“Fine. I will try to entertain the idea that Ryder might not be the worst person in the world.”
“That’s all I ask. And if you happen to fall in love or into his bed, so be it.”
And even though I gag dramatically until both Danny and I are doubled over in fits of laughter, what should have been a fleeting image of lying in bed next to Ryder remains at the forefront of my mind while I finish getting ready.
5
YOU MIGHT HAVE BEEN BODY SNATCHED
RYDER
Striding down the packed walkway in the luxurious Las Vegas Strip hotel, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass window of a high-end jewelry store and stop to take one last look at myself. Beige slacks with a brown belt and matching loafers, my short-sleeved black linen shirt buttoned only twice in the middle to show off the hair on my belly and chest, and the silver chain settled over my collarbone that ties the whole look together. I look like a whole snack, if I do say so myself. The only thing missing is my good luck charm, but I never risk wearing that unless I’m covered with layers of snow gear. I drag my fingertips through the messy brown curls on my head, giving them a zhuzh so that my looks fall moreon the “unintentionally cool-but-still-hot” side, and then whisper a little lie to myself.
“You just want to look good for the cameras. There’s no other reason you spent an hour picking this outfit.”
I close my eyes to repeat the fib in my head, and when I open them, I spot the real reason I changed my pants four times before walking out of my room upstairs reflected in the window.
Crouching down in a pair of sky high heels and a dress with a hemline just indecent enough to haunt my dreams for the rest of my life, Mabel is eye-level with a kid who can’t be older than six, signing the front pocket of a pink backpack with a unicorn horn sticking out from the top while the child’s mother watches. Her red hair is a shining halo around her face, illuminated by the fluorescent lights and framing her wide smile. I turn to get a better look, and even over the hustle and bustle of the shoppers and passersby, I can hear the excited squeal in the small child’s voice as she bounces on her tiptoes in front of Mabel.
“I’ve been working on my jumps all season. I still fall sometimes, but I’m getting better. I want to be just as good as you when I grow up, Mabel!”
“I think if you focus and keep practicing, you’ll be even better than me when you grow up. And then I’llbe able to tell everyone that I was lucky enough to meet the gold medal-winning Annabelle one day.”
“We will most definitely be seeing Annabelle on our Wheaties box someday. What do you think, Mabel?” I ask, having crossed the walkway to join the little party.
The woman in question glances up at me, a brief flash of annoyance crossing her features before she schools her face back into her gracious smile. Pointing to the phone in Annabelle’s mother’s hand, I ask, “Would you like me to take a picture of the three of you?” She nods and hands me the phone, and they pose with Mabel as I snap shots from all angles. Mabel signs a receipt dug up from the mother’s purse, and then our new friends are on their way, autographs and photo souvenirs in hand. No one asks me for my autograph, but I don’t mind. If I were a kid, I’d care much more about Mabel Quinn than Ryder Finch, too.
“Rye Bread,” Mabel says when we’re alone—or, as alone as two people can be in the middle of Las Vegas. “It’s good to see you. Want to head to the restaurant? Trina arranged for photographers to catch us arriving," she holds her fingers up in air quotes, “for the pre-Games publicity, and you know those guys will go nuts if we go in together.” She starts toward the upscale grill we’re meeting ourparents at, but I gently grasp her wrist and pull her back, flattening my palm against her forehead. Her skin is like silk against mine, and briefly I wonder if it would feel as soft against my lips. But I shove that thought away in favor of safer terrains.
“Mabel Scout Quinn, are you okay? Are you feeling sick? Do you have a fever?” I ask, my eyes flitting back and forth between hers as I assess her.
“What is wrong with you, I’m fine,” she grits out, slapping my hand away before smoothing over the front of her dress. I trace the movement, my dick twitching at the indecent glide of her fingertips over navy silk. Her cheeks grow pink as she glances around, noting the people stopping to take photos of us on their phones.
God, she’s adorable when she’s embarrassed.
“Jeez, that was a close one, Marshmallow. You didn’t say a single braggy word about Annabelle and her mom wanting your autograph but not mine. You even almost sounded mildly content with seeing me. I thought for a second you might have been body snatched.”
“Oh my god, you are so annoying,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest and rolling her eyes before stomping away. I watch for a moment, mesmerized by the sliver of calf muscle peeking out of her white boots, flexing with each step. I press aknuckle to my sternum, massaging that invisible fist that has had my heart in a grip since I was seventeen and noticed Mabel in that way for the very first time. We were in Aspen on a family vacation, and I was in the lodge watching practice footage on my phone when Mabel and Mom came in from a run. I was barely been paying attention, but when Mabel unzipped her jacket and pulled the damp hoodie she was wearing over her head, her thermal shirt lifted with it, and I caught a glimpse of her flat belly and the spray of freckles dotting her skin from her belly button down to the waistband of her snow pants.
In that moment, Mabel went from the younger kid friend I sometimes liked to tease to a woman I couldn’t stop thinking about. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe in her presence. Couldn’t think of anything but her hair and her eyes and that sliver of bare stomach. I became desperate for her attention, addicted to her laughter, even if it was at my expense. In one moment, Mabel Quinn utterly bewitched me, and I’ve been under her spell for the years since.
She ruined me for anyone else, and she truly does not know.
I follow her like a puppy to the restaurant, where a small group of photographers snap shots of us at the host stand as we wait to be led inside towards the circular table where our parents are sitting.
Pleasant hellos, handshakes and hugs are exchanged, and once entrees have been ordered and bread has been broken, Mabel’s mom, Melanie, brings the conversation to the one topic that is on all our minds, the Winter Games.
“Mabel, Trina sent me a cut of your segment for the Opening Ceremonies pre-show. You come across so dignified and well spoken, and those shots of you on the half-pipe? You look ethereal, darling. Swift, graceful?—”
“Not to mention badass and strong as hell,” Mabel’s dad, Marcus, cuts in. “Your core control on those aerials blows me away. I might never get over you choosing snow over the diving board, but damn, honey. You sure do make flipping around in the air with that snowboard attached to your feet look easy.”
Next to me, Mabel blushes down at her bread plate.
“She’s not too bad in the water either, Marcus,” my dad chimes in, lifting his wineglass in Mabel’s direction. “Our Mabel makes surfing look easy, too. She tore up the waves at the Pro-Am last summer in Oahu. I know you remember, Ryder. She kicked your ass up and down that beach.”
“Of course I remember. I spent the day eating her dust. Marshmallow here is always kicking my ass.” I bump her shoulder with mine.
“Yeah, well. That’s what a lifetime of working twice as hard for half the respect will do,” she grumbles. “And thanks, Mom. Trina did a great job vetting the producers. You know she always has her hands full trying to paint me in a positive light leading up to a competition.”
