Shut Up And Kiss Me (gxg)

33. F*ck Skiing

       IT MUST HAVE BEEN a cold day in hell.

       When the bus jolted to a stop, four hours later, I jerked away and realized my cheek was buried in a certain warm leather jacket.

       "Morning, sunshine," said Monroe.

       If I got to wake up every morning with those words, I think I'd die happy. 

       And it hit me, so suddenly that I wrenched my head away from Monroe's shoulder: I didn't just not hate her. I wanted to be with her.

       Not just sexually. The book had made me realize that. She might have long, sexy legs and an ass that made me stare every damn time she walked away, but . . . fuck. All our time in the library arguing, our laser tag match—there was something about her. I still wanted to fuck her, but I wanted to fall in love with her, too.

         Fall in love. 

         That was scary. That was worse than scary. Loving Monroe meant I couldn't wish away the part of me that liked girls.

         So the best I could do now, after jumping away from her, was say, "Um. Thanks."

         "For what?"

        She damn well knew for what. "Letting me sleep on your shoulder. The whole ride."

        It reminded me of when I'd woken up in her bed, my hand between her—

        Best not to think of that. 

        For some reason, Monroe seemed to require my whole focus. But as I narrowed in on the world around us, I realized students were slowly piling off the bus.

       Since Monroe and I were in the back, we were the last ones. I reached for my duffel bag, but Monroe just slipped it over her shoulder.

       "I can carry that," I protested.

       She grinned, and it was fucking breathtaking. "It's not that heavy."

       That was a lie. I knew exactly how heavy it was, but . . . God, arguing suddenly seemed like the most useless thing in the world. Why bother when I could be making out with her?

        Quickly, I shook my head and hurried off the bus. Behind me, Monroe stopped.

        "Why'd you—" My eyes skated upwards. "Oh."

        The skiing resort in Vail, Colorado was gorgeous. Draped in thick, glittering white snow, the sloping rooftops reminded me almost of a palatial view. Like a French castle in the middle of winter. Up above, I saw the tall peaks of mountains and the glimmering mist that snaked against the sapphire-blue sky.

        This was our home for the next five days.

        No parents. No consequences.

        "Never gets old," Monroe said, squinting up at the sky. Her face was bathed in the bright, almost blinding white light, and she shone in a way that made me want to say a bad pick-up line about angels.

        Inside, the view was just as gorgeous—but cozier. Roaring fireplaces and glossy hewn wood, with rich reds and warm oranges artfully decorating every inch of the lodge. The lights were dimmed, but the blazing fires were enough light that it felt almost otherworldly to be standing here.

         It seemed the seniors were the first ones to arrive, because I didn't see any of the grade nines or tens or elevens. 

        At the desk, a secretary smiled politely at us, like we were a bunch of wild teenagers who had just stumbled onto the skiing lodge by accident.