Love Lies Beneath by Ellen Hopkins

loose knee. He guides me along the snow-slicked walkway to the front door. The main entry opens straight into a great room, with big glass windows framing the travel-poster vista. No partitions separate the kitchen, dining area, and living room, which boasts a massive stone fireplace on the far wall. There is little in the way of artwork, and no carpets cover the hardwood floor. Compared to the modern gleam above white carpeting that is my house, this one defines Tahoe-rustic, and yet it’s completely inviting.
    â€œHome, sweet home,” says Cavin, directing me to a chair. “Make yourself comfortable. Wine?”
    I consider. “Don’t suppose you could approximate a sidecar?”
    â€œApproximate? I believe I can accommodate.” He goes over to the wet bar, tucked away in a corner of the great room, and busies himself with cognac, triple sec, and a squeeze of fresh lemon.
    I observe appreciatively. “You are a doctor of many talents.”
    â€œThank you. But to be fair, you haven’t seen anything yet.” He pours club soda for himself, brings the sidecar to me.
    â€œTrying to quit?”
    He shakes his head and points toward the window. Just beyond, snowflakes the size of half-dollars tumble from the sky and collect into decent slush on the big deck. “I think a sober driver is in order this evening. I’ve got crème brûlée in the fridge. Eli must be downstairs in his room. Should I ask him to join us?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI’d yell for him, but he’d never hear me. His current method of tuning out the world is Viking metal through headphones. Be right back.”
    Cavin picks up a remote sitting on the black granite countertop, presses a button to turn on some music. Gin Blossoms.
    He isn’t gone very long. The tick of his footsteps, light against wooden stairs, precedes him. And once he reappears, the noise follows him into the kitchen, where he extracts three bowls of crème brûlée from the stainless steel refrigerator. I assume that means Eli will make an appearance soon, and he does.
    His approach sounds much heavier than Cavin’s, and I expect a hulk of a kid. Instead, the boy who comes through the door has the look of a distance runner—tall, like his father, but not particularly bulky. And, despite his overly long wheat-colored hair, which could really use a stylish cut, he carries Cavin’s charmed good looks, including those storm-cloud eyes. Exceptional genetics.
    â€œHello, Eli. I’m Tara.”
    He doesn’t respond immediately, at least not verbally. But he lowers his eyes to meet mine, and the connection is discomfiting, like a static electric shock. “Hi.”
    â€œSorry if I don’t get up, but—”
    â€œIt’s okay,” he interrupts. “I can see what your problem is.”
    I can’t quite interpret the connotation. Literal? Sarcastic? Accusing? I choose to play ignorant. “Yeah, well, it was not my best day skiing, and it trashed my vacation.”
    â€œThat’s too bad. My mom trashed my vacation.”
    Cavin seems to be trying too hard not to sound hurt. “Hey, now. Your vacation has just begun. There’s some fine snow up on that mountain.”
    â€œWhich would be great,” Eli responds, “except for all the tourists tracking it up, not to mention face-planting.”
    The intent of his statement is clear. Game on. “Don’t worry. It’s not the tracks that will get you. It’s the guy who decides he’s equal to a run that’s way over his head. That’s a clear and present danger.” I wink at him, and he actually smiles.
    Cavin brings a tray over, allows me to choose my bowl, and then sets the rest on the coffee table. “Hope you like. It’s a specialty of the house.”
    It’s amazing, and that’s what I tell him. Then I turn to Eli, who’s picking the brown sugar crust off the