He snorts. “Maisy, you could never look like shit.”
Heat prickles across my cheeks. I hide behind another sip of coffee, pretending his words don’t send my stomach flipping. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw me hungover.”
“Ah, right.” His grin spreads. “I almost forgot you drink now. We’ll have to get you wasted before I leave, just so I can witness Hungover Maisy in all her glory.”
“In your dreams, Sterling.” I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the coffee.” I slip away toward the shower, his gaze heavy on my back.
The mountain airis crisp when we get to the resort earlier than usual, the slopes mostly deserted. I’ve always loved mornings like this—the world still asleep, the snow untouched, the mountains rising endless around us. It feels surreal.
On the ski lift, my hands clamp around the safety bar, the cable hums above us as we glide higher, and beside me, Sterling turns just enough to watch me, his profile defined against the rising sun.
“You know what I’ll never understand?” he asks, smirk tugging at his lips. “How the hell you’re a pro skier but terrified of ski lifts.”
“Iwasa pro skier,” I correct. “Past tense.”
“You’re still a pro skier, Maisy,” he says firmly, his voice holding something that makes every hair on my neck stand on end. “And I don’t get it. You’d launch off jumps almost this high every day. But this?” He gestures to the lift, incredulous.
A laugh escapes me, one that feels foreign, but good. “It’s different. Up here, I’m not in control. The cord could snap, and there’s nothing I can do. We’d just…fall.”
“And what about your ski tricks?”
“At least with those, if I saw the fall coming, I could adjust. Maybe not save it completely, but soften the blow.”
He hums, quiet for a beat. “So it’s about control.”
I nod.
His gaze lingers on me. “Is that what you did, that year of your injury? Adjusted for the fall?”
Memories slam into me—the jump that felt all too wrong, the crowd’s gasp, the sickening impact. I swallow hard, thennod. “Yeah. Instead of snapping my neck in front of everyone, I shifted enough to only cause a herniated disc.”
He goes silent, staring out at the mountains. I can’t read his expression. Finally, he looks back at me and murmurs, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left.”
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. “I basically forced you out. And anyway—it doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”
He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t look away, either. His silence says more than words ever could. By the time we reach the practice zone, the air between us is heavy.
“Alright,” he says, shifting into instructor mode. “Yesterday proved we’ve got to keep working on your edging, unless you want to risk another out-of-control ride and a repeat of your tragic assault on that poor tree.”
“Hey!” I smack his arm, laughing despite myself. His grin is wicked, teasing, and it pulls one out of me too.
“Let’s start with something called the Falling Leaf.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Think of how a leaf drifts down in a zigzagging motion, back and forth. That’s what you’ll do. Sideslip your board in controlled zigzags all the way down.” He tosses his board onto the snow, clips in, and winks at me. “It’ll give you complete control.”
I clip into my board, raising a brow. “I doubt it’ll be as easy as you’re making it sound.”
“You never liked easy anyway,” he fires back, smirking as he pushes off.
SIXTEEN
STERLING
Two weeksof teaching Maisy how to snowboard has reminded me of something I’d almost forgotten—she’s an adrenaline junkie, through and through. The girl lives for the rush.
Two weeks ago, she was clumsy, stiff on the board, cursing under her breath every time she caught an edge. But now? She’s practically carving down the mountain like she’s been doing it for years. Every run gets smoother, and she doesn’t even hesitate at the steeper pitches. Watching her ride, I get flashes of the Maisy I used to know—the one who’d launch herself off insane ski jumps with zero fear and laugh the whole way down.
