LOL #3 Romantic Comedy Anthology Page 21

  “Life rule number one: don’t fly over the Andes in a small plane in the winter. Do you think the Rockies should be added to that?”

  “Really?” He leans back and shakes out his paper before folding it in half and then half again. “That’s still life rule number one? Not save the children and animals in a house fire? Or honor you marriage vows?” His wedding ring catches the sunlight through the window as he holds up his hand.

  “Those are givens, no rule needed.” I lift his wrist and kiss the platinum band.

  “We could always make the three hour drive back to Denver next weekend. Avoid any chance of me turning into Ethan Hawke.” He kisses my cheek.

  I frown and turn to kiss his lips. “You’ve aged much better.”

  His laugh makes his small paunch jiggle. It’s not really fair to call it a paunch, but it wasn’t there in his thirties, and definitely not in his twenties. Other than a few gray hairs at his temples and a slightly higher forehead, he’s still a damn handsome man. Maybe even the “d” word: distinguished.

  “Good to know.” He returns to his paper.

  The flight attendant walks through the small cabin, reminding us to return our seats to their upright position and stow our blah, blah blah. I notice her hand pauses on Ben’s seat a little longer than the others. Her “Mr. Grant” comes out like a purr. Hello, I’m sitting right next to him and he’s wearing a ring. I should be used to this. Younger women see men like my husband as catches. Established, wealthy, successful men like Ben have an aura of confidence women find appealing. Wives and family be damned. Good luck, sister. I snort. Ben casts me a sidelong look and hands his paper to the lingering stewardess. I roll my eyes and return to my window.

  After few more bounces, sways and turns, the plane finds the narrow strip of flat ground that is the Aspen airport. I think about kissing the tarmac when we walk down the stairs until the cold late afternoon wind hits me. “Brr, it’s cold” I shiver and wrap my down parka tightly around myself.

  “Sure you wouldn’t rather be in Florida where it’s warm?” Ben shouts over the noise from the jet and the wind.

  “And miss out on the hot toddies, hot tubs and hot men? No way!”

  He laughs, knowing there’s no way I’d ever get in a public hot tub. Not even at a five star hotel.

  Our driver looks like he moved here in the seventies and never left. Part hippie, part skier, he’s wearing an old school ski sweater with deep blue snowflakes and the car has a faint scent of cannabis beneath the cheery pine scent from the air-freshener on the dashboard.

  Ben meets my eyes and gestures like he’s smoking. “Doobie,” he whispers as if the pantomime and scent weren’t enough for me to figure out the connection.

  “You like the Doobie brothers?” Darren, the driver asks. “Me too.” He smiles at us in the rearview mirror.

  I have to look out the window to avoid bursting into giggles.

  Luckily it’s a short drive to The Little Nell Hotel, our home for the week. Located at the base of Ajax and the gondolas, The Nell is an Aspen institution. Our suite has a four-poster bed and a separate living area, both with incredible views of the mountain, currently tinged indigo with the setting sun. A fire glows in the fireplace, giving the effortlessly chic room a cozy feeling. I eye the bed and all sorts of salacious thoughts run through my head about putting the posts to good use. I’ve read too many books. Ben’s no dominant. Other than the occasional spank or slap, he’d probably think I’m crazy if I suggested anything kinky.

  Sighing, I walk into the enormous bathroom and set my cosmetics bag on the counter. The light is flattering, hiding my faint crows’ feet. I wiggle my eyebrows. The Botox is beginning to wear off, but my forehead is still smooth. I don’t look forty-something. Mid-thirties tops. I resist the urge to examine my face closer, knowing I’ll still be closer to fifty than thirty no matter how youthful my skin looks.

  The sound of Bloomberg TV carries in from the bedroom. I lean back to see Ben flopped on the bed, remote in his hand, business chatter flowing from the flat screen. We could be at home.

  “We have a dinner reservation at eight. I’m going to take a shower,” I call over to him.

  “Great.” He picks up his phone and texts something.

  Great. I sweep my shoulder length hair into a bun and turn on the enormous shower.

  “Plenty of room for two in the shower,” I shout.

  When there’s no response, I peek out of the bathroom. Ben’s on his phone and holds up his finger for silence.

  You can take the man away from the office, but these days, you can’t take the office away from the man. It’s Friday evening and I’m going to make the most of it. Maybe I’ll be able to lure him out dancing later. If not tonight, I have a plan for tomorrow night that should end with us screwing each other’s brains out like we used to do in college.

  Dried, lotioned, and made-up, I pull my hair out of its bun, letting the blond waves fall around my shoulders in a perfect tousled mess for dinner tonight. Ben’s moved his call to the living room, and closed the door to the bedroom. I unpack and hang our clothes in the closet, and put things in the drawers. Tonight’s outfit is a slim pair of dark jeans and a black cashmere tunic. It’s lightly snowing out and I debate heels or boots. Heels win because I doubt we’ll leave the hotel.

  Ben finally ends his call and declares he’s going to take a shower. His hand trails over my shoulder and down to the slight curve of my hip as he passes. The gesture is habitual, but sends a current through my body.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers despite it being the two of us.

  I smile and thank him, but he’s already in the bathroom.

  I sit on the bed and flip through channels, but nothing catches my attention. I’m in Aspen. There must be more interesting things to do than watch reruns on Bravo.

  Over the noise of the shower, I shout, “I’m going downstairs. I’ll meet you in the bar.”

  He says he’ll meet me there. At least I think that’s what he says as the steam shower begins to fog.

  Downstairs the aprés ski crowd is buzzing, crowding the cozy living room style lounge where a fire roars in the large stone fireplace. I find a seat at the end of the long bar in the restaurant. Like our suite, it’s beyond chic with classic and modern styles mixed together. Deep blues and light grays highlight the narrow space. The lighting is soft and everyone looks like they walked out of a fashion magazine. Faux and real fur accent both women and men, diamonds glitter, and casual looking ski clothes probably cost a fortune. I spin my three-carat engagement ring, an upgrade from the classic one-carat Ben proposed with after business school, while waiting for the bartender to take my order. Of course, he’s beautiful too. He’s either a snowboarder or model. Probably both. He has a neatly trimmed beard and, according to Ella, a man bun. Leave it to the thirteen year old to know more about fashion and trends than her mom. Man bun or not, he’s gorgeous with his dark hair and pale skin. And I am staring. I chomp on a handful of buttery Spanish marcona almonds from the small dish on the bar.

  I study the cocktail list until a deep baritone asks, “Can I get you something?”

  My eyes meet with clear blue. He had to be a model. “Um… ” I pause, every name for every alcoholic concoction leaving my head. “I’ll have… ” I stare at the fuzzy words in front of me.

  “What do you like? I’ll make you something special. Vodka? Bourbon? Tequila? Gin?”

  I frown at gin. Gin and I broke up many years ago, and we will never ever, ever get back together.

  “Vodka,” I meet his intense eyes and smile.

  “Are you a sweet or salty girl?” He leans on his arm in front of me.

  I know he’s asking about my drink preferences, but his flirting with patrons skill is impressive. “Sweet.” It comes out as a husky, secret-sharing whisper.

  “Citrus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like a little spice?”

  I nod, the muscles of his forearms where he
’s rolled up the cuffs of his shirt distracting me from actual speech. I note his fingers, neatly trimmed nails and an expensive vintage watch. He only has a smattering of hair on his arms. I wonder if he has chest hair. I mentally slap myself for imagining his naked chest. Or cataloguing the barest glimpse of his skin like it’s my job. Married, not blind. No harm in looking.

  “I have the perfect thing.” He pushes back from the counter and I have the urge to fan myself.

  His nimble hands and fingers grab bottles, squeeze lemon and muddle sugar. I think he adds ginger and maybe a bit of red pepper to the shaker. My focus moves up to his biceps as he shakes the silver container with vigor. So much enthusiasm and energy goes into the mixing of my cocktail. It reminds me of a jackrabbit.

  I wonder if he’d be fast like that in bed.

  Young, full of energy and too good looking to ever be told he was terrible in bed could be a terrible combination.

  He gently twists a thin slice of lemon peel before carefully setting it on the edge of the chilled glass he’s placed in front of me. He pours the honey colored liquid slowly into the glass, filling it almost to the edge, but not spilling a single drop.

  It’s the single most erotic thing I’ve witnessed in ages.

  I clearly don’t get out enough.

  He clears his throat and I realize he’s waiting for me to taste his concoction. I worry my hands might shake too much to lift the glass, so I lean forward, and take a small sip.

  I close my eyes as the sweet, intense flavor hits my tongue followed by the zing of heat despite the icy temperature of the drink.

  “It’s amazing.” I lick the corner of my lips before slowly opening my eyes.

  “Thank you. I love watching someone enjoy something I make.”

  I slowly blink at him. It must be the lack of oxygen, but one sip of alcohol has me feeling light and giddy.

  “Can I open a tab for you? Or charge it to your room?” His voice has a slight accent I can’t place. Could be South African or Australian. Or New Zealand.

  I give him our suite number and tell him to leave it open. He moves down the bar to help other customers, including a loud, giggling group of snow bunnies. They lean over the bar to flirt with him, exposing the cleavage hidden under their sweaters. He laughs and acts the part with them, but his glance keeps finding my eyes. He gives me a knowing smile and rolls his eyes when he reaches behind the bar to pour them another glass of prosecco.

  I could probably be the girls’ mother. It’s a sobering thought, and I finish my cocktail in a long swallow. I twist the stem of the martini glass, chastising myself for flirting with a bartender. Or wanting to. I love my husband. And here comes the but, but after twenty-years of the same man and the same penis and the same sex, we’re in a rut. We’ve probably been in this rut for years, but I’ve been in the haze of kids for a decade. With teenagers comes the realization that soon, we’ll be an us again, and that’s a little strange.

  “Can I get you another? Or something different?” Gorgeous and off limits asks.

  “Another.” I smile with my lips closed.

  He sets up to make my drink in front of me, rather than work near the gaggle of twenty-somethings. “Where are you from?”

  “Connecticut. At least now.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “We’ve moved around.”

  “Me too,” he says, flashing a row of perfectly white teeth. They remind me of a shark. I bet he has a long list of one-night stands around the world.

  “I was trying to place your accent.” I admit, then feel my cheeks heat.

  “Christchurch.”

  Kiwi.

  “What brought you to Aspen?” I can’t help my curiosity. The attention and ability to stare at his gorgeous face feeds my interest.

  “Rugby.”

  That’s a surprise. “Not the mountains?”

  He gives me a shy smile. “Rugby’s my first love, but I do all right on the slopes.”

  And off, I think. Rugby player? Could he get any hotter? I feel flushed, and I’m not sure if it’s the flirting, the alcohol, or an impending hot flash.

  “And you?”

  I blink at him, having no idea what he’s asking.

  “Me what?”

  “What brings you to Aspen?”

  “The typical… vacation, skiing.” Husband, but I don’t say that part out loud. I’m wearing my wedding set, so it’s not like I’m trying to hide that I’m married. Although my left hand is hidden on my lap. It’s rude to put elbows on tables and bars.

  “First time?”

  Flirting with a hot bartender? No.

  “No, we’ve been here before. For years, we stayed in Snowmass, so it’s nice to be in Aspen again.” Snowmass is code for family vacation with its abundance of condos and easier trails for beginners. I wonder if he’ll pick up on it.

  He shakes my cocktail and I stare at his arms again. I notice a shadow of black peeking out from under his left cuff. It looks thick and tribal. My mind imagines dark bands wrapping around muscle and curling up his arm to his shoulder.

  “Do you still play?” I attempt to make conversation.

  “Rugby? Yeah. But I’m getting old.” He sets my fresh drink in front of me.

  I snort and cover my mouth with my hand.

  He laughs, deep and masculine. The sound washes over me and I cross my legs impulsively.

  “It’s true. It’s a difficult sport on the body.”

  Images of tough, thick male bodies covered in mud, thrashing and tackling each other on a field come to mind. I purse my lips and exhale, slow and steady, trying to calm my heart rate.

  It must be the altitude and lack of oxygen, but this nameless bartender has my head spinning. Not that I would ever do anything with him, but in a few short sentences, he’s done more for my libido than porn or erotica have for months.

  Where’s Ben?

  Remembering I do have a husband and he should be down here by now, I scan the long bar area for his familiar brown hair. The crowd is beginning to thin as people move on to dinner reservations or naps before a night of clubbing. I’d love to go dancing again. It’s been ages.

  “Where’s the best place to dance in town this year?” I ask Kiwi, who is lingering near me.

  “What kind of dancing? Crazy club stuff with foam? Or honky-tonk with a live band?” He gives me a list of both types, listing some old Aspen standbys and new places.

  I snicker at honky-tonk and then cover it up with sipping my cocktail.

  “Don’t you say honky-tonk?” he smiles and leans back.

  “Not in Connecticut. Texas maybe. I’ve never been to one.”

  “No? Line dancing and country songs?” He studies my face. “No, you don’t seem the type.”

  “Oh, really? Go on” I sip and wait for his assessment.

  He puts his elbow on the bar in front of me and tips his head. “The type who doesn’t go to honky-tonk bars. Or clubs. Or sits alone at bars.”

  He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne and his man scent. He gives good pheromones.

  “Am I close?”

  Too close. “You’re very observant.”

  “It’s part of my job. Plus, I studied psychology at university. Comes into good use for playing rugby and bartending.”

  A jock and smart. I set down my glass and settle into my seat. “Well, you’ve figured me out.”

  “You’re more difficult to read than most women who sit here alone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He picks up a bar cloth and wipes down the counter to my right where two seats have opened. He places fresh bowls of almonds out for the next patrons.

  “You seem fine being alone. Happy about it even. Most single women have a slight edge of… ” his words fade out as he thinks of the adjective he wants.

  “Desperation? Sadness? Loneliness?” I fill in the blank he’s left.

  He smirks and moves a bowl of almonds in front of me. “Maybe all three? Some wom
en are all about the hunt, the game, the flirtation.”

  Put me in the last category. I’ve enjoyed chatting with him and his attention a little too much.

  “Some act like they’ll never get asked to dance, so they curl up and feel sorry for themselves. Won’t even make eye-contact.”

  I find myself locking eyes with him. He smirks.

  “It must be fascinating.”

  He gets called down to the gaggle of girls. They giggle and touch his arms where they rest on the bar. They’re bold and far more direct than I’ve ever been with men. Although it’s been decades since I was on the hunt.

  A man slips into the seat next to me. His body heat fills the space. I glance over out of curiosity, and am met with familiar brown eyes.

  “Hi,” I whisper, my cheeks warming.

  “Hello, Mrs. Grant.” His arm rests on the low back of my stool. “You’re beautiful when you smile and flirt.”

  Caught, I give him a deer in the headlights look.

  “No, need to be guilty. I’ve enjoyed watching you.”

  “You have?” I swallow. “From where?”

  He points to a small table with a banquette in the corner behind me. I didn’t see him when I scanned the bar earlier.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Long enough.” His fingers play down my spine and splay across the base, right above my ass. “You’re the most beautiful woman in here.” His breath skims across my skin right before he kisses my cheek near my ear.

  My gaze flicks to his and then down the bar.

  “He’s very handsome, but what’s with the bun?” Ben asks, munching on some almonds.

  “Ella calls them man buns.”

  “Looks like something Gil would have worn in college in that grunge band.”

  I chuckle, but nod. “He so would’ve.”

  The Kiwi god returns to us and, without missing a beat or looking surprised that I’m no longer alone, asks for Ben’s drink order, a Manhattan neat. Always. I catch myself watching the shaking again. I can’t help it.

  Another perfect cocktail is poured in front of us.