But it's getting late.
And that hope is thinning.
I close my eyes.
All I see is her.His sheets.His hands.
That look she gave me—like I was gravity and fire and home—all twisted into something that isn't mine anymore.
My hands are fists.My jaw's locked so tight my teeth ache.My whole body feels like a fuse burning down to nothing.
I get up.
Go to my room.
And try not to think about the only thing I can think about:
Matteo Bellini is fucking my woman.
***
Katharina
The restaurant is perfect, of course.Rustic wooden beams, warm candlelight, old ski posters framed between shelves of dusty bottles.It smells like sage and butter and expensive intentions.
Matteo is sitting across from me; dark sweater, collar open just enough to seem casual, grinning.
We talk.Or rather, he does.
About the downhill that morning.How the snow held well through the Minschkante, how his line through the Kerner-S was almost perfect.He mimics the section with his hands, fork dangling between two fingers.I nod.Smile.Sip my wine.
I laugh at the right moments.Say the right things.Even toss in a clever remark about the standings.
But I'm not really here.
Some part of me is watching us from above; two beautiful people having a beautiful dinner, the kind people photograph for sponsor reels.His eyes shine.His hands are expressive in a typical Italian way.His charm is real.Polished like his trophies.And hollow in a way I can't quite name.
When he pours me more wine, his fingers brush mine.Lightly.Deliberately.
I search for the shiver that should be running up my spine.
The heat between my legs that Thomas could evoke the moment our hands got close enough, barely touching.
I smile, feeling a little guilty when I realize that I don't feel anything.
But Matteo does not notice.Maybe he is so used to women melting into wet puddles of desire that he does not care about subtle signals.Does not wait for a response, for lust in the woman's eyes, he anticipates it.Does not doubt it.
And he is talking again.About his skis.His new boots.His take on the Italian federation's approach to sponsorship deals.I respond.I nod.But I can't stop comparing.
He brushes my hand; confident, careful.It should spark.It doesn't.He notices, I think, and pivots to work talk instead of pressing.Gentleman.Strategist.Both.
All I feel is loss.Last time I sat like this, last time I was touched like this, I was shifting my weight on a chair just to ease the ache below.
Because it was not Matteo touching me.
A brush of knees under a table with Thomas would short-circuit my whole body.This?This is...warm.Polite.
Safe.
