Rebound (Boomerang #2)(48)

“Nice of you guys. But don’t waste your energy. I’m going to see her if I want to, and . . . I do.”

“You’re not thinking straight,” Cookie says. “I don’t trust her. I’ve never trusted her.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s not just Alison,” Rhett adds. “It’s Graham Quick. I’ve been thinking about what Ethan said at poker. I’m worried, Adam.”

“Worried about Graham?” I look from him to Cookie. “You mean you’re worried about the deal?”

“Yes,” they both say.

“I’ve been asking around,” Rhett says. “Getting some other opinions on Quick. I haven’t been able to get anything. The three guys I talked to who had worked directly under him wouldn’t badmouth him. But get this. They wouldn’t say anything good about him, either. They just kept making these really canned, neutral remarks about how they’d learned a lot from Graham. They’re scared of him, Adam. It’s the only explanation.”

“Exactly,” Cookie says. “The only thing they learned was how to be scared shitless of Graham’s wrath.”

“I’ll keep digging,” Rhett says. “I’ve got a few other contacts who—”

I hold up my hand, stopping him. “Look, Rhett. Cookie. Do your research. Do what you feel you need to do.” I stand and peel a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet, dropping it on the bar. “But let me ask you this. Do you think I built my company by being scared?”

They have no answer, and I knew they wouldn’t.

I leave them to grab my gear and head over to the lodge.

It wasn’t fear, I think, as I step back out into the snow. It was grief.

Grief was the fuel that built Boomerang.





Chapter 27



Alison


Perfect.

Philippe and I hover in the doorway of one of the lodge’s bedrooms, Gucci bags strewn at my feet, and take stock of the sleeping arrangements. Two bunk beds, three already littered with luggage that looks like it fell from a gypsy caravan, and one low-slung lumpy bottom bunk, apparently for me.

I should have known from the smirk Cookie gave me on the plane that something unpleasant lay in store. This, I’m sure, is her way of reminding me that my money can only buy so much. Or her way of keeping me from Adam, who she guards with the ferocity of a bullmastiff. Not that it’s been a problem this week. With Adam away in New York, I never got closer than the occasional Skype conference.

My phone chimes in my purse, and I dig it out—hoping it’ll be Adam letting me know he’s here. But it’s just a text from my father.

Dad: Text when you arrive, and let’s make a plan of attack.


Sighing, I text back.

Ali: I’m here. Let me do things my way. Trust me.


I slip my phone into my purse and zip it closed, like I can zip away my anxiety and my father’s pestering.

“Cozy,” Philippe says. Thank God he’s here too—my touchstone.

“I guess you’re sleeping with the boys.” I heft my bags and bring them over to the available bunk, where I bounce on the flat mattress a couple of times to get a feel for it. At least, my dad is still letting me bring Philippe along as my assistant, though he’s spent a lot more time chatting up Paolo lately than he has in assisting me.

He arches one perfectly tended eyebrow. “Any chance we can sneak off to the Four Seasons?”

I shake my head, though I’d happily trade team-building for room service and a gold-filled sunset over Rendezvous Mountain.

To be fair, it’s only the sleeping accommodations that are sparse. The central area of the lodge includes an elegant modern kitchen and a sunken living room with burnished wood rafters, a stone fireplace, plush leather sectionals covered in faux fur blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out at the mountains and miles of already well-carved ski trails.

“Of course, Cookie has a hot tub suite all to herself,” Philippe says. He waggles his eyebrows at me and says, “I bet Adam does too. Maybe you can trade up.”

Instantly, I imagine Adam in a hot tub, water pooling against his lean, muscled body. Then the two of us, slick bodies twined together.

I tamp down those thoughts and remind myself he’s not who I think he is, or he’s not all that I think he is, and I’m afraid to drag those shadowy parts of his past into the light.

Only, I promised my father I’d do just that.

“I wonder who your roomies are,” Philippe remarks.

As if summoned, Pippa and Sadie come giggling into the room, pushing by Philippe to launch themselves at the bunk bed opposite me.

“Hey, Roomie!” Sadie says, flopping onto the bed and using her tapestry carpet bag as a pillow. Her long black hair fans out in all directions and spills off the edge of the bed like a waterfall of ink. “What do you think of the accommodations?”

“They’re fine,” I say. And they really are. I’ve mucked out horse stalls, picked pebbles out of hooves, and scraped barnacles off the Ali Cat. I’ll be fine. Just uneasy. And uneasy won’t kill me.

“Aren’t the mountains glorious?” Pippa asks, sitting on the lower bunk with her legs drawn up and her arms around her knees. She’s wearing a long skirt over long johns, and the effect is adorable. She looks like a little girl, all huge blue eyes and delicate limbs, but she’s got a savant’s talent at visual arts and those eyes take in everything.