Page 14

“No, you need to talk,” I mutter. “I need a new identity. And maybe something to eat.”

I switch the phone to silent and shove it facedown beneath a pillow.

For the record, I have not accepted the liaison job Big Mike announced to an entire lobby last night. One festive billionaire shouting something while waving a champagne bottle does not constitute an employment contract.

I did, however, accept the room.

Because I might be emotionally unstable, temporarily unemployed and missing every form of identification required to prove I exist, but I am not stupid enough to reject a suite with a fireplace.

I crawl from the bed and cross the thick cream carpet toward the windows. The curtains run from ceiling to floor, heavy and dark green, and when I pull them open, the entire resort spreads beneath me.

Grey clouds hang low above the mountains, dusting the distant peaks with fresh snow. The outdoor hockey rink glows beneath strings of gold lights while children chase each other across the ice in brightly coloured jackets. Around them, staff straighten fur throws across the scattered heated lounges while feeding logs into fire pits already burning against the morning cold.

Beyond the rink, the Christmas market is awake.

Wooden huts line the pathways beneath red-and-white striped awnings. I wonder what kind of things they're selling down there. Not that I could buy anything anyway.

I move along the window, trying to get a better view. Smoke curls from tiny chimneys while vendors pour coffee and hot chocolate into festive cups. One woman arranges enormous cinnamon rolls beneath a glass cover, and even from all the way up here, I can see each one dripping with icing.

My stomach growls so loudly it echoes off the windows.

“Fine. We’ll deal with the emotional collapse after breakfast.”

But first, I need a shower.

The bathroom is lined with pale stone and brushed gold fixtures, with a rainfall shower large enough to wash an entire hockey team.

Oh, wow. That's an interesting thought to have as I pull down my panties.

Considering the state of my life, the image of shirtless hockey players in my shower arrives far too easily.

More specifically, the gruff man who rescued me yesterday.

Miles.

The memory of his hands tightening the rescue straps transforms into something far less practical as I step into the cascading warmth. Letting the water wash over me, I imagine those rough palms sliding over my wet breasts, thumbs dragging across my nipples before one hand travels lower, across my stomach and between my thighs.

In my head, he presses me against the shower wall, spreads my legs with one powerful thigh and uses those thick fingers to discover exactly how much I appreciate being rescued.

My hand moves instinctively toward the ache gathering between my legs.

Oh, absolutely fucking not.

“No.”

I turn the water colder and pump the body wash bottle a little too aggressively.

I am not thinking about having sex right now.

I lather my body quickly, and the hotel soap smells like orange peel, cinnamon and cedarwood. Heated tiles warm my feet, towels wait on a brass rack and the mirror somehow refuses to fog, meaning when I step out, I am forced to confront the woman who ran from her wedding and spent the night thinking about the stranger who rescued her.

Excellent.

I dry myself off, pull on yesterday’s jeans and a clean sweater from the emergency bag an antler-wearing staffer helped me bring upstairs.

As I look outside and decide to check out the market, my phone begins vibrating again from beneath the pillow on the bed.

I leave it there.