Page 42 of On the Slopes of Tahoe
“I do.”
“More than justshrimp on the barbie?” I attempt to mimic his accent but butcher it horribly.
He barks a carefree laugh and bends at the waist, planting his hands on the counter and shaking his head slightly.
“You know? I think I’ve maybe cooked shrimp once, and neveron thebarbie.”
“Well, that’s disappointing. Here I’ve spent all these years imagining you working over the grill and it’s all a lie.”
Eyes alight, he says, “You’ve been imagining me for years, huh?” His smirk morphs into a grin that presses his dimples deep into his cheeks.
Oh shit.My cheeks flame and I duck my head. “I—Well, I, uh…”
I’m saved from the stuttering mess I’ve turned into by a squeal behind me. I turn to find tiny legs, in a pair of flannel pink pajamas and fuzzy slippers, running toward me.
“Rory!”
“Hey, Bug. I was trying to get your dad to tell me what we’re having for dinner. Maybe you can convince him.”
“Dad let me help make homemade pizzas. Mine’s shaped like a heart, and yours is too.” She looks so proud of herself, as she should be. I love pizza but can never get the dough right.
“What about your dad’s, is his a heart too?”
“No, he made himself a snowboard,” Willow says with an eyeroll.
Breck reaches across the counter and boops her nose. “Aka an oval. A little heart wasn’t going to cut it. I’m hungry.”
“Same.” I didn’t eat lunch, jumping straight onto my computer when we got back from our morning on the slopes.The snow started around eleven and we left shortly after for Willow’s sake. Breck and I could’ve gone all day, but she’s not there yet. She’s comfortable on several of the intermediate runs now and she doesn’t fall much anymore unless she’s trying to do something she probably shouldn’t. Like attempting a bunny hop over a bump in the snow or going faster than she’s ready for.
“What movie did you pick, Willow Bear?” Breck asks, opening the oven door and sliding a pizza onto an oversized spatula. It manages to get the whole thing out in one go, and I make a mental note to ask my parents where they got it. Once we’re on speaking terms again, that is. Thank goodness for this storm pushing them to cancel family dinner tonight. Not that I was planning to go regardless.
“Frozen,” she says matter-of-factly, and I chuckle.
“Because it’s snowing, right?” I ask, and she nods. The smile on her face is beautiful, just like her dad’s.
“But we’ve watched that one a hundred times… since we’ve been here,” Breck says, exasperated.
“It’s my favorite though.” She pouts, and I know he won’t win this argument.
His shoulders sag in defeat and he just nods. “Okay, go get it set up and I’ll bring in dinner.” He looks at me. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Whatever you’re having is good.”
He slides a bottle of red wine and a bottle opener across the island to me and then collects a couple of stemless glasses. He opens the oven again, pulling another pizza out, and slides it onto the counter.
“Those look fantastic. Thanks for cooking,” I say, pulling the cork free of the bottle. I relish the sound of the cabernet sloshing into the glass. The benefit of living less than a quarter mile away is I can enjoy it and have no issue walking home… assuming the snow isn’t up to my knees by the time we finish the movie.
Breck pulls out the final pizza and fishes a cutter from a drawer, ready to massacre their hard work.
“Wait.” I stop him and pull out my phone to take a picture. The hearts have expanded so they look more blobby than anything, but it’s the thought that counts. I also notice my pizza doesn’t match theirs. His is covered in red sauce, cheese, and every kind of meat imaginable. Willow’s is just cheese and pepperoni. But mine—mine has pesto and feta and sundried tomatoes and chicken… It’s almost identical to the Mediterranean one I ordered when we went out with everyone last week.
I look from the pizza to Breck and note a nervous smile playing around his eyes.
“Does it look okay?”
“It looks perfect,” I breathe. “I can’t believe you bought all the stuff to make this…”
It should be mortifying that I’m getting choked up. But… when was the last time someone remembered what I like well enough to make it from scratch at home? My ex couldn’t even remember how I took my coffee.
