Camille makes a disgusted sound. “God, do you ever stop being gross?”
”When I'm dead, probably.”
“That can be arranged,” I offer helpfully.
The lodge is crawling with people. Some in crop tops who've decided hypothermia is worth it if Asher notices, others with his name across their chest whether in sports gear or hoodies. They shift when we cut through.
Lucinda stalks a couple steps ahead, all senses clearly on alert. Jord's beside me, hand hovering at his hip. Most wouldn’t notice if they didn’t know who Jord was.
“Oh my God, is that Ivanya?” The whisper starts somewhere to our left, rippling through the crowd like wildfire. Heads turn,phones lift, and suddenly I'm the center of attention I didn't ask for.
“Holy shit, it is! The girl from Asher's Instagram!”
Camille's jaw tightens beside me, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her designer clutch. The fans don't even glance her way—Asher's actual fiancée might as well be invisible. I'd feel bad if she wasn't such a bitch.
“Ivy! Ivy!” A group of girls wave frantically, their faces bright with excitement. One brave soul pushes forward, clutching a poster of Asher to her chest. “Can we get a photo? Please?”
Punk's eyes go wide, shaking her head. But something about their genuine enthusiasm stops me. Asher chose to share me with his world and they’re part of it.
“Of course,” I say, surprising myself with how gentle my voice comes out. I was a young girl once. I wish I could say teenage me could relate to loving a celebrity as much as they do Asher, but I didn't. I missed a milestone somewhere along the way. Amongst many others, I'm sure.
Their friends snap photos of us as both girls scream with joy. One shoves a marker and a hoodie at me.“Ice Butcher's Snow Sluts.”
“Could you sign it? You're like, so badass. The way you guys are always joking around in his stories!” Her eyes widen, spread with the kind of innocence I couldn’t even imagine possessing.
I scrawl my name across the fabric, adding a little heart just to watch Camille's face turn an interesting shade of purple.
They grab my hands, touch my shoulders, their gratitude spilling past every social boundary while I stand there and take it.
Camille's impatience is three feet away, her foot tapping the floor with obvious annoyance.
“There.” Punk jabs her finger at a private viewing box. “That's ours.”
The screens inside display Asher pulling his goggles into place, morning sun sliding across the gray and black ink on his skin. Almost two years of us circling each other, a year, and a half if you want to be technical. Twenty-five years old and his whole life ahead of him. Am I being greedy, taking this man away from people his age?
Nah. Girl’s gotta eat.
“Anyone else getting that pre-disaster vibe off her?” Jord asks the group.
“Always,” Lucinda says. “The question is what kind is she going to grace us with this time.”
If only they knew.
We filter through the glass doors into the private box, the space opening up like a secret chamber above the chaos below. A server appears instantly, crystal flutes balanced on a silver tray, and I snag one just to have something to do with my hands.
The viewing box is all leather couches and chrome fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the course below, giving us a perfect vantage point to watch the carnage unfold.
I claim the corner spot, sinking into cold leather and removing my gloves.
Servers weave between us, offering tiny portions of food that look too pretty to eat. I wave them off. I’m in knots. My stomach twists like it’s trying to force everything out and the last thing I need is to bury it in fancy canapes.
Below us, the course comes alive. The announcer's voice booms through hidden speakers, hyping up the crowd as the first competitor drops in.
Then Asher appears at the top of the run, and the crowd loses their collective minds. Even from up here, I can see the way he rolls his shoulders, loosening up.
He drops in, and it's like watching art. The first rail is a triple kink. Asher hits it at speed, his board locking onto the metal witha sound that echoes up to our box. He slides the entire length, tweaking the grab at the end just to show off.
Camille's fingers fly across her phone screen and I hide a scoff behind my glass. She’s no doubt livestreaming this to whoever gives a shit about her curated life.
