twisted-9

After a moment, she reached for the button on her own jeans. Noel grabbed her hand, his eyes wide. “Are you sure?”
Aria gazed around the small room, from the flat-screen TV to the champagne bucket in the corner to the generic-looking chair and ottoman by the large
windows. Now that they were in an unfamiliar setting, she felt less inhibited than normal. Or maybe she just felt compelled to prove to Noel exactly what he
meant to her. It might just be the only way to ensure he would remain hers.
“I’m sure,” she whispered.
Noel pulled off Aria’s jeans the rest of the way. They clung to each other for a while, almost totally unclothed, their lips locked in an embrace. Aria’s heart
pounded. She was really going to do this. It was time. As Noel rolled on top of her, she kissed him hard.
Knock knock knock.
They both froze, staring at each other with wide eyes. There was silence, and then another knock. “Hello?” Klaudia chirped. “Aria? Noel? You there?”
Aria winced. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Noel?” Klaudia’s voice was muffled. “Come on! Time for hiihto!”
“Maybe if we be quiet she’ll go away,” Noel whispered, tracing his finger along Aria’s bare collarbone.
But the knocking persisted. “Noel!” Klaudia teased. “I know you in there! We must hiihto!”
Finally, Noel groaned, grabbed his jeans from the floor, and slid them back on. “Okay,” he called back. “We’re coming.”
“Oh, goody!” Klaudia said from the other side.
Aria stared at Noel, slack-jawed. “What?” Noel asked, pausing with one pant leg halfway past his knee.
For a moment, Aria was so angry she couldn’t speak. “We were sort of in the middle of something. Are you seriously going to drop everything for her?”
Noel’s face softened. “We’ll have plenty of time alone tonight, when no one will disturb us. And Klaudia’s right—the lifts close in a couple hours. We’ve got
to get our hiihto on. Aren’t you ready for your first ski lesson with her?”
“Actually, no.” Aria turned away and hugged a pillow to her chest. Fury pulsed inside her like a second heart. “I don’t want Klaudia to teach me anything.”
The bed springs squeaked as Noel sat back down. “I thought you guys were friends. Klaudia adores you!”
A bitter chuckle escaped from Aria’s lips. “I highly doubt that.”
“What do you mean?”
Noel was staring at her with such a puzzled look on his face. Aria thought about the texts Klaudia had written about both of them. Should she tell Noel . . .
or would that make her look like a psycho?
“I just don’t trust her around you,” Aria said. “I see the way she looks at you.”
Noel’s face fell. “Don’t be like that, Aria. I’ve told you a million times you have no reason to be jealous.”
“It’s not jealousy,” Aria argued. “It’s the truth.”
Noel pulled his sweatshirt over his head and stuffed his feet into his Timberland boots. “Come on.” He extended his hand for her, his tone of voice more
distant than it had been just a few minutes before.
Reluctantly, Aria got dressed and followed him out—what other choice did she have? Klaudia was waiting for them in a chair across the hall, already
dressed in skin-tight ski pants, a shapely white ski jacket with pink lining, and matching pink hat and gloves. She jumped up when she saw Noel and
grabbed his hand. “Ready for hiihto?”
“Totally,” Noel said jovially. He nudged Aria. “We’re both ready.”
Klaudia’s gaze flickered briefly to Aria. Her irises morphed from dark blue to an inky, venomous black. “Good,” she said in a chilling voice. An expression
crossed her face that Aria couldn’t immediately decipher.
But as Klaudia turned, walked out of the lobby, and promptly hopped on a chair lift without inviting Aria along, Aria got the message loud and clear.
Klaudia had heard everything Aria said to Noel in the hotel room. The expression on her face meant This is war.
Chapter 21
Some stripping and some teasing
“Okay, kids,” Mr. Pennythistle said. “The porters will take your things to your rooms. We’ll meet at Smith and Wollensky at eight for dinner.”
It was Friday afternoon, and Spencer, her mother, Zach, Amelia, and Mr. Pennythistle had just arrived in the lobby of the Hudson Hotel on Fifty-eighth
Street in New York, which had the moody lighting of a nightclub. The air smelled like expensive leather valises. Skinny model-types writhed and sipped
cocktails in the various bar areas. A bumbling tourist squinted at a guidebook in the low light. Various languages floated through the cavernous space.
The only reason they were staying at the Hudson and not somewhere genteel like the Waldorf or the Four Seasons was because Mr. Pennythistle did