She watched Beaver Creek. She texted me after. And now? Two speed wins in a row, and the woman who made me turn down hotel-hallway sex can’t spare one word. Not even a lazy ‘Congrats’.
I shove the phone into my pocket, then pull it back out thirty seconds later like an idiot.
The irritation sits hot under my ribs.
I can almost feel her hands on me, the way she’d whisper something filthy in French against my neck, the way she’d make winning feel like foreplay.
My phone buzzes.
I check it too fast.
It’s Martin.
Don’t be weird.
I raise my eyes and see him watching me with an amused expression.
“Whoever you’re checking for, screw her,” Martin says, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face. “You need to get laid, buddy. Plenty of fans down there who’d volunteer.”
I force a grin, light and easy. “Can’t. Downhill tomorrow.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care about the rules?”
“Had to grow up at some point,” I say, shouldering past him toward the hallway.
He laughs, but I can feel his eyes on my back.
***
As we head down the stairs toward the bar, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Habit wins. I check it.
One new message.
ÉLISE:Nice skiing, Mr. Reiner. I’m downstairs.
Heat hits first, low and instant, the kind that has nothing to do with podiums or trophies.
I can see it like a split-screen in my head: me walking into the hotel bar, her already there in something that makes my brain short-circuit, legs crossed, mouth curved in that knowing little smile. Then the two of us disappearing into a hallway, a lift, a room. Her on her knees. Her under me. Her turning a double Super-G win into the filthiest kind of celebration.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
Right behind the heat comes the irritation.
Because, of course, she’s here when it suits her. Of course, she appears now, like a bonus prize after I’ve already done the hard part. No apology for going cold after Beaver Creek. No explanation. I’m just downstairs, as if I’m supposed to fall in line and come running.
Part of me wants to do exactly that, drag her somewhere private and fuck her until she can’t talk in that cool brand-manager voice for a week.
Another part of me—the part that remembers lying awake after Beaver Creek with my heart racing for all the wrong reasons—doesn’t want to make it that easy for her.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, pulse still thudding in my throat.
If she were here on my terms, this would be one of those nights.
But she’s not. She’s here on hers.
***
