Page 44 of Jaded

“Bet.” The play starts up again, but his gaze doesn’t turn back down. So . . . I keep talking. “I love snow. And winter sports. I got no problem with the cold.”

“Cold here’s different.” His head tips slightly towards me, like he’s sizing me up. “Trust me. Most people don’t last long on this team. Especially surfer boys.”

My brows lift. “Who says I’m a surfer boy?”

“I do. Not here, though.”

“Brought my board anyway.” In some distant part of my mind, I realize I’ve stopped paying attention to the game.

He snorts out a surprised laugh, drawing my gaze to the ticked-up corner of his mouth. “Did you really?”

“Yep. It’s my favorite.” I snatch my phone up to skip a slower song. “But while I’m here I expect to do a lot more skiing than surfing.”

“Not snowboarding, surfer-boy?” A tiny furrow appears between his dark brows. Why is that adorable, that little crease of confusion? Or maybe I just like the idea that I’m interesting enough to bewilder him.

“Nope. Ski.” I set the phone back down, Adalita’s Way “What It Takes” playing now. “Snowshoeing too.”

“Snowshoeing? Isn’t that for old people?” Amusement threads his words.

“Maybe. I dunno. I did it this morning.” I’m babbling, but I don’t seem to be able to turn off the fountain of words, never can when I get going. “I love nature. And being in it. Hiking, biking, skiing, snowshoeing . . . Anything, really. Very cathartic, you know?”

“Cathartic?”

“Hell yes—” But my words are lost beneath the wail of the buzzer.

“Fuck,” Nat groans, sliding a little lower in his seat. “Don’t know what I was really expecting, but dammit.”

I’m very much with him on that, but what use is there dwelling on what seems to be the inevitable? So . . . maybe I do a little conversation steering. “You’ve been up in the Dry Lakes Hills, I assume?”

Nat tilts his head back toward me, brow half knitted. “Sure. When I was a kid.”

“You grew up here?”

“Yep.” His gaze slides back towards the ice.

“And you haven’t had any inclination to go back out there?” My turn for a furrowed brow of confusion. “Have you?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you hate it here.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can get a lid on it—before I’ve even realized I’ve thought them. Whoops. “I mean—”

His head snaps towards me, green gaze like a laser. “What makes you thinkthat?”

His brows twist into confusion, and I think maybe I do this a lot, say things most people don’t say. Or maybe I’m just not suave enough to say the things I’m supposed to say.

Why am I the most awkward creature on the planet?

But still, somehow, my tongue keeps flapping. “It’s easy to overlook a place where you’ve spent too long. Stop seeing it for all its possibilities. Like how you don’t see things about yourself that other people love, or like all the Arizonans who’ve never been to Sedona or hiked the Grand Canyon.”

And there I go, babbling.

“Excited tourists are always sussing out cool new spots, ya know?” And still, still,still, I keep talking. “You need a tourist to show you around.”

“Is that what you are?” he asks, and when I angle my gaze up, his green eyes bore down on me from beneath the backwards brim of his hat. “An excited tourist?”

“I’d consider myself as such, yes.” I don’t know why he hasn’t walked off or told me to stop or changed the subject. “So if you ever want to go for a hike . . .”

“A hike?” His brows twist again. Because there I go again saying all the awkward, forward things nobody says.

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