“Yeah, you kinda did.”
“Well, maybe I like him.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Brighton said, then her next words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Or maybe you’re using him as a crutch so you don’t have to deal with anything real.”
The accusation hung between them. Charlotte paled, her jawtightening. Still, Brighton didn’t regret saying it. Not one damn bit. They stared at each other, both of their chests heaving. Brighton waited for Charlotte to respond, to swear at her, to yell—Brighton would take anything at this point.
But Charlotte just picked up her duffel and headed toward one of the two bedrooms on either end of the cabin, calling out “I’m going fucking skiing!” as she went.
Chapter 19
Charlotte stood at the topof what felt like the tallest mountain in the world and contemplated her death.
Rather, she thought about the choices that had led her to this point, about how December had really fucked her over good and proper this year, and she wondered just how sore her rear end would be if she slid all the way down this slope on her ass. But as she registered Brighton’s presence next to her—the infernal woman had insisted on skiing with her, and Charlotte had quite pointedly not looked directly at her since they’d left their cabin—she felt determined to conquer December once and for all.
December, Brighton Fairbrook’s relentless hold on her, their history, everything.
And it started with this mountain—Sloane insisted it was just a hill, a “green” slope, as the ski world called it, and perfect for beginners, but still. It felt big to Charlotte. Felt like a risk she’d never have taken in Decembers past. Granted, she never would’veclimbed onto that ski lift had Brighton not thoroughly pissed her off with her assumptions about Wes, but did it really matter what had gotten her here?
She was here. She was ready. She was Charlotte fucking Donovan. Never mind that the snow was now falling in what could only be described as torrents, creating a thick sheet of white over the whole world. Charlotte would prevail.
Just as soon as she could get her body to slide forward.
Then she would prevail, no doubt.
“I thought you hated skiing,” Brighton said. Of course, Charlotte had skied before—she grew up in Michigan, and the Fairbrooks loved the slopes in the winter. She had gone with them once when she and Brighton were fourteen, in January so as not to risk a December disaster, but it wasn’t Charlotte’s favorite activity. The aching ankles, the cold wind slapping you in the face, the risk of broken bones, no matter the month.
Charlotte clenched her jaw. “You don’t know me.”
“Sure, Lola, you keep telling yourself that.”
“No,youtell yourself that,” Charlotte spat back, fully realizing it was a paltry comeback, but her patience was less than thin at this point, a gossamer line between control and losing her shit.
Brighton sighed, pursing her mouth. Charlotte risked a glance, then directed her gaze back to the slope in front of her. She refused to admit how damn cute Brighton looked in her ski pants and coat, her thick gloves and yellow-tinted goggles, which she’d rented from the ski shop. Her fleece hat was pulled down to her eyebrows, her brown hair flicking in the snowy wind.
“Ready for this, Char?” Elle called from where they stood next to Manish, because of course their entire group was there to witness her ineptitude on the slopes. Meanwhile, Sloane, Adele,Wes, and Dorian slid around the flat area where the ski lift had dropped them off with ease, having practically grown up with skis attached to their feet.
“Race you to the bottom?” Wes asked Sloane as they came to a stop at the precipice of the mountain.
“On a green?” Sloane asked. “I’ll slaughter you.”
“Oh, like in ninth grade, when I finished a full minute before you?”
“Like junior year, whenIwon the Valentine’s Day Cupid Sprint and left you in my dust,” Sloane said.
Wes grinned. “Best Valentine’s Day yet.”
Sloane’s eyes widened a fraction. “Really?”
“You know it was,” Wes said softly.
“Jesus Christ,” Charlotte said.
Loudly.
Seven pairs of eyes landed on her, which she could feel even with the wind whipping her ponytail into her face. She shook her head, unable to explain her outburst, how she suddenly couldn’t stomach two people so obviously in love with each other but ignoring it, ignoring being happy, belonging to someone, and—
I miss you.
