“Sir?”
He jumps, and his gaze shoots up to the server who interrupted him.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says, placing a fresh whisky and a coaster in front of him. “It’s from the woman at the bar.”
Jon glances across the room. The sultry brunette is still there. She raises her martini glass, smiles.
Confused, then immediately flattered, Jon lifts the gifted drink in reciprocity. He hesitates, then makes a motion with his hand and mouths the words:Would you like to join me?
She shakes her head. Smiles warmly, then turns her back to him.
Curiosity piqued, Jon sips, watching her. Then he gets up, weaves his way through the growing throngs of patrons to the bar counter.He’s forced to sandwich himself between the occupied barstool on his left and the brunette herself on his right, which brings him up close. Very close. She smells good. Music goes louder—the live act has come onstage, an Irish fiddling duo.
“Thank you,” he says.
Her lips curve. Deep-red lipstick. Big green eyes. She’s as attractive up close as from afar.
“You didn’t need to come over,” she says.
“Felt rude not to.”
“I’m sorry—the drink wasn’t a solicitation. Perhaps it was a miscalculation on my part.”
She has a slight accent. Very faint. He’s not sure what it is. German? Maybe a touch of Dutch, or even French. Intrigue deepens, and something in his body that is instinctive and primal begins to stir.
“So why then?” he asks. “I looked like I needed a boost?”
“Do you?”
He huffs. “Maybe. Probably. Yeah.”
She gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I felt bad for staring. You looked so insanely familiar that I was trying to place you, and you caught me,” she says. “I was utterly convinced I knew you. You know that sensation? When you run into a TV star who’s been on the screen inside your home so often that they seem like a friend, and you’re hit with this bolt of instant familiarity? Youknowthem, but you don’t. Then it struck me. You’re downhill ski champ Jon Rittenberg.” She grins, raises her martini glass. “Here’s to the BergBomber. I was a ski groupie once, a million years ago. I was in Salt Lake City for the ’02 games. I was a spectator in the crowd when you won that first gold. My God, it was electric, just being part of that. I also saw your earlier accident at the Alpine Cup. It was devastating. We all thought you’d never walk again, let alone skiandcome back to win two gold medals. So forgive me for staring.” She takes a sip from her glass. He watches her lips. “The drinkwas just my way of saying thanks. For the spectacular skiing and giving us something to root for.”
Jon is galvanized. He feels like he did when he was in his late teens and early twenties and on the ski circuit. This womanseesthe hero in him. Sheknowshim, is proud to have reveled in a part of his athletic life. She isthankful. This woman has plugged Jon directly into a magnetic current, and he feels that vestigial part of himself rising. It’s intoxicating. He’saliveagain.
She angles her head, holds his gaze, and he has to lean closer to hear her speak as the music from the band goes louder. “To tell you the truth, Jon,” she says, “I’d forgotten all about the BergBomber, until I saw you in that booth. Here’s to glory days.”
He pulls a wry mouth, his body so close now their arms are touching. “Sounds like a sad old Springsteen song.”
“Yet here we are.”
“You a skier yourself?”
His phone vibrates in his pocket. Daisy again. Jon can’t face talking to Daisy right now. He’d have to confront the falsity of all the reasons they moved here. He feels anger at her, too. And something a little more sinister needles into him—could she have known? Daisy is very close to her parents, her mother especially. Why would theynothave told their daughter that this move back home might come to naught? Unless...maybe he’s been set up. Maybe the Wentworths wanted Daisy home before they cut him loose. His heart begins to pound.
“I am.”
“What?” Jon asks.
“A skier. You asked if I was a skier.”
“Right, yes. Are you local? I detect an accent.”
“I’m originally from Belgium. I live in Switzerland now. I come and go for business here.”
“What sort of business?”
She falls silent. Her eyes appraise him.
