Page 32 of Holidating
“Almost there,” he says, stepping effortlessly into his own skis. Then he hands me a set of poles with straps on them. “Put your whole wrist through that loop—upward—and then grab the pole.”
“Got it. Thanks. If I fall down and break something, we can use these to drag my body back to the house.”
Weston cracks up. “C’mon, Abbi. You got this. We’re just going to shuffle forward. The track is just over there.” He points with a pole toward the trees. “Follow me.” Then he scoots off in that direction.
I try to mimic his stride, with each pole alternating sides with my skis. And it’s…doable, I guess. I’m shuffling along behind him with tiny little strides, taking care not to fall down.
When we reach the tree line, I see the track. It’s a flattened path in the snow. And off to the side there’s a set of two grooves through the snow, side by side. “Is that where we put our skis?”
“Yup,” he says. “You don’t even have to steer. Let the track do the work. Go on. Try it.”
Gingerly, I slide in, one awkward ski at a time. When Weston leads me forward again, though, it’s definitely easier. I scoot each ski forward in a rhythm, poling with my hands to propel me along.
“Yesssss!” he shouts. “That’s it!”
I move forward on the perfect white snow, pine trees on either side of me. There’s a brilliant blue sky overhead. “Okay, this is almost fun.”
“Almost?” he snickers.
“Well, I’m slow,” I admit. “I could probably walk faster than I’m skiing right now.”
“With all of five minutes’ experience, I really would have expected better from you.”
“I know, right?”
He leaves the track and glides up next to me on the path. “Do me a favor and try to ski like a gorilla.”
Still striding, I throw him a quick glance. “Why? So you can blackmail me with the pictures later?”
“Thanks for that brilliant idea, but all I was trying to do was lengthen your stride.”
“Show me,” I demand, stopping midstride.
“Sure thing. Look. I’m bending my knees a little bit, reaching my arms out, my upper body tilted forward. And…” He starts to move. “Hoo hoo hoo hee hee,” he says, pursing his lips like a gorilla.
I can’t help it. I giggle just like his female fan club at the Biscuit after a game.
“Hoo hoo hoo,” he says, striding forward. And—fine—I can see how the posture assists his skiing. He circles back, the gorilla noises growing louder. He doesn’t even stop when a man skis by him with a tiny kid in a pack on his back.
Yup. I’m a little more in love with him than I was already. Any hot guy who will voluntarily humiliate himself to teach you to ski has got to be a keeper.
“Your turn.” He stands up straight and smiles at me.
“All right,” I agree. “But only because you’re a really good sport.”
“Nah,” he says. “That title goes to you this weekend. Now let’s see it. Show me some gorilla, Abbi.”
I skip the noises. But I lean forward and start skiing again.
“Yeah! There you go.” He glides forward and ignores the track in favor of skiing next to me. We press on as the path turns around the lake. I can see skaters out in the center, and steam rising from the little metal chimneys on several of the ice fishing huts.
“You do any fishing?”
“Nope,” he says. “Too boring. Ice fishing is for old guys with beer guts. They just sit in there and drink all day.”
We ski side by side, and I start to get the hang of it. But it’s work. I’m puffing along now, and a light breeze sends snow glittering from the pine boughs down onto the path. “How long is this trail, anyway?”
“Oh, not long. About ten miles.”
