She probably blew out a breath of visible relief because another smile lit his face, his eyes.
Oh, those eyes.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. You can’t believe what this means to me.” She knew she sounded over the top. But she’d just nearly drowned, and sitting here, wrapped up in Gage Watson’s presence—yes, she might have lost her mind a little.
“Okay. Anytime. What was your name again?”
“Ella. Ella Blair.”
“Okay, Ella Blair. Gage Watson.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“I’m sort of curious,” he said, leaning toward her. “How much does it mean to you?”
Oh. Um . . .
He raised an eyebrow.
She stared at her cocoa. “I don’t think—”
“Oh no. Wait. That sort of came out wrong,” he said suddenly, and for a second, when she looked up, all the suave had vanished, leaving behind someone real, someone not quite as polished.
Someone endearing. And slightly reddening at his awkward statement.
“I just meant, well, I was trying to figure out a smooth way to ask you if you might want to hit the slopes with me tomorrow. I mean, you are a skier, right?”
The way he bobbled around his words, it made his invitation sound sweet and innocent and had her heart doing all sorts of leaps.
“Actually, a snowboarder.”
“Really,” he said, warmth in his eyes.
“Yeah. And I’d love to ski with you tomorrow. If you promise not to take me anywhere I could get killed.”
Her towel had loosened, and he reached out and tucked it back around her, his hands strong as he cocooned her in heat.
“I promise to keep you safe.” He gave her a wink. “Because, you know, I’m all about saving lives.”
4
GAGE HAD SOME EPIC FALLS IN HIS CAREER, the kind that made viewers wince, the yard sale crashes that became six-second Vines on the net. He’d broken a leg, dislocated his shoulder, emerged with his face so bloody the sports networks attached a viewer warning to it before the replay. He still bore the bump of his broken nose, a sort of freeriding badge of honor.
And while he longed to rewind the tape, maybe choose a different line, none of his mayhem crashes made him wish to go back to the beginning and throw his snowboard across the room. Wish all of it away—his fame, his laurels, the joy of carving his own trail.
Until a punk teenager in a dinosaur costume looked at him with stars in his eyes. “I have all your videos, that descent down the Broken River face off Craigieburn—that . . . that was over the top.” Gage wanted to smack his hand over Oliver’s mouth, keep the memories from surfacing. Keep his exploits from finding root in his brain and tearing open the wounds of regret.
Just when he thought he might carve out a new line for his life.
Gage threw his board on the rack on top of his Mustang, then opened the door.
“You missed a call,” Ty said from the passenger seat. He already had his board latched on top, his boots off and cowboy boots on.
Gage slid onto the driver’s bucket seat, his feet still outside the door, and started unlatching his boots. He slid one off, slipped his foot into a hiking boot, then picked up his phone from the dash and took a look.
“Two missed calls from my mom.” He dropped the phone into the cup holder, then unlatched his other boot. He laced on his hiking boot, then threw the two snowboard boots into the backseat.
His mom. He checked his watch. Maybe he should stop by . . . especially if her voicemail betrayed a slur in her voice.
Gage headed out of the parking lot, the itch of the fight with Oliver still under his skin. “He did a 1080 front flip off a 150-foot face—”
He should write to Xtreme Energy, ask them to take his videos down. After all, they’d dropped him.
Keeping them up just inspired more idiocy from kids like Oliver Blair.
Or Dylan McMahon.
Gage loosened his whitened hold on the steering wheel as he reached a light and turned on his radio.
Of course, Ben King’s sultry country voice crooned through the speakers—it seemed he was the only artist playing on their local country station. The entire town had a love affair going with Ben King and the fact that he’d moved his studio here, healed his past, and restarted his life to the wild applause of his fans.
Yeah, well, it didn’t happen that way for everyone. And too many people paid the price when it didn’t. They’d all be better off if the fame of “Watts” Watson were wiped from all memory.
“Maybe I’ll swing by and see what my mom wants.” He glanced at Ty. “Do you mind?”
“I’ll order us a couple pizzas to pick up,” Ty said, already pulling out his phone. “Although my bet is that Sierra will have fresh-baked cookies at HQ. Everyone’s getting together for the show tonight.”