“You look like you are about to break,” I whisper, my voice thick. “Is that what you want? To see if I can do a better job of it than your refined friends in Salzburg?”
“I wanted to see the training center, I got a new job here,” she says. It is a pathetic lie. Her voice is steady, but her breath is hitching in the cold air, turning into little ghosts between us.
“Liar.”
I drop my helmet into the snow and strip off my glove, tossing it aside. I want to touch her with my bare hand. I want to feel the contrast. I grab her wrist, pulling her hand out of her pocket. Her skin is ice cold, and she is shaking so hard I can feel it in my own arm.
“You came for this,” I say, pressing her palm flat against the center of my chest, right over my heart. It hammers along like it forgot how to be subtle. “You didn’t come up here for the view. You’re bored with all those perfect people, and you came to roll in the dirt with your downtown idiot just to remember you’re still made of flesh and blood.”
She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into me, her forehead almost touching my chin. I can feel the expensive wool of her coat against my damp race suit. The “Ice Queen” isn’t just melting; she is evaporating.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I challenge, my thumb grazing the soft, blue-veined skin of her inner wrist. “Tell me you don’t want to forget your name for an hour.”
She looks up, her lips parted, and I see the exact moment her composure snaps. The desire in her eyes is so raw it’s almost violent. She doesn’t need a soulmate. She needs a crash. And I am more than happy to be the impact.
I don’t give a damn about who she is in the city. I don’t care about the Suit. Right now, she is on my mountain, and I am the only thing in her life that is actually real.
“I am done with the mountain,” I growl, sliding my hand from her wrist to the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her golden hair. I pull her flush against me, letting her feel the raw, post-training tension in my body.
“Now I am going to give you exactly what you came for. Grab your skis.”
She doesn’t resist when I guide her to the Preunegg Jet. The gondola is waiting, its silver skin gleaming against the blue sky, each car a small glass capsule swinging over the valley. Seven minutes in a box with nowhere to run. Perfect.
***
Inside, the air is warmer, the windows fogged with sun and tourist breath. I let go of her hand; to anyone watching, we’re just two skiers who happened to share a lift. The attendant waves us in with a knowing glance. Maybe he recognizes me. Good. Our little act is working.
We sit across from each other, knees almost touching. She stays silent, staring out at the slope. Her hands coil and uncoil in her lap, restless. I watch her watch the world, cataloging the last clean view she’ll have before I wreck her again.
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask, voice low.
She lets the question hang, then turns, eyes finding mine—dark, unblinking. “I’m thinking that from here, everything looks so… clean. Uncomplicated.” She gestures at the valley, the broad white sweep of piste, the distant hotel cubes like Monopoly houses. “But inside this box? It’s chaos.”
“That’s the point,” I say. “Outside is for show. In here, you can be as fucked up as you want.”
She laughs, but it sounds like she’s swallowing glass. “You make it sound like a confession booth.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “What do you want to confess?”
She opens her mouth, then shuts it. Shakes her head. “Nothing that would surprise you.”
“Try me,” I say.
She looks down, voice barely more than a whisper. “I wanted to answer. When I didn’t text back.” A tiny shrug. “But I wanted to see if you would chase me.”
“Is that what this is?” I ask. “A test?”
She looks up. “Maybe. But mostly I just… needed to see you. To know if the last time was an accident. Or if it was real.”
I grin, slow and sharp. “It was real. And it’s about to get a lot more real.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling now; thin and dangerous. “I don’t think you understand how much this scares me.”
“Good.” I slide over, closing the distance. My hand lands on her knee, fingers spread. “You should be scared.”
The gondola jerks and climbs, the ground dropping away, treetops shrinking into toys. Light flashes over her face, turning her hair into a fake little halo while her pulse hammers in her throat like it wants out.
I let my thumb trace the seam of her pants, just to see if she’ll flinch. She doesn’t. She pins her gaze to mine, like she’s daring me to prove I’m not all talk. My pulse is a live wire in my wrist as I slide higher, up the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate. Her breath stutters. Her eyes flick to the windows, then back to me, a tremor in her mouth.
