She tips the bottle up and takes a sip straight from it. A drop of foam runs down the corner of her mouth, catches on her lower lip, and my body reacts like it just heard the starting beep again.
She notices. She always notices.
"So," she says, lifting her chin just a fraction, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear, "downhill king. How do you plan to celebrate?"
My laugh comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Violently."
Her eyes flick down to my mouth and back up. "That sounds on brand."
I slide my wet hand to her waist, fingers finding the dip under her coat. It's not even a grab, barely pressure, but still she goes still in that way she does when she's trying not to show she wants something.
I brush a strand of damp hair back from her cheek, knuckles grazing her skin.
She inhales sharply, like I touched something tender.
For a beat we just look at each other, both of us thinking the same thing. Hotel room, lock, bed, no cameras. I could do it.I could take her by the hand right now and disappear into the chaos and let the whole circus choke on it.
Instead, I grin, because I'm an idiot and because the high in my veins is bigger than sex right now.
"First," I say, leaning in so only she hears, "I'm going to sing off-key and drown in beer. Then we'll see if you still want the king."
She blinks at me like I've spoken in a language she doesn't know.
"There is a party in the VIP pub," she says carefully, already picturing it. Velvet ropes and champagne flutes, and polished men in expensive coats. Her world.
"Not that one," I say.
Her brows knit together. "Then what—"
"The real one," I cut in, and my smile turns sharp. "Après-ski. Fans. Bad music. Strong schnapps."
Her face does something between horror and fascination.
I can practically see the thoughts racing. Recognized. Photographed. Father. Scandal. Cage.
"It's crowded," she says, which is her way of saying absolutely not.
"Exactly," I tell her. "At your parties, everyone recognizes you." I tilt my head toward the sea of drunk Austrians in cow-print hats and red-white flags. "These guys? They won't have a clue who you are."
She looks past me, scanning the chaos like she's searching for danger. For a familiar face. For the trap she's sure is waiting.
Then her eyes come back to mine, sharp and a little wild under all that polish.
"And you," she says softly. "Will you recognize me?"
I squeeze her waist once, quick, like punctuation. "Always."
The word lands between us, heavy enough to be dangerous.
I force myself to step back before I do something stupid and perfect in front of a hundred cameras.
"Come on," I say, jerking my chin toward the exit like it's nothing. Like I'm not still vibrating. "Party first."
Her fingers tighten on the bottle. She hesitates one more heartbeat.
Then she follows.
***
