Page 20 of Counting Down To You

“Because it’s a winner, that’s why,” says Leo, nodding to the waiter, who backs out of the kitchen without another word.

“You get that?” Nick calls to the chef at the back, getting a thumbs-up in reply.

Elodie turns to me, straightening one of her bracelets. “Well, if Brooks won’t take you tonight, then I will.”

I frown. “Huh?”

“To Loop. You ought to meet some people, get a lay of the land.”

“Oh, I…”

“She might not want to go,” Leo says, glancing at me, like he’s read that exact thought.

“Nonsense. It’s Charlotte’s birthday.” Said as if Charlotte is one of my dear friends and not someone I only met yesterday. “You ought to come too,” Elodie continues. She quite likes the word “ought,” doesn’t she? “Show some support for your staff, get the season off to a good start.”

“I have a hotel to run, Elodie.” A note of warning in his tone.

“I’m not saying you don’t. I’m also not saying that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be new here. Or that you could spend some of the time you spend on the slopes with the girl who came all the way out to be with you instead.”

“I didn’t—”

But Leo shoots me a warning look. Apparently, it suits him for people to think I did get this job to be with him.

Leo sighs. “I get it, El.” He looks back at me. “We’ll go.”

It’s a statement not a question, and I have no idea how to feel about that fact. But I can’t think of what else to say other than “Great.” Even if it’s not great. Because this means I’m going to have to pretend in front of everyone that we’re dating. I’ve read the books, watched the movies. I know what that entails. Leo, however, does not seem all that worried about the prospect.

“I’m training this morning,” he says to Elodie, while Nick begins to plate up. “But can you get Marco to come and chat to me when he’s down? I’d like to go through the Christmas menus.”

Elodie gives Leo a look that quite clearly says on your life be it, then shrugs her agreement. I’ve never thought of a shrug as elegant, but Elodie’s definitely are.

Leo turns to me with a smile. “I’ll see you later?”

“Ah, sure.” Maybe I can come down with food poisoning or something in the meantime. Although, given that all the staff eat the same thing, that might be difficult.

He hesitates, then leans toward me. Before I realize what he intends to do, his lips brush my cheek. It’s a whisper of a kiss, barely even there. Nothing more than you’d greet an acquaintance with, really. I can smell what I presume is his cologne—something warm and spicy, like dark chocolate and mezcal. My skin prickles where his lips touch and, despite my best intentions, my body tenses.

He’s backing away from me before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, and is turning to leave the kitchen before I can wonder if I should have had a different reaction.

I only realize I’m still staring after him when Elodie says, “Ali?”

“Hmmm?”

“Is there anything else you need from the kitchen? Only the breakfast rush will start soon and we ought to leave the chefs to it.”

“Right.” I straighten my back as Nick snickers, ringing the bell for service. “Right!” I say again. “I’ll just…” I gesture toward the way Leo went, then leave with my head down and my heart beating a little more quickly than it was when I came in.

But what do I wear?

I’m WhatsApping Cal from my bedroom, curtains drawn shut. I’ve still got a couple of hours until the rest of them finish their shift, but, as I’ve checked in with all the relevant guests this evening, I clocked off early. I used the time to finally get Cal up to speed. He was delighted by the whole thing and immediately asked if he could have my job on the permanent desk if I ended up falling for Leo and moving to live in the Alps indefinitely.

Anything—casual I reckon.

But what IS casual out here?

Al, you’re forgetting that I’ve never worked a ski season. I’ve just sent people out there and hoped for the best, remember?

Jeans, I decide. It’s cold, so obviously I should wear jeans. Jeans and a jumper. A nice red jumper. I’m blond (ish), I’ve always been told red suits me. I put a vest top on underneath, then stare at my face in the mirror, wondering whether eyeliner is overkill. Jesus, it should not be this difficult. Why am I even doing this? And, on another note, people will expect me to hang out with Leo all night, won’t they? What if he doesn’t want to? What will they talk about? The whole thing is stupid. But the problem is I’ve gone along with it for over twenty-four hours. Telling everyone the truth now would be even more ridiculous. Maybe this is the meaning of “shooting yourself in the foot.”