“I’m sure he’d appreciate your empathy and support, but the fact Andy’s not the first to get behind the wheel after one too many doesn’t excuse him or fix the fallout.” Avery sighed. “I’m sorry, guys, I can’t talk right now. I’m dead on my feet. I’ll call you later.”
Avery set the phone aside and rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow. She forced Andy’s troubles from her mind, including the recurring images of him lying bruised and beaten in his hospital room. How must Grey look? Her last coherent thought, as she drifted into the soothing peace sleep promised, was of Grey’s seductive eyes.
Grey lumbered out of the doctor’s office on crutches, carrying his presurgical instructions. Thankfully, Trip had pulled the Backtrax van up to the curb for him. After several clumsy steps, Grey handed his crutches to Trip and gently slid into the front seat.
“How’re you feeling?” Trip tossed the crutches in the back of the van and slammed the door.
“Shitty. Wish I didn’t have to wait another ten days for the surgery.” Grey shifted uncomfortably in the front seat and winced. Thankfully the painkillers helped numb the sharp twinges of bending and straightening the joint. But stuffing his leg into the car kinda sucked. “How were today’s treks?”
“Let’s get home and settled before we talk about business, okay?” Trip turned south out of the hospital driveway. “You need surgery. Maybe your first concern should be your health.”
“Don’t remind me.” Grey rubbed his thigh just above the knee with care. “I know it could be worse, but this damned injury screwed me during the final weeks of ski season.”
“Well, the driver got hurt, too.” Trip glanced at Grey from beneath the brim of one of his dozen cowboy hats. “I hear he’s looking at felony charges.”
“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.
“He’s certified, Grey. PSIA, AIARE, yada yada.” Trip sank into the chair across from Grey, removed his cowboy hat and placed it, upside down, on the table.
“Certifications don’t mean shit if the guy doesn’t have the right combo of personality and restraint on the mountain.”
“He’s seasoned and mature. Available on short notice. Definitely good enough to get us through the rest of ski season.”
“Every time I think about the extra salary expense, let alone my personal loss in tips, I could strangle Andy Randall.” Grey locked his hands behind his head. “But I appreciate the way you’ve been picking up the slack these past couple of days.”
“No problem. But don’t micromanage the money for the next few months. It’s a setback, but you gotta focus on the big picture. Take a long-range view.” Trip stared at Grey’s sucker and then motioned for one with his hand. Unlike Grey, he immediately began crunching on the candy after shedding the wrapper. “Just get through surgery and start with therapy right away. I’ve heard it takes seven to twelve months before you can ski.”
“Don’t worry.” Grey pushed up his sleeves and started sifting through the mail on the coffee table. “I’ll recover quickly.” He stopped at the hand-addressed yellow envelope.