And bingo, there it was.
Gage’s jaw tightened. He took off his helmet, aware that his hair was matted and thick with sweat as he turned to Oliver. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said quietly, dark and lethal.
And, frankly, he might as well make the most of it.
That was what cautionary tales were for, right? “So hear me when I say, that kind of stupid behavior gets people killed. I should know, right?”
Oliver’s mouth clamped shut, a bloom of red on his face.
At least he’d gotten the kid’s attention. He held up the passes, a little show-and-tell that reinforced his words. “Get off my mountain. Stay off my mountain.” He pinned a dark look on Bradley, sending his words home while he handed them back the camera. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, not even wincing at the flash of the camera phones.
Clearly, Gage would never escape the limelight.
She’d found her ski legs again. Ella’s entire body burned, a refreshing ache that meant she’d worked hard on the slope, forcing herself to find again the rhythm, the courage, leaning into the adrenaline that had the ability to set her free from herself, her rules. Her relentless ambition.
Snowboarding made her step outside of herself, take risks.
Live.
Yes, maybe Ollie had been right. She had forgotten how to let go, have fun.
Politics and the law did that to a person. The ever-present press of responsibility, the knowledge that constituents’ eyes always watched.
The frustration of seeing nothing accomplished after two years in office. So much for making an impact on her world. She didn’t know how Brette was going to spin her recent epic failure into a campaign plus, but . . .
“Here you go—two hot cocoas,” Brette said and slid into the booth across from her. “I have to admit, I did better than I thought. Last time I was skiing, it was with you and Sofia, nearly three years ago.”
A white headband held back Brette’s two braids, which, along with her white one-piece snowsuit, turned her into a Norwegian ski bunny. She’d unzipped it and pushed the top down to her waist, revealing a purple turtleneck underneath.
“I remember,” Ella said. “Sofia fell in love with that guy—I thought he was going to follow us back east.”
“What was his name—Richard? Or Randy?”
“Something like that. I thought he was too old and creepy for her, but she always did have a thing for older men.” Ella sipped the cocoa. “I haven’t heard from her since she went back to Spain.”
“Me either.” Brette stretched her legs along the seat of the booth. “Thanks for talking me into coming along.” She blew on her cocoa. “I can’t really afford it, but it’s still good to get away from the dog-eat-dog world of a freelance writer. Please, please let me work on your campaign.”
“I don’t know if I’m even going to run,” Ella said.
“Well, if you do, we need to get working on your biography. You’re the walking American success story.” Brette took a sip of her cocoa. “Serbian refugee to state senator? How your hard work landed you in Yale Law School?”
“It wasn’t my hard work—it was my parents’ sacrifice, not to mention my adoptive parents’ money. Besides, I don’t need a political biography to run for office for a second term.”
“In today’s world, you do. And I’m sorry, but a girl doesn’t graduate from law school at twenty-three without some pretty hard work,” Brette said. “I remember those days when you’d spend the weekend doing homework while Sofia and I got into trouble.”
“Which is why I stayed at home, studying,” Ella said, laughing. “But my mother always said, to whom much is given, much is expected, and I was given a lot.”
“Yeah, well, you were a good influence, even if I hate to admit it,” Brette said.
“I wish I were a good influence on my brother.” Ella signaled the waitress. She came over, looking frazzled. “Can we get a basket of cheesy fries?”
The woman nodded before Ella even finished speaking.
“He’ll come around. Not everyone can be as focused and brilliant as you.” Brette’s eyes seemed to follow a tall cowboy with dark hair threading his way through the crowd. “But if you don’t run, then I need myself a hot new story. And what are you going to do? Should we be practicing saying ‘Yes, your honor’?”
“No. I have no desire to be a judge.” Although if she had her druthers, she’d rather find a way to make things truly fair instead of the legal wrangling that went on behind the scenes. Sometimes the law felt more like a game of poker, with the smartest legal whiz at the table taking home the prize instead of true justice winning out.