Two birds, one stone.
I head downstairs and check the obvious place first—the library. I find her curled up in one of the oversized chairs by the window with a book in her lap. She’s not reading, though. Just staring out at the snow.
I knock lightly on the doorframe. “Hey.”
She jumps slightly, then relaxes when she sees it’s me. “Hey, you scared me.”
“I don’t think I have it in me to scare people.” I lean against the doorframe. “How’s your day going?”
She closes the book. “Logan’s been in meetings with your dad all day. I’ve been trying to stay out of the way.”
“Want to get out of here for a bit?” I ask. “The slopes are perfect today.”
She brightens immediately. “Really? I’d love that.”
“Go get changed. Meet me by the side entrance in twenty minutes?”
“Deal.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re bundled in ski gear and heading up the mountain on the private lift. The afternoon sun makes the snow sparkle, and the air is crisp and clean.
“Thanks for this,” Samantha says, watching the trees pass below us. “I was going stir-crazy in there.”
“I know the feeling.” I stretch my legs out. “Sometimes this place feels too big and too small at the same time.”
She laughs. “That’s exactly it.”
“Logan not keeping you entertained?” I keep my tone light.
“He’s busy. I get it.” But there’s something in her voice that says she doesn’t really get it. Or maybe she does and wishes she didn’t.
The lift reaches the top, and we slide into position at the edge of the run.
“You ready?” I ask.
“As I’ll ever be.”
She takes off down the slope, and I follow. She wasn’t lying about not being great.
Her form is decent but cautious, like she’s thinking too hard about every turn. But she’s also not terrible. She keeps herbalance, adjusts when she needs to, and doesn’t panic when the slope gets steeper.
We make it to the bottom without any disasters. She’s laughing when she pulls to a stop, breathless and pink-cheeked.
“Not bad,” I say. “Want to go again?”
“Definitely.”
We spend a while going up and down the mountain. She gets better with each run, more confident. And she’s funny. Actually funny, not trying-to-be-funny. She makes jokes about Logan’s terrible taste in music and his obsession with his phone.
She asks me about growing up here, about what it’s like having Donovan and Dad always in business mode.
She’s easy to talk to. Natural. Not performing for me or trying to be someone she’s not.
I like it. Like her, maybe, which is a problem.
On our last run, she wipes out halfway down. Nothing serious, just a tumble that sends her sliding a few feet. I ski down to where she’s sitting in the snow, laughing at herself.
“You okay?” I offer her my hand.
