toe and I see Micah McKenzie and Sara Nance, both professional snowboarders who even I know about, sauntering over.

“What’s up?” Micah asks Hunter, giving him a warm hug. “Whose the lucky lady?”

“Pippa Baker,” Hunter says quickly. “This is Micah.

“Hey,” I offer a hand but he gives me a big hug that just reeks of marijuana. I fight a laugh and I look at Sara, who I used to be
kind of
obsessed with when I was thirteen and just getting into Burton equipment. She’s won dozens of medals—at the 2010 and 2008 Olympics and at X-Games events every year.

Sara kisses Hunter on the cheek and turns to me. “Hey, girl. What’s your name?”

“Pippa,” I say.

“I’m Sara. You snowboard?”

“She’s a skier,” Hunter answers for me.

“Nice,” Sara says, enthusiastically. “Do you compete?”

“Yeah, Alpine,” I say. “I just got back into it.”

“Awesome. You guys are over at Snowbird, right?”

I nod. “Yep.”

“That’s sick. There’s great backcountry there.”

“Where?” Micah asks.

“Snowbird—remember?” she asks. “Hunter, were you with us when we went heli-skiing in snowbird?”

He nods. “Yeah.” He glances over at me. “Anyways, you two still up at Whistler?”

“We were just in Mexico,” Micah says.

“What’s in Mexico?”

“Our honeymoon.”

“Jesus, you guys got
married
?” he looks stunned.

“We eloped. Don’t worry. If there was going to be a wedding, you’d have definitely been on the list. You might have even been a groomsman,” Micah says.

Hunter still looks stunned. He shakes his head in disbelief. “Wow. That’s awesome. Guys, congrats.” He hugs Micah again.

“Thanks,” Micah says. “Finally made an honest woman out of her.”

“Oh, please,” Sara replies.

“Fuck,” Hunter shakes his head, amused. “I cannot believe that. But good for both of you.”

“Thanks,” Micah says. “So, when are you coming back to a real mountain?”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “I like Snowbird.” That’s the first I’ve heard him saying anything remotely positive of being in Utah.

“Pippa, have you skied Whistler?” Micah asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Great place to train,” Micah says. “You and Hunter should get back up there…”

Hunter shakes his head. “I’m not going to Whistler and Pippa’s definitely not going to Whistler.”

“Hey, Sara! Micah!” I turn to see a short, intense-looking man in his forties waving his hands at the couple, motioning for them to join him.

“Eh, my agent. Gotta say hi.”

“Good to see you two,” Hunter says.

“Wait,” Micah says. “Give me a call, alright, bud? It’s been too long.”

I watch them go.

“Back to the table?” I suggest.

“More drinks first,” Hunter replies. We loop back to the bar, pick up another round, and cross the crowded room to the table.

Everyone’s here now. The talking is so loud, that even if Doug wanted to say something douchey to Hunter, he wouldn’t be heard above the din. I meet Hunter’s agent, Harry, and Harry’s daughter, Kelly, an adorable five year old who demands Hunter autograph every damp cocktail napkin she’s collected.

“For my friends,” she says.

“Yes.”

“What are you friends named?”

“Kelly.”

“All of them.”

“Yes.”

Hunter grins and signs them each with a big heart and hands them back to her. She slides them into her Hello Kitty purse with a proud smirk on her face.

The speakers begin—honoring different athletes and businesspeople and volunteers for their work.

The MC keeps things light and moving and the waitresses keep bringing drinks. The jokes start making everyone laugher harder, and by the time the room is cheering loudly for the final award recipient, I’m a little drunk and Hunter seems pretty buzzed.