I want to tell him that he’s the one I want to get away from, but he’s already clipping in, stubbornness in every line of his body.
I growl under my breath.
“Your poles are from two different decades,” I point out.
He holds them up and grins. “One for speed, one for style.”
God, but he’s cute! Ugh!
We ski in silence.
The trees are heavy with snow, the trail narrowing to a hushed corridor of white. Our breath puffs out in clouds, our boots crunching over hard-packed powder. I push faster, wanting distance, clarity—but the more I try to outrun him, the closer he seems to hover.
And then I hit it—an uneven patch hidden underfresh snowfall. My ski catches, and before I can correct, I’m down. Hard.
“Shit!” Ransom’s next to me in seconds, his gloves cupping my shoulders. “Em, baby, you okay?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
I’m not. I’m winded, bruised, humiliated.
He helps me sit up, his touch maddeningly gentle. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m not glass.” I brush the snow off. “I’ve been skiing since I was Thomas’s age.”
“Breaking bones since then as well,” he teases as he helps me up.
There’s a sudden gust of wind, harder than before, swirling snow into our faces. Ransom looks up toward the ridge.
“We need shelter. That storm’s coming in faster than expected.”
There’s an old ranger hut off the main trail. We both know it. Ten minutes later, we’re inside—door shut, skis stacked, a tiny wood-burning stove giving off a stubborn puff of heat after Ransom coaxes it to life.
We’re still on Rousseau land, which means all cabins, even this one, are equipped for life and comfort, with fire, food, sleeping bags, blankets, if caught unawares. There’s probably a charged radio in a cabinet with a battery attached to it.
We won’t be needing it. It’s a baby storm from the looks of it and will pass quickly.
I find blankets in a closet and spread them on the floor by the fireplace, settling down cross-legged.
Ransom bangs around the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of cognac that looks older than me.
“Drink?” He sets two glasses and the cognac between us.
“Aren’t you hungover?”
He shrugs. “Hair of the dog?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I have no idea why I’m being so frosty with him, but I am.
I spent the night with Ransom. What’s wrong with me?
We slept together. We didn’t have sex. Just skin to skin…so intimate.
He pours cognac into a water glass and takes a sip, nodding appreciatively. “This is not a bad way to be stuck in a snowstorm.”
I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t ask you to come with me.”
He stretches his legs and leans against a wooden wall.
