I look at the mirror.Straighten the dress that suddenly feels just right.Not fancy.But sharp.It just needs a little set-up.
I kick down the ridiculous flats and step into my heels, those that nearly dissolved in the Wengen mush.This is their moment.I brush my hair, think about curling it and letting it fall down my back, but no.I put my hair up in a high ponytail, which leaves my neck and my collarbone exposed.Let him remember where I like to be kissed.
I put on a black velvet choker with a small silver pendant, not very trendy now, but I know it makes my collarbones shine.
I decide for the silver earrings he gave me and spend a few minutes with my makeup.
I am happy with my image, but not as happy as I am when I step into the lobby, where I find Lukas ordering a beer.
“Holy shit,” he greets me with a sly smile.“That’s the best battle dress I’ve ever seen.Poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance.”
I don’t smile.
But my heart is racing.
And this time, I’m not walking away.
***
Thomas
The fan lounge pulses with sweat, champagne breath, and the faint metallic sting of sparklers hanging in the air.The bassline thrums low in my ribs.My shirt is unbuttoned just enough.
Niko’s still flushed from his third-place podium, hair damp, grin wide.Laughter ricochets off the walls.People crowd in, hands clinking glasses, flashes going off.Everyone wants a photo, a toast, a taste of the golden boy.
I give them what they came for.
A blonde model leans in, perfume thick and sweet, finger trailing lazily down my open collar.She pouts when I get her name wrong.I grin, offer a non-apology.Pretend the warmth in my chest is joy and not static.Pretend the night means something.
But there’s no voltage.
Just fizz.Noise.
And the ache of wanting something I don’t see yet—
—until she walks in.
Conversation stutters like the DJ hit pause.Even the camera flashes seem to wait.
Every head turns.
Martin clocks her, gives me a conspirator’s nudge.“There she is.”
It takes me a second to recognize her.The same black dress as before, but her hair’s different.And with the slash of deep-purple lipstick, she gleams like a vampire who just spotted prey.
God, I hope it’s my blood she’s after.
It’s not just me.Every man in the room tracks her like she’s the only line worth skiing tonight.She doesn’t hurry.Just scans the lounge, composed, unbothered, until her gaze lands on me.One slow, knowing smile.Then she turns away.
The bar swallows her, and her perfect ass sways as she walks in those heels.
I lose the thread of the conversation beside me.Forget where I set my drink.
Most of all, I forget why I ever tried to forget her.
The dress hugs the exact curve of her hips, my hands have mapped.The thighs I’ve held in Hintertux.I remember the weight of her breast in my palm as clearly as the shape of my ski boots.
Then she turns.
