Page 39 of Famous for a Living

“Yes. Of course.”

At this point I’d walk a hundred miles in the snow without complaining.

“You’re underdressed for weather like this.” He pulls more slush from my soaked boots.

I stand there, frozen to the spot—both literally and figuratively—arms dangling uselessly at my sides. “I thought I was working in the office. Mina said we were going to the office.”

All the slush now gone, he puts his hand on the tights over my ankle. Squeezes. Heat radiates from his hand to my skin. His breath plumes in the air as he exhales. Waiting.

I both hate this moment and can’t bring myself to speak and release myself from it.

Silently, he moves on to the next boot. Clears the slush and snow away. Warms me. “What happened to all your fancy gadget clothing?”

I purse my lips. He’s irritating, despite how much I welcome his warmth. “I don’t own battery-operated boots,” I reply, as though the idea is ridiculous. “I’m not a robot.”

“Just battery-operated coats then.”

I turn my head to the right and stare resolutely at the bark of a tall, leafless tree. His hand moves to the other side of my ankle, and my ankle begins to warm as his hand cools.

It’s a terrible moment, both loving and hating something so much simultaneously.

I give up trying to speak. Decide, instead, to file this away as another horribly embarrassing moment with Zaiah Smith, Week 1, I fully intend to pretend never happened.

As he stands at last, his knees are wet.

He doesn’t act like he notices. Who knows, maybe he really doesn’t. Maybe he’s spent his whole life out here and his body feels the same way mine does on a spring day walking from West 81st Street to Amsterdam Avenue. It’s just one breezy kind of day. I wouldn’t be surprised. Even the ice crystals glittering on his beard look warm. Even the rosy hue on his cheeks looks warmed by the sunshine instead of windchill.

But as my eyes drift upward, they catch his gaze as he watches me. His irises, green as the evergreens around us, look not so unsympathetic and emotionless as his words. They’re full. Thoughtful. Concerned. Even I can see in them as clearly as if he spoke the words aloud: “Sorry. I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t realize.”

I stiffen.

So. He’s one of those good ol’ country boys. The kind who thinks it’s his responsibility to make sure the lady is taken care of.

I wasn’t aware they still existed.

In fact, I’m not sure if I should be offended.

If this were Park Avenue, the rule of thumb was to hail your own cab and leave him standing in a puddle of chosen words and public humiliation.

You need your girlfriends.

You need your coffee-shop barista who knows exactly what you drink.

But you certainly don’t need a man.

A twig snaps in the distance, and I turn my head toward the sound. Nothing but a whip of cold wind burning my cheeks replies.

But this isn’t Park Avenue, is it? This is the middle of nowhere, Montana, and if Zaiah for any reason left me here alone, I am fairly certain—no, entirely certain—I’d be a Popsicle in minutes.

I allow myself a small smile—small enough to relay the message back, and no bigger: It’s fine. Really. Let’s just move on.

Another thing I’d very much like to pretend never happened.

Ten more minutes of thigh-burning and feet-freezing hiking and we reach an opening between trees. A small wooden sign, half hidden by snow, says: –des Peak.

Here at last.

“I’ll get a fire going.” Zaiah strides through the opening between the trees, and I see it.