“Sleep helps.”
She flops back dramatically, arm thrown over her eyes. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, the way my t-shirt rides up her thighs. My jaw clenches.
“Ivy.” I lean down, caging her against the headboard. “Get. Your. Board.”
Her eyes narrow, but there's heat there. Always heat with us. “You're such a dick.”
“Mm-hmm…” I flash a wicked smirk. “But it's yours.”
She shoves me, but she's smiling. That real smile. The one that makes my chest do stupid things I refuse to acknowledge.
Twenty minutes later, we're trudging through the pre-dawn darkness toward the gondola. Ivy's wrapped in my jacket over her gear, looking like a pissed-off marshmallow. She hasn't stopped complaining since we left the house.
“—could literally be sleeping right now. Like normal people. People who don't drag their—whatever I am—out at ungodly hours to freeze their asses off on a mountain that's probably haunted—”
“You done?” I shove my mask over my neck.
She glares at me, but all it does is make her look even more fuck-able. “Not even close.”
We load our boards and climb in. The doors seal with a hydraulic hiss, and we start ascending into darkness. The town shrinks below us, lights scattered like broken glass.
Ivy presses against the window, breath fogging the glass. “Where are we going?”
“You'll see.”
“I hate surprises.”
I chuckle, pulling her beneath my arm. “You hate not being in control.”
She turns, studying me in the dim emergency lighting. “Pot, meet kettle.”
Fair.
The gondola jerks to a stop quarter-way up the mountain. Not at a station—just suspended over nothing. Ivy's hand shoots out, grabbing my arm.
“What's happening?”
I stand, pulling the manual release. Cold air floods in, sharp enough to cut. “We're getting off.”
“Here?” Her voice pitches higher. “There's no platform!”
“There's a maintenance ledge.” I secure my board to my back, then hold out my hand. “Trust me.”
She stares at my hand like it might bite her. Then at the door. Then back at me.
“You're certifiable.”
“Probably.” I wiggle my fingers. “Coming?”
She takes my hand. Of course she does. Because underneath all that control, all those walls, Ivy craves the chaos as much as I do.
We just hide it better than most.
The ledge is narrower than I promised. Ivy's fingers dig into my forearm hard enough to bruise as we edge along the frozen metal, boards scraping against the gondola's undercarriage. Her breath comes in sharp puffs that crystalize instantly in the brutal cold.
“If I die—” she starts.
“You won't.”
