Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

“My bodies is done with this lesson, I think.” I reach for my pole with a grunt. “What’s a yard sale?”

Clyde clips out of his skis and grabs mine, setting them side by side perpendicular to the slope. “It is a great joke, yes? The yard sale happens when the person goes poof! in the snow, and they lose all their things, even sometimes their dignity. Haha!”

“Hilarious.” I nod at the blunts. “Hand me those?”

By the time I get to the bottom of the mountain half an hour later, I’m somehow soaked with sweat and frozen at the same time, with shins that scream and an acute need for a toke and a beer.

Look, I get that being in Aspen is the stuff of dreams. Growing up, I’d never imagined I’d step foot in a place like this, much less stay here in a five-star hotel on downtown’s swankiest street. I’m one lucky bastard. But for whatever reason, I’m just not feeling the whole ski bum thing.

Heading for Ajax Tavern to meet up with Rhett—it’s the place for après ski in Aspen—I wonder if they’ll have any Lady Luck on tap. That Hefeweizen I had in Vegas a few weeks back was delicious.

I step inside the restaurant. I groan. It’s packed with a mix of wind-burned skiers and pretty young things. The tables are crowded with fondue spreads and pricey craft cocktails, while buckets of champagne sweat at the service station toward the back.

Samuel would love this place. So would Emma.

My knee-jerk reaction is to shove those two from my head. But lately, my thoughts about them are less guilt-ridden and murder-y, and more . . . neutral, I guess? Some thoughts, like this one, would be downright pleasant if it wasn’t for the gut-punch of longing they gave me.

It’s been almost ten months since I left Blue Mountain. I didn’t miss the place—or the people—much at all at the beginning of this bender.

Now, though? Now I think I am starting to miss the farm. A lot. So much so that it’s making me grumpy, as evidenced by today’s lessons with Clyde.

The hostess leads me back outside to a slopeside table on the deck. There are heaters everywhere, and a gas fire flickers merrily from the center of the table itself.

As usual, Rhett is surrounded by a clutch of beautiful women. It’s the same wherever we go: he’s the life of the party, cracking jokes and flirting while everyone rips shots.

Something that’s not the same? How I’ve had no interest in that shit since Vegas. A place like Ajax would’ve been right up my alley a couple weeks ago. But now? Now the “scene” just makes me feel tired, which sucks because Rhett’s team didn’t make the playoffs, and he’s in full beast mode this week, partying harder than ever.

I tear off my hat and land heavily in the chair beside my brother. I’m gonna eat, and then I’m gonna hole up in my hotel room for the rest of the afternoon. Get stoned and maybe play some guitar.

Rhett’s mouth twitches. “How’s skiing?”

“Hate it. How’s blacking out?”

“Love it.” He leans forward to grab a fry from one of the girls’ plates and looks at me. “We need to have a word. Mindy, you and your girls mind giving us a minute?”

Mindy gives Rhett a long, heated glance before rising, her girls following.

Rhett watches Mindy go, his eyes glued to her ass in her tight pink ski pants. He rubs his hands together and lets out a low breath. “I like Aspen.”

I grab a menu. “What’d you get?”

“But you—I don’t think you’re feeling it here.”

“Honestly?” I toss the menu back onto the table. “I’m not. It’s cold. My ass hurts. And I can’t tell if Clyde is intentionally making me feel bad or if being rude is just a French person thing.”

“Who’s Clyde?”

I wave him away. “No one you want to know.”

“Welp, hate to say it, but the news I got ain’t gonna make you feel any better.”

My stomach knots. “What’s up?”

“I don’t think there’s an easy way to tell you this, so I’m just gonna spit it out.” His expression softens. “It’s Samuel. He wants to talk to you. He and Emma are ready to set a date, but they aren’t gonna do it without your blessing. They’re having an engagement party next month. We’re all invited, obviously, but they really want you to be there so they can make sure you’re okay before they, you know, commit to planning the wedding.”

I screw up my face. “What? That’s ridiculous. They should just do what they want.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I make sure no one’s too close, and there aren’t any kids around. Then I dig a joint out of my pocket and light it with the table’s gas fire. I take a hard pull, the smoke burning my lungs on the way in and my eyes on the way out.