Her throat works as she swallows. When she looks back at me, the composure is mostly back, but her eyes are raw around the edges.
“My mistake,” she says quietly. “I thought this was… fun. For both of us.”
“It was,” I say, softer, then catch myself. “It is. I just—” I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
For once, I’m not letting her show up as the prize. If we’re doing this, it has to be a part of my life, not just her whimsical side quest.
She steps back fully, hands smoothing down her dress like she can erase the last two minutes. Her perfume lingers on my skin.
“Good luck tomorrow, then,” she says, crisp now. “Try not to be too grown-up. It’s boring.”
“Élise—” I start, but she’s already turning away, heels clicking once before the carpet swallows the sound.
I watch her disappear around the corner, my pulse still hammering, dick half-hard, anger fizzing under my skin like a bad energy drink.
At her. At me. At all of it.
Fine.
Downhill first. Feelings later.
Or not at all.
Chapter 8
Italian Heat
Playlist:
Cody Marrow: Beg Like You Mean It
The Killers: Miss Atomic Bomb
Val Gardena, Italy, December 19
ÉLISE
The finish area sits in complete shadow, the northern face of the Saslong cutting off any hope of sun this early in the day. I stand in the VIP enclosure, my arms wrapped around myself, my expensive coat doing nothing to keep out the cold that seeps up through my boots. The air bites at my face, sharp and merciless, and around me, sponsor executives and team staff watch the big screen replay Nico’s run for the third time, breath misting as they dissect split times like surgeons over a body.
“Point-zero-three at the second split.”
“Lost it in the Camel bumps.”
“Still, second place. Great result.”
On the screen, his skis carve perfect arcs through the Ciaslat section, body tucked so low he looks like part of the mountain. Then a tiny bobble in the Camel bumps—barely visible, a fraction of hesitation—and the clock ticks just a little too slow.
I shift my weight from one frozen foot to the other and watch people around me nod, satisfied. Points. Podiums. Brand exposure secured.
Down at the finish area, past the fencing and camera crews, Nico stands on the second step of the podium in his soaked race suit, champagne dripping from his hair, grinning like he owns the mountain even though someone else is standing higher.
