She leaves us, and instantly the swarm closes in. Cameras, questions, the same three worries dressed up in a dozen clever phrasings.
How do you handle expectations? Is the team fractured without its leader? Am I ready to fill shoes too big for one cocky kid?I answer with practiced jokes and shrugs. Give them what they want. Maybe a bit more.
And then I see her.
She’s across the room. Her hair pulled so tight it must hurt, every strand a weapon. That black dress cuts a silhouette that makes my mouth go desert-dry, the high neckline like a challenge, a dare. She’s talking to some sponsor suit, sipping espresso with lips that once whispered filth against my neck, and Christ, I can still feel the scrape of her teeth. My pulse hammers in my throat, my wrists, between my legs. She looks like the fucking Ice Queen, and I remember the other her.
My Olympic secret flashes back: her eager lips, that wild laugh in a quiet hallway, the taste of her skin. She was a mystery that night. But today she is manicured into some perfect, distant trophy.
I watch her sip that espresso like it’s a religious rite, her eyes tracking the room with a dismissal that should make me feel small. But it doesn’t. Because I remember the night when I gave her exactly what she needed.
I cut through the crowd, feet light, smile loaded.
“Bonsoir,” I say, tilting my head, and switch to English. “Well, if it isn’t the ice queen. Still pretending we’ve never met?”
She doesn’t flinch, just lifts a brow and answers in polished German. “I meet a lot of people, Mr. Reiner. You’ll have to be more specific.”
A smirk slides across my mouth. “Right. My bad. I was the guy you climbed like a ski rack in Gardena. Ringing any bells?”
She sips her coffee, not missing a beat. “You must be confusing me with someone less discriminating.”
“Harsh.” I lean in, dropping my voice, my body reacting to her perfume almost instantly.
Her smell is expensive, something floral, exotic, a scent that belongs to a boardroom, not a bedroom. And yet I remember it on my sheets.
“Why do you pretend?” I ask directly.
“Because,” she flashes her lashes and gives me a half-smile, “then I could have just enjoyed my coffee. Without you looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
She sets the cup down, her eyes flicking up. “Like I’m trouble. And dessert. And a bad idea.”
“You are," I say, letting it land. “The worst idea ever.”
Silence. Her cheeks growing pink, her breath going faster, her look giving away that she remembers every single detail of our night. And hates it.
I move an inch closer. “That’s why I can’t stop thinking about you.”
She leans away from me, eyes terrified before she regains composure and looks away. “You don’t even know my name.”
“I don’t need it to remember how you taste.”
Her jaw drops, she blinks and suppresses a grin. “You’ve got a big mouth.”
“And an even better tongue.” I grin, voice dropping. “Want me to prove it again?”
She laughs, low and dangerous, her ice mask back in place. “Careful, golden boy. I bite.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
She picks up her purse, all elegance and icy grace, and turns to leave. It almost looks like she’s gliding, but I see the crack, a hurry in her step. She’s desperate to get away, to run from what she might agree to.
A few paces away, she pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.
“If you want to make a move, Reiner… you’ll have to do better than words.”
I can’t help the grin. “Challenge accepted.”
