"Sure." He pushes off the doorframe. "Have fun with your completely professional, not-at-all-interested lesson."
I flip him off as he leaves, laughing.
Devon's right. I am interested. More than I should be, more than I've been in anyone for a long time. There’s something about the way Daria looked at me—surprised and hopeful and uncertain all at once—that reached right through my carefully maintained professionalism and grabbed hold.
But she's young. Early twenties, maybe? I'm thirty-five. That's more than a decade between us. And even if the age gap isn't technically a problem, the power dynamic is. She's here to have fun and learn to ski, not to deal with an instructor who can't keep his attraction in check.
So I'll teach her. Be friendly. Professional. And ignore the way my pulse kicked up when I saw her name on my schedule.
At 8:55, I head to the bunny slope with equipment. The morning is clear and cold, with the sun glinting off fresh snow. Perfect conditions for a beginner lesson.
Daria appears at 9:03, bundled in a puffy jacket that's slightly too big, a knit hat pulled low over her ears. She's overdressed for the activity—she'll be hot within twenty minutes—but she looks adorable. And nervous.
"Morning," I call.
She spots me, and her face flushes pink. From cold or embarrassment, I can't tell. "Hi. Sorry, I'm a little late. I couldn't figure out the boots."
"You're fine. We've got plenty of time." I gesture to the equipment I've laid out. "I pulled skis and poles based on your height and weight from your registration. Want to try them on?"
For the next ten minutes, I walk her through the basics—how to step into bindings, how to hold poles, proper stance. Every time I adjust her position, my hands linger a fraction longer than necessary. I notice the way she tenses when I touch her, then relaxes into it.
"Okay," I say once she's geared up. "Let's start with the most important skill in skiing."
"Turning?"
"Falling."
She blinks. "You're going to teach me how to fall?"
"Everyone falls. Might as well learn how to do it safely." I demonstrate, showing her how to fall to the side, how to get back up. "Your turn."
She looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "You want me to just... fall over?"
"Yep."
"On purpose."
"On purpose."
She huffs a laugh and awkwardly tips herself over, landing in the snow with a soft whomp. When she looks up at me, there's snow on her hat and she's grinning.
"How was that?"
"Perfect." And I mean it. Most beginners are too self-conscious to commit to the fall. She just went for it. "Now get up and try again."
We practice falling and standing for ten minutes until she's laughing every time she goes down. The sound does something to my chest, loosens something that's been tight for years.
"Okay," she says, brushing snow off her jacket. "I'm officially an expert at falling. Can I learn how to ski now?"
"Now, you ski."
I walk her through the basics of weight distribution, pizza stops, and how to use poles for balance. She listens, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that show she's thinking about the mechanics.
When she slides forward for the first time, it's tentative and wobbly, but she doesn't fall. She makes it ten feet before losing balance and tipping sideways with a yelp.
I'm there before she hits the ground, catching her waist. "I've got you."
She's warm and solid against me, her curves fitting perfectly in my hands. For a second, neither of us moves. She looks up, eyes wide, lips parted. We're close enough that I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes, and I can count the freckles across her nose.
