All for Love Sample, Page 2

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  Olivia Cummings rolled over and tried to hit the snooze button on the alarm, remembering she’d moved it onto her dresser for that very reason. Like it or not, she had to get up. She opened her eyes and groaned. The room was still dark. Why wouldn’t it be? The sun wasn’t up at five in the morning in mid-December. She threw back the covers, shivered, and reached to turn on the bedside lamp. She blinked owl-like at the ensuing brightness.

  “Maybe someday I’ll understand why perfectly sane people use automatic thermostat controls to turn a comfortable apartment into a refrigerator at night,” she said aloud, her voice echoing in the darkness. “Well, at least I can’t see my breath.”

  She plunged her feet into the mules beside the bed, grabbed her housecoat, and went into the kitchen to make coffee. The single brew machine was one of the few things in the apartment that belonged to her. She’d feel better after she gave her body its morning dose of caffeine. While she waited for the coffee maker to do its job, she went over what she’d packed last night. One of the problems with going home at this time of year was everything she had to take with her—heavy coat, boots, clothes, gifts—she’d look like an Inuit at the Philadelphia airport, but without the warmer coat, she’d freeze in Denver.

  The rasp of the coffee maker indicated her cup was full, and she reached for it gratefully. Her flight was at nine, and the airlines insisted she check in two hours early. Security, even on domestic flights was heightened at this time of year. She sighed. The last place she wanted to go was to a ski resort in the Colorado Rockies, but when that was home, what choice did she have?

  She looked down at her slim ankle, debating whether or not to bandage it. It hadn’t given her any problems in months, but it was her crutch, her protection. Like a guardian angel’s shield, it would keep her out of danger. Besides, what was one more lie? She’d told a thousand of them in the last five years. Anything to keep her old friends and family from badgering her out onto skis would be worth it.

  She reached for the lightweight, polymer and foam removable brace she’d pulled out and wiped down last night. “Shower first, and then, let’s get you on. At least you fit inside my UGGs,” she spoke to the brace as if it were an old trusted friend. She’d let everyone think her leg and ankle were still too weak to use. She hated dissembling like this, but she didn’t want anyone to know the real reason she’d chosen never to ski again. That was between her and God.

  Coffee mug in hand, she headed to the bathroom, to get ready. She hadn’t been home for Christmas since the accident, but Mom and Dad wouldn’t allow her that luxury this year. If she could avoid the slopes and the chalet, it might not be too bad; if she couldn’t, the pseudo injury would limit her skiing to the lodge.

  Forgive me, God, but I’m just not ready to let it go.