“Should I feel bad about that? Seems he got what’s coming to him as far as I can tell.”
Trip shrugged. “Can’t blame you for those feelings.”
“Right? Not only am I out for the rest of ski season . . . this leg means I won’t be able to climb this summer. Puts a real crimp in my plans and bottom line.” Grey tapped his fingers against his thigh. “Maybe I can assist with some basic training by June.”
“You know, some of our friends feared the accident would do you in, but really, it’s gonna be stress that kills you.” Trip shook his head. “You need to get some perspective.”
Grey folded his arms across his chest, eyes on the windshield. He hated talking about the accident, but he really hated being lectured to by Trip. “Well, hello, Oprah. When did you arrive?”
“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” Trip grinned then turned up the radio and whistled along with a Kenny Chesney song.
“Trip, I know I’m asking a lot, but what I need from you is help—with the business, not with me, personally.”
“Believe it or not, I understand what’s at stake for you. You’ll have to trust I’ve got your back.” Trip shot him a look of pure challenge.
“You’re right. Sorry.” Grey’s shoulders eased a bit. He stared at the yellow center line of the winding country road for a minute, trying to drown out the twangy music. “Hey, can we at least agree on some other station? Anything but this sappy, sad country stuff.”
Grey had been surrounded by music his entire life. His mother, a music teacher, had gifted him with both an appreciation of music and a natural talent for playing the piano. His talent had propped him up when he’d felt defeated by his dyslexia. He’d habitually turned to his piano in times of trouble or stress, which meant his keyboard would be getting a good workout in the upcoming months. Despite his broad tastes, however, country music had never quite captured his interest.
“Driver controls the radio, pal. Suck it up.” Ten minutes later, Trip parked the van in the paved lot adjacent to the office building and retrieved the crutches. “Do you need help?”
“I think I’ve got it.” Grey took the crutches and hobbled toward the entrance to the upstairs apartment. The skyrocketing costs of real estate—a downside to the town’s popularity—forced him and Trip to bunk up in the small apartment above the office. Not ideal, but the one-flight commute made up for the lack of privacy, at least for now.
“Damned ice everywhere is a menace.”
“Can’t live in a ski town without running into snow and ice.”
“I know.” Grey lumbered up the narrow steps, and his golden lab, Shaman, bounded toward him as he entered the apartment.
“Whoa, whoa, boy.” Grey struggled to balance himself on the crutches while preventing Shaman from hurting his knee further or knocking him over. He scratched under his dog’s jaw and accepted a sloppy kiss, ignoring the shock of pain piercing his knee. “Good boy. I missed you, too.”
Shaman’s tail wagged, but he quickly became distracted when Trip tossed a dog biscuit in the opposite corner.
Once Shaman settled with his treat, Grey went directly to the sofa. “Hey, Trip, can you grab me a bag of ice?”
While Trip filled the blue rubber ice bag and got a dishrag, Grey twisted his neck to alleviate the remaining strain in his shoulders.
Home.
Better than some places he’d lived, but not particularly warm and cozy. Just a small beige living area, sparsely decorated with used brown leather furnishings and a square oak table with four chairs.
No drapes. No pictures or paintings. No personality or style.
Nothing but Shaman’s dog bowls and the Yamaha piano keyboard in the corner to suggest Grey Lowell lived there. He’d lived a nomadic life for so long—always running, as if distance could make him forget her—he’d never accumulated the possessions or normal friendships most other men his age had in their lives.
At thirty-three, he craved something more, but had neither the time nor money now. Hell. He shoved aside his maudlin thoughts.
“How’s Jon working out?” Grey laid the towel across his leg and placed the ice bag on top. “He did his first solo gig yesterday, right?”
“He’s okay. Clients seem to like him.” Trip grimaced, tugging at the brim of his cowboy hat. “Poached him from ski patrol. He likes the tips.”
“I hate not being able to get out there to check out his skills.” Grey pulled a bag of Dum-Dums out of his jacket pocket and stuck a grape sucker in his mouth.