“Fine we can share,” I blurt out, then quickly add, “It’s a king-size bed. Plenty of room for boundaries.” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, hoping he can’t see how my fingers are trembling slightly. “We can build that pillow wall down the middle like we talked about earlier.”
The thought of sharing a bed with him—even platonically—sends a rush of warmth straight through me that I am achingly trying to ignore. Images from our night together flash unbidden through my mind: his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress...
His eyes darken slightly. "You sure about that?"
"We're adults. I think we can manage to sleep in the same bed without... you know."
"Without what?" The corner of his mouth lifts in that infuriating half-smile.
"You know exactly what I mean."
He nods slowly. "I promise to be a perfect gentleman."
"Good," I say, stepping back to create some much-needed space between us. "Because this is just pretend, remember?"
"Right." He's still looking at me with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm standing too close to a fire. "Just pretend."
Why does that word suddenly feel like the biggest lie I've ever told?
Back in our room we take turns in the bathroom, the domestic routine feeling strangely intimate despite having known each other for such a short time. WhenI emerge in my sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt, I see that Bash is already in bed, scrolling through his phone. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt that does nothing to hide the definition of his shoulders and arms. The fabric stretches across his chest in a way that makes me quickly avert my eyes, pretending I wasn't just staring.
I slip under the covers on my side, hyperaware of his presence even with the considerable space between us. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and I can smell his cologne. I adjust my pillow three times, trying to look casual while feeling anything but.
"Good night, Shortcake," he says, turning off the lamp.
In the darkness, I stare at the wall, listening to his breathing and feel him getting comfortable. The sheets rustle as he shifts, and I'm frozen in place, afraid to move and somehow breach the invisible boundary between us. The digital clock on the nightstand casts a faint blue glow across the room, just enough to make out the shadows.
"Bash?" I say after a moment, surprising myself with my own voice breaking the silence.
"Hmm?" His response is a sleepy rumble.
"Thanks again. For what you said at dinner." My words hang in the air, vulnerable in a way I don't usually allow.
There's a pause, and I can feel him turn toward me. The mattress shifts again, and though I can't see his face clearly in the darkness, I can feel his eyes on me.
"Anytime, Shortcake," he replies softly. Something in his tone makes my chest tighten. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow you're going to learn how to fly."
I close my eyes, trying to ignore the tension that can be cut with a knife. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. This is just pretend, I remind myself. Don't forget that. He's playing a role, and so am I. The warmth in his voice, the way his fingers brushed against mine at dinner—it's all part of the act. A very convincing act.
But for the first time in a long time, I'm not thinking about what anyone else thinks. Not Ethan, not my family, not my colleagues. I'm thinking about tomorrow, about learning something new, about what it might feel like to let myself fall—and trust that someone might be there to catch me. The thought is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the wind on your face. I pull the blanket up to my chin and will my breathing to slow, aware that sleep might not come easily with him just inches away.
Chapter eighteen
Bash
Charlie plummets face-first into the powder for what must be the fifteenth time this morning. A groan—half frustration, half laughter—escapes her as she flips onto her back, snowboard still strapped onto one of her boots like an awkward appendage.
"Need a hand there, Shortcake?" I glide to a stop beside her, sending a small spray of snow.
"No, I'm just making snow angels," she puffs, her breath clouding white in the mountain air. "Very lopsided, one-legged snow angels."
I laugh and stretch out my gloved hand. "Come on, up you go."
When our hands connect, I haul her upright in one fluid motion, my arm automatically bracing her wobbling form. My eyes can't help but linger—her light pink jacket frames her perfectly, white snowflake designs cascading down one side hugging curves that even winter layers can't hide. Her cheeks glow with a flush that matches the rosy tip of her nose. A few rebellious auburn curls have escaped her white beanie, dancing around her face in the breeze.
"You know what they say," I tell her, brushing snow from her shoulders. "You're not really snowboarding until you've eaten a face full of powder."
"Then I must be a professional by now," she says, adjusting her goggles. "I don't think I've fallen this much ever. Skiing is so different—at least your legs can move independently."
