It’s not an invitation. It’s a dare.
I tilt my head and let a small, sharp smile curve my lips. “If you’re not too busy entertaining your fan club.”
He exhales hard through his nose—half laugh, half curse—and steps back from the barrier. His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate, something dark flickering behind the irritation.
Then he turns and walks away, disappearing back into the cluster of teammates and cameras.
I stay where I am. Arms wrapped tight around myself. Feet numb in designer boots. The executives beside me are already talking about the next race, voices blending into the background hum of the finish area.
No one notices when I slip out of the enclosure.
No one ever does.
***
I pull my phone from my pocket as I walk toward the parking area, fingers stiff from the cold, and type a message before I can think better of it.
Hotel. Give me twenty minutes.
I hit send.
Then I stand there in the shadow of the mountain, breath misting in the frozen air, and wait to see if he answers.
I wait in the hotel foyer until the noise starts to close in on me.
The place is a funnel of warmth and sound, wet boots squeaking on tile, ski jackets swishing, someone laughing too loudly near the bar. Farther down the hill, the real après-ski is in full roar, bass thumping faintly through the glass doors every time they slide open. Here, near the elevators, it’s quieter, but not quiet. People still look. People always look.
I’ve spent last ten minutes pretending I’m just another guest checking her phone.
Then I catch two men in team jackets glancing from me to the entrance and whispering, and I panic.
I step away from the armchair I’ve been pretending to sit in, cross to a shadowed stretch of corridor off the lobby, and pull out my phone.
Hotel. Hallway behind the elevator. First floor.
I hit send before I can add anything softer and plant myself between a fire extinguisher and a tasteful print of the Dolomites.
Not with the team. Not with the VIPs upstairs. Just hovering in the nowhere space with the sweet illusion of safety whispering in my ear; that if nobody sees us together, it somehow doesn’t count.
He takes twelve minutes.
When Nico finally turns the corner, his hair is damp and darker from the shower, curling at the ends. He’s swapped the race suit for team sweats and a hoodie. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t match the lazy way he walks, the kind of stiffness that says he’s still replaying every gate in his head.
He sees me. His mouth curves.
“Princess.” Light on the surface, something sharp underneath. “Enjoy the show?”
I let my gaze travel down, deliberate, from the damp hair to the logo on his chest to the scuffed trainers. Then back up, cool.
“I especially enjoyed the part where you flirted with every girl who screamed your name.”
The smile drops a fraction.
He snorts. “Taking selfies is part of the job. At least those girls actually like me, unlike the ones who pretend we’ve never met.”
My stomach does a small, stupid twist. I keep my spine against the wall, chin lifted.
“Oh, forgive me. I forgot the golden boy’s feelings come with a fan-club clause.”
