from, Alina?” he asked. “Not from around here, I’m guessing.”
That smile again, which sent her stomach fluttering wildly. Get a grip, girl. “I’m from Gunnison,” she said. She said it merely to be contrary—she knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. Her accent gave her away as a foreigner as soon as she opened her mouth, though people couldn’t always place her country of origin.
“Are you a student at the college?” he asked.
“No, I’m a respiratory therapist at Gunnison Valley Hospital.”
“Then I can’t believe I haven’t see you before. I’m over there all the time.”
She arched one eyebrow. “What brings you to the hospital so much?” Did he have an ill family member? He certainly looked healthy enough. He wasn’t that tall—maybe five ten or so—but he had muscular shoulders and a slim waist.
He laughed, a completely masculine sound that served only to stoke the fire of her libido. “No, I’m a paramedic,” he said. “We make fairly regular runs to GVH.”
“I work on the floor.” She was occasionally called upon to treat a patient in the E.R., but she’d never run into Eric before. She wouldn’t have forgotten him if she had.
The crowd surged around them, forcing them closer together. Someone behind her bumped into her and Eric put out his hand to steady her. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning into him, aware of the strength and warmth in his grip, catching a whiff of the subtle spice of his cologne. What in the world was happening to her? She hadn’t even had anything to drink tonight, yet she felt giddy and a little out of control.
“Where are you from before you came to Gunnison?” Eric asked.
“Croatia. In Maksimer, part of the capital, Zagreb.” She savored the names on her tongue, the familiar sounds of home that she didn’t have the chance to say too often.
“I hear Croatia’s a beautiful country,” he said.
At least he hadn’t asked if all the girls in Croatia were as beautiful as her, or said there must be something in the water there or some similar line, all of which she’d heard multiple times from college students, ski bums and various local Lotharios. The women in her family were generally considered beauties, so she’d dealt with her fair share of attention all her life. As a result, she appreciated a little originality from any man who was interested in her.
Trying not to stare, she checked his hair again. No way he’d ever been close to blond.
The crowd roared with laughter, and Alina turned to see one of the characters in the closing play—some guy in pink tights and doublet—in the throes of an overly dramatic death scene while a man in a dragon suit nearby did a jig.
“Have you been to Vinotok before?” Eric asked, his mouth very close to her ear.
“No,” she answered, eyes still focused on the players, though every part of her was aware of the man standing so close. “I read in the paper that this was based on an old Yugoslavian wine festival, so I wanted to see if anything about it was familiar.” At his puzzled look, she hastened to explain, “Croatia used to be part of Yugoslavia.”
Eric glanced at the actors. A woman with a dozen or so small children gathered about her was speaking. “Do they do this kind of thing in Croatia?” he asked.
Alina laughed. “No. We have a lot of local celebrations in my country, but nothing like this.” A man dressed entirely in green, his skin painted green, as well, joined the woman with all the children.
“Crested Butte is kind of known for originality when it comes to holidays,” Eric said.
Alina nodded. In the eight months she’d lived in Gunnison, Colorado, she and friends had made numerous trips to the smaller mountain town to ski, hike, bike or enjoy the shops and restaurants on the picturesque main street. The people were friendly, the scenery beautiful and there was always something to do and see.
A collective sigh rose from the crowd, and Alina stood on tiptoe, attempting to see what all the fuss was about. The man in green was kneeling before the woman, who stared at him, a stunned look on her face.
“Isn’t that romantic?” Marissa said. “He’s proposing!”
“I bet that’s a first for Vinotok,” Eric said.
The woman pulled the man to his feet and kissed him. The crowd roared and cheered, and behind the happy couple a large papier-mâché figure burst into flame.
“What is that?” Alina asked.
“That’s the Grump,” Eric said. “For the past couple of weeks there have been boxes in stores and restaurants all over town. People write down their complaints and gripes and anything they want out of their lives. Then the boxes are stuffed inside the Grump and burned so that everyone starts winter with a clean slate. It’s a good idea when you think about it.”
She nodded. The man and woman were still kissing. Alina couldn’t help feeling a little envious. Not that she didn’t have a good life, but something was still missing—romance, love, the happily ever after she’d dreamed of since she was a girl, the life she’d been promised.
Music blared. The actor in the pink doublet was playing an electric guitar and other musicians had joined him. Alina and Eric were pushed to the edge of the crowd by others who surged forward to dance. Alina looked around for Marissa and spotted her with a lanky intern on whom Marissa had a crush—the real reason the two friends had headed to Vinotok in the first place, since the intern had told them that afternoon he expected to attend.
“Do you ski?” Eric asked when they were far enough from the noise and clamor to talk.
“Ski? Oh, yes.” A ski pass was part of her employee benefits in the exchange program between American and Eastern European hospitals. “Yes, I love to ski.”
“That’s terrific. I’m a ski patroller at Crested Butte Mountain Resort.”
“I thought you said you were a paramedic.”
“I do both. The jobs go together when you think about it.” He had a really nice smile—good teeth and a dimple on the right side of his mouth.
But more than looks drew her to Eric. When his coffee-brown eyes looked into hers, she felt a tug on her heart—a not at all unpleasant sensation. If he could make her feel this way with one look, what else might lay in store for them? She couldn’t remember the last time a man had held her attention this way.
“I’m from Gunnison, too,” he said. “My family has lived there for years.”
“Do you live with your parents?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’ve thought about getting a place of my own, but it’s expensive, and I’d be over there all the time anyway. I guess some people think it’s weird, a guy my age still living at home.”
“How old are you?” He looked about her age, but it was tough to tell sometimes.
“Twenty-six.”
“I’m almost twenty-seven.”
There
