Do-Over Read Online Free Page B

Christie, and tossed a shopping bag at me like it was no big thing, telling me to choose whichever pair fit best and he’d return the others.
    And I look incredible. In ski pants! The ones he chose are even better than the ones Christie suggested. When I sent her a pic of me in the new pants, she got all excited about them.
    Good thing, because I need something to distract me (and Christie) from the David Anderson issue, which has been plaguing me for two solid days and is now threatening to ruin my Saturday, too.
    Somehow I’ve gotta get over it. Just forget Christie ever brought it up.
    “You ready?” Georg asks. He looks completely comfortable with his ski gear, like he could go down any slope without worrying that he’ll crash and burn the way I worry. He has his boots on, and he’s carrying his skis over his shoulder, pointing toward the nearest chairlift with one pole. “We can put our skis on once we’re closer to the lift line.”
    He’s so gung ho, I just know he’s going to be disappointed by my skiing skills. I hope he doesn’t get too torqued waiting for mewhen I panic at the top of every section that looks the least bit icy or steep.
    “Sure,” I say. “Let’s wait for Dad and what’s-her-name, though. They’ll want to know where we’re going.”
    Georg grins, letting his skis slide down in front of him so the tails rest in the snow. “Her name is Fraulein Putzkammer. But she said you can call her Miss Putzkammer if you want.”
    I roll my eyes. I cannot, cannot say “Putzkammer.” Please. It’s hard enough just to think of her as The Fraulein—which is now my mental nickname for her—because fraulein is a strange enough word itself. The French mademoiselle is so much cooler. “I still don’t get why the press office felt like they had to send someone along.”
    I’m sure The Fraulein is nice enough. She’s probably in her late thirties or early forties. She’s also way prettier than her name makes her sound, with blond hair and a fairly athletic bod—nothing sagging too far south—which I assume also means she can keep up while we ski. And she seemed okay on the way here last night. She let me and Georg choose which CDs to listen to in thecar, and she didn’t seem to mind when I took longer than everyone else at the gas station, trying to count out the euros correctly to pay for a candy bar so I could get my chocolate fix. She even translated some of the wall signs for me when we checked into our cutesy little guesthouse last night here in Scheffau.
    But something about her isn’t sitting right with me. It’s more than the fact that she’s obsessive about telling Georg to keep his ski cap on whenever he’s not wearing his helmet, just to improve the odds that no one will recognize him this weekend and we can have a more relaxing, private vacation. More than the fact that she flirts with my dad, because pretty much all women over voting age flirt with my dad.
    Scary, I know, but the guy is decent-looking in a parental sort of way. He goes to the gym every morning to keep his buffed-up muscles, plus he has the whole etiquette thing going for him. Women get all into that.
    I glance over as the unnaturally blond Fraulein brushes a piece of lint off the side of her ski jacket, resolve to be my nicey-niceself and not make a crack about how lint won’t matter once she’s skiing, then turn toward Georg, who’s messing around with the bindings on his skis. Without even looking up, he whispers, “Don’t worry about her, Val.”
    “Easy for you to say.”
    My bullshit detector is pretty finely tuned, so it doesn’t usually go off without reason. The fact that I can’t pinpoint why is driving me bonkers. But I don’t want to get all bitchy about her and then find out I’m way off base, either.
    “She’s been working for my parents and traveling with them for almost five years now. She even came on my Zermatt trip over winter break to keep an eye on me. She’s cool.”