Royally Crushed (38 page)

“Excuse me?”

I’m not at all ready to get into this. But since Georg’s not going to believe any excuses and he’s going to stand there thinking I’m afraid he doesn’t love me, I just blurt out, “Did you know my dad’s seeing someone?”

“That’s why you’re so unhappy you had puddles in your goggles? Why would it even matter?”

I jam my poles into the hard-packed snow. “Why would it
not
matter?”

Georg takes a slow breath, then reaches over and puts his hands on top of mine, which are gripping the tops of my poles as if they’re the only things in the world keeping me on my feet. “He told you on the lift, didn’t he? Is that why you wanted to go back and ski with him?”

I nod.

“Don’t let it upset you, Valerie. You know, she’s really cool, and—”

“Whoa! Hold it right there.” I yank my hands out from under his, pulling my poles to my side. I don’t even know where to begin. With the fact that Georg thinks I shouldn’t
be upset by my Dad getting all hot and heavy with someone or the fact that he seems to know that it’s The Fräulein Dad is getting all hot and heavy with.

Georg huffs out a breath. “I’m sorry, Val. I just assumed you knew already and that it wasn’t a big deal.”

I feel my face getting red—and not from the cold. “No, I didn’t know. Does the whole freaking
palace
know my father is going out with that woman? Am I the last to find out?”

“No! I didn’t even know for sure until you said so just now.”

I hate his tone of voice. Like he’s pissed off about me being pissed off, and I really don’t want my Dad’s demented hormonal urges to result in a fight between me and Georg. Not when we’re just getting over the whole “cool it” catastrophe.

As calmly as I can, I say, “I’m not blaming you. But you suspected something was up? I mean, with my dad and what’s-her-name?”

“Not really. Well . . . maybe. I guess I did.” He must sense my fear of getting into an argument, because his voice levels out. “When I was skiing in Zermatt over break, Fräulein Putzkammer came along to handle all the public relations stuff. I stopped and visited hospitals on
the way, remember? Played Monopoly and cards with the kids, made balloon animals, that kind of thing. Trying to cheer them up.”

“Her job was to handle all those appearances?”

He nods. “While we were on the way up to Zermatt after leaving the last hospital, she asked me a few questions about you and your father. I figured it was work-related—you know, since stories had started showing up in the tabloids about you and me right before I left for break, speculating that maybe we’re a couple. Not a big deal. But then when I got back from Zermatt, I saw your father and Fräulein Putzkammer heading out of the palace together, walking toward the downtown area. And I started to wonder.”

Oh, please, please, please, God, don’t let them have been holding hands or being gooey. Not where anyone—especially Georg—could see. “Do you know where they were headed?”

He shakes his head. “They were wearing casual clothes, not suits like you’d wear out for a business dinner. I got the feeling that it wasn’t work. Not for any reason I could identify, though.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Like I said, I was only wondering. I wasn’t certain. After that night, I didn’t even think about it again.” He
holds his hands out, palms up, like he’s asking for forgiveness. “I figured if there was a relationship there, you’d tell me about it.”

“Assuming Dad bothered to tell me.”

“Yeah. I hadn’t thought about that part.” He leans over and kisses me on the cheek, which isn’t easy when we both have on ski helmets. “I’m sorry, Val. You gonna be okay?”

“I don’t have much choice.”

His blue eyes lock onto my face, and he couldn’t look more sincere. “Well, I’m here for you if you need me. I would never do anything to hurt you, you know that?”

“I know.”

I feel lower than low right now. Even with him standing right here with me, being so incredibly wonderful. Or maybe
because
he’s being so incredibly wonderful and I’m such a lowlife—jealous of a woman at least twice my age because she’s getting my dad out of his funk over Mom and I’m not—and I’m unable to admit how angry I am about it all.

Not to mention how screwed up I am with the whole David issue.

I so do not deserve Georg.

“I love you, Valerie Winslow.”

I blink in total surprise. I hadn’t expected
that
to come
out of his mouth. And I can tell he means it. Like, he’s even getting all emotional.

“No one has ever understood me the way you do,” he says. “Everyone expects me to be this magazine-model, cookie-cutter freak of nature just because of who my parents are. But you don’t. And I love you for it. And I love you for just being your perfect self. You’re smart and you make me laugh at the craziest things. You see people the way they are and you aren’t afraid to say so. And you treat me like I’m any other person.”

I fake shock. “You’re not like any other person?”

One side of his mouth twists up at that. “I want you to feel better, Val. I want you to stop worrying about your father and just have a fun vacation. With me.”

And then he kisses me for real. With snow falling on us from the branches of the trees at the side of the trail, with no noise at all other than the breeze blowing down the side of the mountain and the crinkle of his ski jacket brushing against mine.

It’s like a scene out of some movie, only I am so, so, so incredibly not the right person to be cast in this part.

Because what’s he going to do when he figures out that I’m not the perfect person he thinks I am?

*   *   *

“How was your morning?” The Fräulein asks, all perky and red-cheeked from spending the last few hours on the slopes. Or maybe from spending the last few hours engaged in various extracurricular activities with my dad that didn’t involve skiing.

“Fine,” I mumble, then hide behind the cup of hot chocolate Dad bought for me.

I know I should have gotten this whole Predator Putzkammer mentality out of my system. Skiing all morning and stopping for quick kisses on the slopes should have made me relax. But instead, it’s left me feeling like I’m building up to the world’s worst case of PMS ever. And like she’s the cause.

Georg, on the other hand, sounds just as chipper as The Fräulein, going on and on about which runs we skied, how long we had to wait at each lift, about how his skis (apparently new) handled, and a whole lot of other blah blah blah I tune out. Mostly because he sounds like he’s sincere, and I’m just not in the mood for sincerity where The Fräulein is concerned.

We’re sitting in a quiet section of the main ski lodge, not far from the concession area, but out of the way of most foot traffic so we don’t draw any attention to ourselves. By the time Georg and I had locked our skis to the racks outside, Dad and his little blond friend had already
locked up their skis and gone ahead through the line to buy food for all of us. The Fräulein explained that they thought it best if they handled everything at the concession area so Georg wouldn’t have to stand where he was more likely to be recognized. Apparently, it’s not that big a deal if he is (according to The Fräulein), but our trip will be easier if he’s not.

I said all the appropriate thank-yous for the food (Dad, being Mr. Protocol, appreciates it when I remember to say thanks), though I’d have preferred to choose my own lunch. Something’s gotta be better than bratwurst with spicy mustard and a bowl of (no, I’m not kidding) salad made of shredded carrots and cabbage. But no way am I leaving Georg alone here with my Dad and his new girlfriend (who probably picked this specific meal for me in an effort to give me horrible gas) now that I know what’s going on. And now that I’m seeing Georg’s reaction to everything.

The way Dad, Georg, and The Fräulein are chatting, if I dump the bratwurst and cabbage and go buy a cheeseburger, I’m liable to come back and find them all calling each other by their first names, holding hands, and singing “Kumbaya.” That’ll make me more sick than the bratwurst ever could.

“You know, you two should call me Anna,” The Fräulein says, looking from Georg to me. “At least when it’s just us.
At official events or when there are media present, perhaps it’s best to simply refer to me as—”

I’m not listening, I’m not listening, I’m not listening!
How does she
do
that? Can she freaking read my mind or something?

I feel her hand on mine. “Is that all right with you, Valerie?”

I assume she means the whole “call me Anna” thing—since
I’m not listening!
—so I give her the Valerie Shrug.

I get a discreet glare from Dad about the Valerie Shrug, but The Fräulein doesn’t catch on, since she just goes on yammering all happy-like, as if this is the best lunch she’s ever had. As if it’s never occurred to her that I might not be wildly ecstatic about her shouldering her way into my life. Or that I might mentally be calling her The Fräulein or Fräulein Predator instead of Fräulein Putzkammer.

Or
Anna
. Gag. Yuck. Spit.

How in the world does this woman do public relations if she’s so dense? I mean, I know I’m not acting openly hostile or anything; I’m actually being very nice to her. But doesn’t she get that vibe you get when you know the person you’re talking to isn’t really enjoying the discussion?

As Dad starts talking about what runs he and Anna might try in the afternoon, I get more and more pissed off.

Logic says I shouldn’t be. I should be happy for Dad—
glad he’s found another adult to hang around with. But I just can’t, and knowing I’m being bitchy about this is making me even crankier.

She
is
perfect for him on paper, aside from the horrific last name. (I have to wonder—what does
Putzkammer
mean, anyway? It can’t be good.) I suppose she’s nice enough, aside from wanting to get some action with Dad. She’s young. Pretty. Outgoing and social for a living. Fairly open-minded, from what I can tell. Athletic, like Dad, so I imagine if they’re having fun skiing together, she’d be up for a lot of the other things Dad enjoys doing.

It’s like she gets a check mark for every item on the What Dad Likes list. So if I absolutely had to pick someone for Dad to take out on a hot date, it’d probably be her. Well, other than Mom, but that’s not going to happen short of me majoring in chemistry and creating a potion that’ll wipe both of their memories clean. Oh, and change Mom’s sexual orientation at the same time. (Of course, David’s father would probably tout any such potion as a Miracle Cure for the Immoral next time he’s on CNN. . . .)

So what in the hell is wrong with me?

And why do I feel like Georg’s totally on their side, even though he told me all that “I’ll always be there for you” stuff? I mean, I know I’m in the wrong here and I really should suck it up and change my attitude. But that doesn’t
mean I want Georg acting the way he’s acting. Like this is just peachy keen and swell. Another happy day with the Winslow family.

Five hours later, as we’re unloading our car at the guesthouse and carrying our boots inside to dry out, I’m still feeling sullen. You’d think the fact I actually made it down a red run at the end of the day—going Georg’s speed, with pretty good form, and without chickening out on the steep part—would cheer me up. Or maybe the fact that the private guesthouse where Dad got us rooms looks like it was constructed straight out of an upscale Hansel and Gretel fairy tale—the sloping roof, the dark wood beams, the romantic balcony and view of the Alps—would distract me enough so I’d mentally start composing an e-mail to Christie to tell her all about it. Or that I’d mellow out given that I can actually hear cathedral bells tolling nearby.

But . . . no. None of it’s working to get me out of my funk.

And apparently my gloom-and-doom mood shows on my face, because the instant Georg and The Fräulein get settled into their rooms and Dad and I close the door to ours, leaving us alone for the first time since we were on the ski lift this morning, Dad lets loose. “Care to explain your attitude, Valerie?”

I frown and look at him like I have no clue what he means. “Come again? What attitude?”

“You’ve been wearing a pout all day. I thought you wanted to ski.”

“I do!” I pull the liners out of my boots like the guy at the ski shop taught me, then prop them near the fireplace so they dry out. “Georg and I had a lot of fun. I even kept up with him on our last run instead of having to go back to the green trails at the end of the day.”

“Then why so crabby?”

As if he doesn’t know. And frankly, I thought I was being pretty noncrabby, considering the bomb he dropped on me this morning. But the Valerie Shrug doesn’t get me anywhere with him this time. In fact, I think it pisses him off worse.

“Don’t give me that. And don’t give it to Anna again, either.” He makes a little sucking sound with his mouth, like he’s trying to pull back words.

I ignore him and yank off my stinky socks, then rifle through my suitcase, trying to figure out what I want to wear to dinner. I think I can get away with sweats, since this is a ski town and everything, but I’m not sure.

“You’re angry because I’m seeing Anna.” He says it as a statement, not a question.

Whatever.

I assume we’re not going anywhere fancy or crowded, what with trying to look inconspicuous and everything while we’re here. Maybe I should call Georg’s room and see what he’s going to do.

“Valerie, look at me. I’m waiting for an answer.”

I grab a pair of sweats, zip my suitcase closed, then turn to face Dad. He’s standing near the door to the room, his boot bag still slung over his shoulder.

I spread my hands in a sign of surrender. “Look, Dad, what you do is your business. My opinion doesn’t count for anything.”

“It does count.” He sets his boot bag down without opening it. I’m tempted to tell him he’d better air those dogs out. If my boots are gross from a day on the slopes, his have gotta be downright nasty. But before I can think of a polite way to phrase the suggestion—and hopefully change the conversation to a different topic—he continues on, “I’m not going to end things with Anna just because you don’t like the idea of me seeing someone. That’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to her.”