Then she shoves me back, both hands flat on my chest, eyes glassy, lips bright red.
“That’s enough,” she says, voice shaking. “Don’t make this harder.”
I don’t get a chance to answer. The Audi door opens, she slides inside, and the window glides shut, sealing her in that climate-controlled world. The car pulls away, taillights staining the snow pink, and I’m left in my race suit and damp base layers, colder than I’ve been all day.
My phone buzzes. DM from Eiswerk PR: “Great content today with Mlle Moreau. You two are trending. Keep the momentum going.” There’s a link to a repost of her story—us at the hut, looking like some shiny new power duo, her composed, me grinning like the mountain is already mine.
For once, I don’t want to be in the picture. I want the person who sat across from me and said she was running from herself.
I watch the red dots of her car vanish down the valley, swallowed by blue-black night. Then I turn and jog back toward the hotel, boots crunching on crusted snow, trying to outrun theghost of her mouth and the way her voice shook when she said she was afraid.
Chapter 5
Married To The Eagle
Playlist:
AC/DC: Back In Black
Abba: Eagle
Beaver Creek, Colorado, November 27
NICO
Only in America do you get a 'small' orange juice the size of a training shaker. No wonder their downhill guys are built like snowplows.
I take another sip anyway, because altitude headaches demand sugar. The breakfast room is a disaster of jet-lagged Austrian speed guys slumped over trays like they've already crashed. Lukas is face-down in his scrambled eggs. I should probably check if he's breathing.
The buffet is a crime scene. Pancakes drowning in syrup, bacon that looks like it died twice, something called "hash browns" that wish they were Rösti but gave up halfway. I pile it all on my plate anyway, because Birds of Prey doesn't care if my breakfast had standards, only that it fuels my body enough for the racing weekend.
“American coffee tastes like someone whisperedespressoover hot water and then ran away in shame,” I announce to no one in particular, holding up the jug.
"Shut up and drink it," Katharina says from the corner table, not even looking up from her laptop. "We're too far from Vienna to be picky."
I grin and drop into the chair across from her, setting my tray down with a clatter that makes Lukas twitch. Katharina's already working—media plans, sponsor obligations, probably a spreadsheet of all the ways I can screw up this weekend. She's good at her job. Terrifyingly good.
Which means she's also the one person here who knows I'm tangled up with Élise Moreau.
I shove a forkful of fake-Rösti into my mouth and try to sound casual. "You know that Moreau girl? Élise."
Katharina's fingers pause on the keyboard. One perfectly arched eyebrow lifts. She still doesn't look at me.
"Any chance you could find out what she actuallydoesfor Eiswerk?" I lean back in my chair, all easy confidence. "She said she'd make me toe the line. Sounds like a job description, no?"
Now she looks up. Her expression is pure, weaponized sarcasm.
"From what I saw in Reiteralm, she already has you toeing the line." She lets that land, watches me squirm. "Just… the other way round."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. I cover it with a laugh, which comes out too loud, and too bright. "What? No. It's just a hook-up. I'm notThomas. No epic forbidden love story here."
