Snow Angel: A Winter Romance Read online

  Snow Angel

  A Winter Romance

  Tamara Lush

  Edited by

  Rebecca Cartee

  Contents

  Also by Tamara Lush

  SNOW ANGEL

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  DIRTY LIES

  About the Author

  Also by Tamara Lush

  Constant Craving

  Tell Me a Story

  Tell Me a Fantasy

  Copyright © 2018 by Tamara Lush

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  SNOW ANGEL

  She's a globetrotting free spirit. He's a serious business major. They’ve been friends since they were born…and now they’re trapped during a blizzard in a mountain cabin.

  Charlotte King has known Oliver Menendez her entire life. When she was was five, she kissed Oliver. When she was fifteen, Oliver kissed her. Even though they grew up together in Florida, they went their separate ways in college.

  Now they're older and stuck in a Vermont ski cabin during Snowmageddon — and they do a whole lot more than kissing.

  Will they share their long-buried feelings, or will their romance melt like the spring snow?

  Two Floridians.

  One blizzard.

  A lifetime of unrequited love.

  Snow Angel is a continuation of Tamara Lush’s Constant Craving and Tell Me a Story books. Charlotte and Oliver are the children of the couples in those novels, and if you like friends-to-lovers stories, laugh-out-loud moments and sweet-hot love scenes, then this is the book for you!

  * Snow Angel was initially published in the Reindeer Games anthology. This is the expanded version of that story.

  Chapter 1

  CHARLOTTE

  I dig my nails into the steering wheel, annoyed because I’ve been in the car so long. This is definitely not how I want to spend vacation.

  It’s the Thursday before the first weekend of spring break, and I turned in a paper early so I could drive from college in Burlington to Stowe Mountain to meet up with my family. Driving’s not the best description, though. Inching. At slow speed. Because there’s a massive storm underway. Measured in feet, not inches. A March Nor’easter. Blizzard. Snowmageddon.

  It’s taken me three hours to drive forty miles, and I still have my doubts whether I’ll actually make it.

  Why can’t my Florida family love palm trees and beaches in the spring? Why does it have to be snow and mountains every year? Last year, Colorado. The year before that, Whistler.

  The phone burbles over the car speaker. The dashboard screen flashes the word MOM, and I stab a button on the wheel.

  “Mom. Oh My God. Mom. It’s so bad here! The snow is crazy,” I squeal.

  “Are you driving?” A muffled series of thuds crackle over the speaker.

  “Yeah. Still. It’s been hours in this blizzard. A lifetime. You there?”

  “Caleb!” Mom’s voice is distant. She’s calling for Dad. “Honey, she’s driving. In that storm. She’s a Florida girl in the wilderness in Vermont. She can’t take this. Pull over, Charlotte.”

  “Mom, I’m barely going five miles an hour. There’s nowhere to pull over other than a snow bank. I’m in a traffic jam on Route 100. I haven’t seen this many cars here since that moose stood in the middle of the road that summer we came here for a yoga retreat.”

  “Sweetheart?” My dad’s low rumble fills the car. “Are you sure you shouldn’t stop for a bit? Get a bite to eat?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. I’m close. Maybe the lodge at the resort will be open for dinner. When are you guys getting here?”

  Mom makes a little strangled squeak—she and I have the same voice and make the same squealy noises. It’s genetic, like how we’re both height challenged and have curly dark hair and the need to wax our upper lips every ten days. We share some non-DNA traits, too. We’re both vegetarians. We think reading should be an Olympic sport. She also instilled in me a love of champagne.

  Dad’s sigh is loud. “We’re getting ready to head to the airport now, pumpkin. Supposed to meet Rafael, Justine, Uncle Colin, and Aunt Samantha. The pilot’s not sure if he can get us there, though. The storm’s that bad.”

  I let out an indignant noise. “Wouldn’t it have been easier if I flew to Florida for break? Maybe I could still get a flight.”

  “I doubt it.”

  My stomach tightens. “Wait. Back up. Rafael and Justine? Are their kids coming, too?”

  I grunt as I listen to Mom and Dad’s hushed voices. They’re debating something and not answering my question, so I assume the answer is yes.

  I’ve known Alex, Alba, and Oliver my whole life. Their parents are best friends with my parents. Alex is a handsome pro soccer player, and Alba is a smart as hell marine biologist. They’re like the older siblings I never had as an only child.

  And their youngest, Oliver, is the one who’s closest in age to me. Two years older. He graduated with an economics degree from NYU, interned at a shipping company in Panama for a year, and now he’s at MIT in Boston, getting an MBA. He’s also the owner of the sleepiest, sexiest, most soulful near-black eyes I’ve ever seen.

  I sigh out loud. We haven’t seen each other since high school, and that fact hurts my heart a little.

  Okay, more than a little. Starting in middle school, I’d harbored a massive, secret crush on Oliver Menendez. I’m not a shy person, but for reasons I’ve never figured out, I didn’t possess the courage back then to tell him how I felt. At one point, I thought the feelings were mutual. But I was dead wrong.

  So the possibility of seeing him leaves me cold. As cold as the ice on these roads.

  “Mom? Dad?”

  The phone on my parents’ end makes a dull clunk. The sound of footsteps grows louder. “Charlotte? You there?” Dad asks in a hushed voice.

  “I am, Dad.”

  “I’m in my office now. I had to step away from your mom.”

  Despite the blasting heat in the car, a chill goes through me. “Why? Do you have news?”

  “I wanted to talk to you in private. About this vacation. We would have had you come to Florida, but your mother wanted everyone together. Vermont was her idea. You. Me. Uncle Colin. Her friends. Everyone that she loves.” Dad’s voice is low and shaky. “Let’s make this the best vacation ever. For her.”

  “Oh God, Dad. I didn’t know.” Now I’m almost in tears. Usually he organizes our family vacations because he’s the skier and hiker and outdoorsy one. Mom and I prefer to snooze, read, and drink cocoa by the closest fireplace. Or cocktails by a pool.

  “What did the doctor say?” I’d unsuccessfully tried to push this situation with Mom out of my mind for the last couple of weeks.

  “She hasn’t called. Your mother’s in a quiet panic, and I’m about to make another call to the specialist’s office.” I can tell Dad’s patience has run out by the tense, strangled tone to his voice. He hates to wait. “Hopefully the doctor hasn’t left for the weekend, and we’ll have news before we leave. It’s only Thursday, so I’m sure we’ll hear today or tomorrow.”

  I swallow a lump in my throat. “Wouldn’t they have called if something was really wrong? I mean, she had that abno
rmal mammogram last month. They wouldn’t make her wait, would they?”

  “One would assume they’d act quickly if something was wrong.” I hear the tapping of a pen on a hard surface, something he does when he’s thoroughly annoyed. “I’ve done all I can to hustle the situation along. Look, I should go and call before we get on the road. You need to be careful while driving. I’m serious.”

  The car in front of me moves, and my foot feathers the gas pedal. “Now I feel like crap for whining. It’s just that I want to see you and Mom. I even have a present for her. I bought Mom that dog woodcut print from Stephen Huneck I was telling you about. The one that says ‘Love is Give and Take.’ The one with the black labs. Can’t you fly commercial? Wouldn’t it be easier?”

  “If the airports are closed, they’re closed to commercial and private planes. We’ll know our flight status soon enough. And you know Mom wants to bring Harry. So we have to take the jet.”

  Harry’s her black lab. The inspiration for my gift. Next to my dad and me, the love of her life.

  “We’re doing the best we can, Charlotte. Trust me.”

  “I guess this means you’ll get in late. Or tomorrow morning. Okay. I can deal with that. No problem. I’ll just chill at the cabin and read. Watch TV.”

  Mom’s voice comes into the background. “Caleb, what are you doing in here? Are you still talking to Charlotte?”

  More clunks and shuffles of the phone crackle through the car. “Charlotte, did you get the lock code for the cabin? I emailed, but you didn’t respond.”

  “I did, Mom. And I thought I responded.”

  “Perhaps you did; I’ve been distracted this week.”

  “No, I’m distracted,” I say quickly, trying to distract her. Jesus. We’re a jumble of distraction and awkwardness. If Mom’s really sick, how are we going to cope?

  The answer: we probably won’t. Well, I won’t, at least.

  Dad murmurs something to Mom, words I can’t quite make out. She giggles and says his name in a mock chiding way. He’s probably grabbing her butt or something, trying to take her mind off everything.

  Or he’s just being affectionate. Even when they’re not faced with a medical crisis or Snowmageddon, they’re like newlyweds. It used to gross me out as a teenager. Now I think it’s kind of cool that my parents still adore each other.

  Although it does leave me gutted at times because I assume I’ll never find a love like theirs.

  “We’ll call soon. As soon as we know when we’re leaving, sweetheart. Take it easy while driving,” Dad calls out.

  “Drive safe, call when you get there,” Mom coos.

  I poke the button on the steering wheel. The road’s opened up and traffic’s gone. Three miles to go. Three miles to think about what will happen if Mom has cancer.

  She’s too young for this. She’s fifty-six. A successful bookstore owner. Dad’s soul mate. My best friend.

  She needs to be there for me when I decide what to do with my life. When I get my first real job. When I get married. If I get married, which is unlikely given the crop of guys I’ve met these four years in college.

  The thick feeling in the back of my throat is back, and when I pull onto the road into the ski resort, I shudder in a breath. When I park next to the big chalet, my cheeks are wet, and I wipe them with the sleeves of my sweater. I’m like Mom in one other way, too; I’m super emotional and have no problem with showing my feelings in public. Uncle Colin calls Mom and me “empaths.” Aunt Sarah rolls her eyes and says we’re both drama queens.

  I hope Aunt Sarah, Aunt Laura, and their son are coming. I’d forgotten to ask about them. Sarah’s my mom’s best friend, and Laura’s my dad’s sister. They always make Mom laugh. I hope they’re already here. The idea of having a proper cocktail, like an adult, with Aunt Sarah, lifts my mood a notch. She probably already has a whiskey-spiked hot toddy mixture warming in a crock-pot.

  I climb out of the SUV and almost immediately lose my footing on the snow-covered icy driveway. It’s my fault for wearing impractical, knee-high vegan leather boots with heels, but they looked awesome with my white, thigh-high stockings and my lacy, cream-colored boho dress.

  I slip on a matching tan vegan leather jacket and hoist my duffel bag out of the back. Not the best attire for a blizzard, but whatever. It’s super cute. I did remember to wear my fuzzy rose-colored scarf. No small feat for a Florida girl who’s never gotten used to New England winters.

  My exhale forms a puffy white vapor cloud in the cold winter air. It’s March, for God's sake. In Florida I'd be sweating. Here? Massive spring snowstorm.

  Tottering up to the giant slope-side cabin, I wonder how many people are joining us. The bag weighs heavy on my arm. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought all this crap.

  I make a mental note to change into my flat, faux fur boots so I won’t kill myself when I come back to grab the rest of my stuff.

  When I get to the front door, I let the duffle bag plop to the ground and fish my smartphone out of my pocket as I do a full-body shiver, like a dog. It’s snowing like crazy, really coming down now. Where’s mom’s email with the code? Could’ve sworn it was right—

  Just then, the heavy wood door flings open. I’m so startled by the tall, muscular figure on the other side that I gasp and step back, my heel skidding on the ice-slick walkway.

  As I fall on my ass, I realize who it is.

  Oliver Menendez. Looking sexy as all hell in an oatmeal-colored Henley that clings to his biceps. And gray sweatpants that hug all the right places.

  Well.

  He sure has grown up.

  Chapter 2

  CHARLOTTE

  “Oh hey.” I’m trying to be nonchalant, as if I just plopped down on the ground, legs splayed. The ice and fluffy snow numbs my ass cheeks.

  “Whoa. You okay?” Oliver holds out his hand, and I take it. When my skin touches his, I’m instantly warm all over.

  He smells exactly the same as he did when I last saw him. Like freshly laundered clothes, Florida sun, and a drop of dangerous, spicy-musk man smell that never fails to make my insides melt.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I look up at him. Snowflakes have accumulated in his dark, unruly hair. Looking at him makes my heart bounce in my chest like a beach ball. “My God, you’ve gotten taller. And bigger.”

  He grins. It’s that wide, lazy Oliver smile that I’ve seen practically since I was born. Oh, shit. That smile never affected me until I turned fourteen. After that, I couldn’t get enough of his smile.

  Things have not changed one iota.

  “C’mon inside, Sharkie.” He lets go of one of my hands but keeps a grip on my upper arm, obviously wanting to steer me inside without another tumble.

  That he remembers my childhood nickname—I used to love sharks, and the first syllable of my name is phonetically similar to the ocean predator—makes me laugh. “Thanks. I need to come out and get the rest of my stuff.”

  “I got it.”

  We step inside the door and heat washes over me. Butterflies seem to have suddenly taken up residence in my stomach.

  “You have more than that big duffel?” His voice is low and growly. More man-like than I remember.

  “Yeah. I do. There are two more suitcases in the back. I’ll get them in a while.” My eyes take in the cabin and land on a large stone fireplace, complete with crackling fire. We’ve never rented this place before, never spent spring break in Vermont before. It’s way bigger than where we usually stay.

  I turn back to Oliver and am immediately captivated by his piercing eyes. My mind goes temporarily blank. I smile. He smiles.

  “Give me your keys. I’ll get the rest of your stuff.”

  My brain powers back to life. “Oh! You sure? I can help.”

  I hand him the keys and our fingers touch. There’s a zing and a zap, and the theme song to the Electric Company runs through my head.

  “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Stay here and warm up.” He flashes another brilliant smile
and walks out.

  His butt looks incredible in those sweatpants. I don’t think I’ll need the fire to warm me up if I keep staring at him. Yikes.

  I walk around the large living room, checking out the huge bouquet of fresh roses in a vase and the stone hearth. Those must be Mom’s doing. I’m sure she called ahead and requested the bouquet and the fire, right down to the perfect-looking logs in the gas fireplace. She’s a detail person.

  The living room is bland in the way that all upscale homes are. There’s a high wooden ceiling, a U-shaped sofa, and…wait. Red deer heads? Maybe it’s not so bland. I tilt my head and study the three ridiculous heads attached above the stone fireplace. They’re not real. In fact, they’re plastic. Like pop art. They somehow look decent with the traditional décor, as if Andy Warhol created something for a ski lodge.

  That’s when I spot a pillow on the massive console sofa. It says SKI LODGE in large red letters. I grin. Probably Mom chose this place because of those little touches. She likes the quirky and silly and will never pass up the absurdly ironic.

  The door slams shut, and I turn. Oliver’s hauling my big suitcase, a smaller duffel, a backpack, and a large vegan leather purse into the living room.

  “Oh, you don’t have to carry all that. Thanks.” I rush over to him and relieve him of the purse and the backpack. I expect him to comment on how I over packed, because that’s what guys do: make fun of women for insignificant crap.

  “Might as well get this to your room.” Odd. I never noticed how deep Oliver’s voice was. Then again, I haven’t seen him in six years.