“I’ve done all three.” I shrug again. “Still here.”
She looks out the window, mountains reflected in her eyes. “I wish I could do that.”
I want to tell her she can, but I don’t, and hide my face behind the beer glass.
She finishes the last syrup-soaked lump and wipes vanilla from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, a gesture so unroyal I want to drag her under the table. Sunlight pours through the big windows, catching gold in her lashes.
I lift my beer. “So. Are you going to tell me what you’re actually doing here? Because I don’t believe you hiked up a glacier for a dumpling.”
She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t look away. “I told you I’ve got a new job. I’m supposed to monitor the investments. Make sure the star racer doesn’t throw himself off a cliff or embarrass the company.” She swirls her spoon through the mess on her plate. “I’m the leash.”
I snort. “Yeah, you seem like a real leash enthusiast.”
She barks a laugh. “You’re right. If I cared about the leash, I’d be back in Salzburg getting my hair blown out while my father runs my life over email.”
The mention of her father hardens her. That little muscle in her jaw starts ticking. For a second, I try to imagine growing up with that kind of weight. I think I get it. Probably I don’t.
“So, the guy in the suit,” I say casually. “Your boyfriend?”
She blinks, once, twice, like I slapped her. “What?”
“The one at the gala. Big, broad, pretty eyes. Looked at me like I’d pissed on his shoes back in Val d’Isère. You were together, right?”
She covers her mouth, stifling a laugh. “You mean Jacques? He’s my driver. My bodyguard.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “He’s also gay. My father has a rule about my security team not having… ulterior motives.” Sugar and venom.
I stare, trying to recalibrate. “You’re kidding.”
“No. I’ve never had a straight bodyguard. It’s a family tradition, apparently.”
“Maybe your father’s smarter than you think,” I say, mostly to buy my brain time.
She sips her beer, eyebrow raised. “You’re disappointed?”
“Not even a little.” I grin. “I just thought I’d have to fight him for you.”
She gives me a look. “That is the most Neanderthal thing I’ve ever heard.”
I shrug. “What can I say. Limited evolution.”
She goes quiet again, thumb worrying the edge of her napkin. “You know,” she says, low, “I used to hate this stuff. All of it. The noise, the food, the sweating, the bruises. But now? I think I get it.”
I tilt my head, wait.
“You do it so you don’t have to hear the rest,” she says. “The legacy, the money, the rules. There’s no space for that in your head when you’re flying, is there?”
I don’t answer right away. Her hands are shaking, just a little, as she tears the napkin into neat strips.
“Yeah,” I say eventually. “Something like that.”
She nods, satisfied, like she’s solved an equation.
She hasn’t. She has no idea why I really do it. In fact, neither do I. But if that story helps her breathe, I’ll let her keep it.
We let the hut noise fill the gaps for a while. It’s weirdly easy.
When the second round of beers lands, I lean in, elbows on the sticky table. “So what are you running from, really?”
She’s finished her glass, which means maybe I’ll get something real.
