In the end, I write:
Hey.
I don’t regret it. It was insane, but… in a good way.
I’m not really the dinner-with-celebrities type.
But if you want to repeat the part where the gondola stops, and the rest of the world disappears,
I’ll be at the bottom stationtomorrow at 10:30.
I read it three times. It’s bold without being begging, honest without giving away more than I can stand. My thumb hovers over send.
Then I tap.
The message wooshes away. My stomach drops as if I’ve just missed a gate.
“Oh God,” I whisper to the dark room. “What did you just do?”
I’m halfway through composing a follow-up apology in my head when the start gate beep goes off again.
is reply pops up almost instantly.
Deal.
No dinner. Only high-altitude insanity.
10:30. I’ll be there.
I fall back onto the pillow, phone clutched to my chest, a laugh bubbling up out of nowhere. I feel powerful and reckless and a little bit sick.
For once, I don’t fall asleep wondering if someone will pick me. I fall asleep wondering what I’ll dare to ask for when the gondola doors close again.
Chapter 7
Not a Fan of Almost
FABIO
I finish the last run of the block and let my skis slide instead of carving all the way to the lift. Roland is down by the fence with a radio and a face that says he has opinions about my line; I give him a quick nod, a later gesture, and drift past the training lane instead of straight into the queue.
The plan, if you can call it that, is simple: cool down, let my legs flush out a bit, and just happen to be in the right place to see one particular pair of GS skis come down the hill.
Then I see her, and my chest does a small, stupid thing.
She’s coming down a wide red, not pushing race pace but not tourist cruising either. Solid stance over the outside ski, hip working into the turn, upper body quiet. She uses the wholewidth of the slope—no defensive little wiggles, just committed edge-to-edge, attacking the fall line like it’s hers to play with. It’s not World Cup good, but it’s definitely above average. Better than some B-team kids I’ve watched this week.
I glide off to the side and let myself just watch.
She hits a slightly icier patch, and I see the skis bite instead of chatter. There’s a tiny adjustment—pressure tweak, timing correction—and she’s back on it, no panic, no flail—technical precision, not luck. My coach’s voice pops up automatically in the back of my head: Outside ski, always. She’s got that part burned in.
Something warm and sharp slides in under my ribs. This is what hooked me first: the cabin, even before the jacket sharing and the way she said Gran Risa, like it was a person she’d argued with. The way she talks about skiing is the way she actually skis—serious, precise, a little bit wild at the edges.
As she gets closer, I can see the details:Lustiskis, calves driving the boot, helmet slightly scuffed. She looks like she belongs here, on this hill, more than half the rich tourists in smart outfits wobbling around on skis that cost one normal person’s month's salary.
My brain, helpful as always, offers up other images of her, not on snow.
Knees braced on the cabin floor. Hands on my chest. The way her mouth felt when she took me into it like she’d been planning it for years. The first rough sound that tore out of her when my hand slid to the slick spot, exactly where she wanted it.
