"But where's the challenge in that?" I tease, circling her on my board. "Besides, you're doing great for a first-timer."
"You're a terrible liar, Sebastian Montgomery." She tries to swat at me but nearly loses her balance again.
I catch her arm, laughing. "I'm serious! Most people spend their entire first day on their ass. You're already linking turns."
"When I'm not face-planting." She rolls her eyes.
I position myself in front of her, sliding backward across the snow, my board carving gentle arcs beneath me. "Look, snowboarding is all about commitment. You hesitate—" I mime a person toppling over "—you fall. You second-guess yourself—" another exaggerated tumble motion "—you fall. You've got to trust yourself and the board."
Her eyebrows arch above her goggles, lips twisting into a dubious frown. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Former Pro."
"Hey, I wasn't born on a snowboard." I tap my chest with my gloved hand. "I ate plenty of snow when I was learning." The wind ruffles her escaped curls as I watch her jaw set with that stubborn determination that keeps peeking through her complaints.
"You ready to try again? This time, keep your weight centered over the board, and when you transition from heel to toe edge, commit."
Her chest rises with a deep breath, shoulders squaring as she nods. "Okay. Commit. Don't hesitate. I got this."
"That's my girl." The words tumble from my lips before I can trap them, but her eyes remain locked on her stance.
I guide her through the rest of the gentle slope, my voice carrying across the snow as she carves her way down. Her body moves with a natural athleticism—hips aligned, knees bent at just the right angle—but I can see her brain working overtime behind those goggles, calculating each shift of weight like it's a life-or-death decision.
"That's it! Keep going! Look where you want to go, not at your feet!"
As we near the bottom of the run, something transforms in her posture. The rigid tension melts from her shoulders, her movements flow into the boardinstead of battling against it. Her turns carve clean arcs through the powder, her body swaying with newfound confidence. When she reaches the flat section, she glides to a graceful stop without even a wobble.
"Oh my god I did it!" Her goggles push up onto her forehead, revealing eyes that sparkle with disbelief and triumph. "I actually did it!"
The radiance in her expression sucker-punches me. Without thinking, I slide up beside her, kick free from my board, and sweep her off her feet in a victory hug. Her laughter rings in my ears as I whirl her around.
"That was fucking perfect!" My hands linger at her waist as I set her down. "See? I told you—you just needed to trust yourself."
We're standing close—too close. Her hands rest on my shoulders, her face tilted up to mine. Her smile softens, dissolving into something heavier, more electric. The world beyond us blurs and fades—the other skiers, the pretense, all of it vanishing until there's nothing but the narrow space between us and the thundering urge to close it.
I find myself leaning down, pulled toward her like a compass finding north.
She jerks backward, throat bobbing as she swallows. "Um, thanks for the lesson."
Shit. My stomach drops. "Sorry," I say instantly, my hands falling away from her waist. "Got carried away with the proud fake boyfriend moment."
"It's fine," she replies, the words coming too fast as shutters close behind her eyes.
"Well," I offer, scrambling to rebuild the bridge I just burned, "always leave on a good note, right? After that perfect run, I think we've earned a break. How about the lodge for some food? Celebrate properly?"
Her shoulders visibly relax. "Food sounds amazing. I'm starving."
"Falling burns a lot of calories," I tease, fishing for that laugh, that spark that had lit up her face moments before.
It works—she rolls her eyes and smiles. "In that case, I should order the entire menu."
I unclip her board, tucking it under my arm alongside my own. The weight feels comfortable, familiar, like second nature after all these years. I stride easily through the packed snow toward the weathered wooden rental rack outside the lodge, the late afternoon sun catching on the dozens of boards already lined up there—a colorful mosaic of rentals and high-end gear. Charlie follows behind, boots crunching rhythmically in the snow, her cheeks still flushed from our run down the mountain.
The heavy wooden door swings open beneath my palm, releasing a gust of alpine heat as Charlie steps inside. My senses flood—the rich aroma of dark roast mingling with melting chocolate and sizzling beef patties, the crackling fire from the massive stone fireplace where exhausted riders stretch their legs toward dancing flames, sinking into worn leather chairs.
"Sebastian Montgomery! I'll be damned!"
My head swivels toward that familiar voice. There sits Frank Dillard by the frosted window, ski goggles perched uselessly on his weathered forehead, dog-eared paperback splayed across his fingers—the same man who'd corrected my edge control when I was barely tall enough to reach the chairlift bar.
"Frank!" A grin spreads across my face as I guide Charlie with a light touch toward his table. "How the hell are you, old man?"
