Finn waved a hand in front of Noah’s face. “Dude, you’re starting to worry me. We’re leaving in six hours. Your ass is going to be on the slopes of Snowmass in ten. And you’re as unfocused now as the day she left.” When Noah didn’t respond, Finn followed Noah’s gaze to the boots. “She hasn’t even called to ask you to send them to her? Those things are expensive.”
“Nope.” He hadn’t heard one word from Julia since she’d walked away. Which he knew was for the best. Of course, it didn’t feel like the best, but…
“Did you ever take a look at the research she did?” Finn asked.
“Nope.”
“Aren’t you just a fucking myna bird tonight?”
“I’m focusing.”
“Ha. Good one.” He finished off his second beer, while Noah hadn’t even started his first. “Well, you’re just too much fun for me. I’ll be back to pick you up for the airport.” He stood, picked up the folder Julia had left on the counter a week ago, and tossed it onto the table in front of Noah. “Browse this while you’re killing time. I checked it out last night, and as your friend and your teammate, I suggest you read it.” He smacked Noah upside the head. “Later, loser.”
Noah reached out and nailed Finn with a side punch. His friend laughed his way from the house. Then Noah was enclosed in silence again. The damned silence that had been eating at him for days.
He took a sip from the bottle and winced as the hoppy flavor coated his mouth. God, he didn’t even like beer anymore. He didn’t want sex or junk food either. She’d ruined everything for him.
He slammed the bottle on the table, and the damn thing foamed over, spilling down the sides and creeping toward the file. He picked it up and cut off the spill with a kitchen towel. Now that he had the information he’d been avoiding in his hands, he may as well read it. He had six hours to kill and nothing else to do.
Staring at the manila folder, he ran his fingers over the edges, where Julia’s hands had touched.
Damn, he missed her.
He let out a heavy sigh, set the folder down, and opened it to the first article. “Fuckin’ Julia.”
Julia stood poised to catch Gina, a seventy-five-year-old stroke patient at Sunrise Manor, as she worked on her balance. She’d been making steady strides toward getting her strength and coordination back before Julia had left for Tahoe but seemed to have taken a hard backslide since.
Now, the frail woman tried and tried to strike the simple stork position by lifting one foot off the floor and finding her balance on the other, but she was definitely struggling today.
Julia was struggling too. She’d walked out of Noah’s home seven days ago now and hadn’t stopped thinking about him for a minute.
“Let’s try again,” Julia said, hands hovering on either side of Gina. “Find your center, use your core to stabilize, focus on something still across the room…” As soon as the woman lifted her toe off the ground, Julia counted. “One…two…three…”
Gina wavered and set her foot down again. “Dagnabit.”
Julia sighed, straightened, and patted Gina’s thin shoulder. “Take a rest. We’ll try again in a few.”
She wandered toward Kit, Harold, Jerry, Dorothy, and Mable where they were working on the stability balls…or chatting, whichever seemed more interesting. At the moment, chatting was their exercise of choice.
Instead of bitching at them, she slid her hands into the pockets of her scrubs and lifted her gaze to the television, where Julia had designated the fifty-two-inch flat screen hands-off for the nine hours she was on duty.
“They recapped yesterday’s runs,” Harold said, using his feet to push the ball in small circles. “But they say today’s probably a bust. They’ve got whiteout conditions.”
She wondered what Noah was doing today in the whiteout. Then her mind drifted to what he’d been doing in the last whiteout—with her.
“This just in,” a newscaster reported on the television. “We’ve got a scratch for the men’s SuperPipe. Though it looks like that run will be postponed until this front blows through, we’ve received notice that Noah Hunt has been scratched from the competition.”
Julia sucked in an audible breath, her mind pinging and spinning. Panic chased alarm across her shoulders. She searched her pockets for her phone. She needed to call Drake. Needed to make sure Noah was okay.
“Honey, what are you doing?” Mable asked.
“M-my phone. I need my—” She found it in the lower pocket of her cargo scrubs, and her hands shook when she tapped into the contacts to find Drake’s number.
“Julia.” Kit’s voice distracted her, making her hit the wrong number. “Isn’t that your man?”
No, Noah wasn’t her man, but she was still worried about him. Drake’s voice mail answered.
“Shit.” She closed her eyes and waited for the tone, forcing her mind to rationalize—he was probably sore from his previous runs, all of which he’d nailed. Maybe he caught a flu bug—she knew he wouldn’t be taking care of himself…