“Sure, I have,” she snaps back. “It’s just been a long time ago.”
Then it hits me. She doesn’t really have many faces, because none are hers. She charms to win me and is spiteful to knock me back. I’ll only meet the real girl when curiosity wins, and the polished lady drops every act—maybe every layer of clothing, too.
“You know,” I offer, leaning on the couch nonchalantly and enjoying the warmth of her backside touching mine. “I could order some bubbles from the bar. They do have better.”
“Bubbles,” she says, smelling the beer weirdly. “Why? You celebrating something?”
“Well…” I chuckle.
Her act is getting a little too much.
I throw an arm around her shoulders and stroke her arm lightly, but for a moment, I cannot think of anything smart to say.
She does not shrug me off; she just looks at the hand stroking her arm, then back to me.
“I mean it, I don’t know,” she says. “And you obviously think I should. You won a gold medal or something?”
“Silver,” I stutter and pull my arm away.
Fuck, she’s not pretending. She’s not even impressed.
“Oh,” she adds, licking her lips. “I guess that’s good, too. Skiing, right? Alpine skiing. We’re in the Olympic alpine village.”
“Who are you?” I ask, shaking my head.
“Nobody,” she shrugs. “Though I have a feeling I insulted you. It is a big thing to have an Olympic medal.”
“Like the biggest thing in my life,” I answer honestly.
“And yet.” She touches my arm lightly, and her eyes take on that curious, studying look. “You chose to spend your biggest evening with me.”
“I… some guys went to bed preparing for the combined tomorrow, and my roommate, the guy with gold, is somewhere celebrating with his girl.”
“I see,” she says, and her eyes travel across my body, taking in every line. That look is intoxicating, and sadly, my dick answers her. I clear my throat to divert her gaze and cross my legs.
“Why did you come here?”
“Is skiing demanding?”
“You didn’t answer. Why did you come here?”
“I don’t know. Is skiing a demanding sport?”
“I asked…” The words taste petty, so I give up. “Yes. Very. Imagine holding a squat position for three minutes, with g-forces and bumps throwing you off balance and gusts of wind eating you alive.”
“Hmm.”
“What is this conversation?”
“I don’t know,” she repeats, as if that was the answer to everything. “Frankly, I have no idea what I am doing or why I am here.”
Her eyes meet mine, and what I see in the depths of those cold-lake irises makes my head swell. There’s desire, fear, sadness, thrill, pleasure, resentment, all crammed in there at once like they’re fighting for space. It shouldn’t be possible to feel that much and stay upright, but she does, jaw tight, shoulders squared, like she’s bracing for impact. It’s eating her alive, and she still refuses to flinch.
Her fingers tap an uneven rhythm on her thigh, then curl into a fist. Her chest rises a little too fast. She’s perched on the edge of the couch like it’s a ledge, not a cushion, knuckles white on her bag strap before she forces them to relax. The good little princess mask is still on, but underneath, everything is rattling.
What flares in me then is beyond desire; it’s awe. The urge to flip her onto her back and fuck her senseless slams into something softer and dumber—the instinct to put my hands on her and hold, steady, until the shaking stops.
“Just shut it out,” I whisper, leaning in, close enough to feel her breath on my mouth.
