I shake my head, trying not to smile, but I can feel it creeping up.I look after him with a lovestruck grin… until I remember where we are.How drunk I am.How drunkheis.The smile fades.
"You know," Thomas says when he returns, handing me my white wine.Precisely the one I like."I'm glad you care about me not ending up in the nets."
"And I'm glad you wanted to impress me," I grin back.
"I did," he says, and for a second, he's earnest."You know, Kat, I'll tell you a secret."
"I'm not sure I want to know."
"I'm telling you anyway."
"Go on then, but remember you can't unsay what's been said."
"I love the way you look at me when I win.When I nail it.When I do what I do.That look — fromyou— it's so damn sexy."
His finger brushes the back of my hand.Too light to call it anything, but enough to make me shiver.I grip my glass tighter, trying to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks.It's too warm in here.That must be it.
He keeps talking, gently tracing up my wrist, my forearm.It's not much — just fingertips and alcohol and tension — but it's dangerous.
"I know you're impressed by my skiing," he says softly."Not just because I have a globe.Not because of the media crap.You get it.You're impressed bywhatI do."
His touch is featherlight, nothing overt, but somehow it short-circuits my ability to breathe properly.I swallow.
"Come on, Kat," he says, a slow grin forming."Can't you just admit it turns you on?"
His finger slides over my shoulder, just barely grazing my neck.His skin is warm, smelling faintly of snow and sweat under the alcohol.I want to lean in, breathe deeper, but I grip my glass instead.
"Because that's why I'm so good this season.You're my drive.I keep thinking, maybe if I ski even better, you'll finally drop the act and tear my clothes off."
"That…" I exhale shakily, taking his hand gently and pulling it away from my skin, "is the sexiest thing anyone's ever told me."
He raises an eyebrow as I let go of his hand.
"But, Thomas," I say quietly."As much as I'm attracted to you — as much as Idesireyou — I can't.We can't."
My body’s already made the opposite decision, leaning closer, pulse hammering, but my career has louder claws.
"You think too much," he mutters, looking away.There's a flash of disappointment, maybe even anger, behind his eyes.
Well.A man gets pissed when seduction doesn't work.
"Thomas, look at me," I say, forcing him to meet my gaze.I might be tipsy enough to admit things I'd usually swallow whole, but he needs tounderstand.
"I'm not playing games.I'm not pushing you away to be interesting.I just…"
"Why then?"he asks, blunt and direct."Why not do the thing everyone around us probably assumes we've already done?"
"Because it could ruin everything I've worked for."
"How so?Plenty of women working with male athletes end up in someone's bed."
"Exactly."
He's silent.Then:
"I mean, dating — why are we only talking about sex?We could be more."
His grin falters, and for a second I see it: he means it, more than he probably should.
