Page 7 of Seduction on the Slopes

Ditto.

“Breathing exercises? Massage?”

“That would make me want to fuck.”

Christ. “Listening to music?”

He smiles, his grin apologetically lop-sided. “That’ll just make me want to smoke.”

“Knitting? Adult coloring books?” I’m reaching and I know it, but he is not making this easy. “Nothing?”

The look on Crash’s face is blank. Not in that goofy, stoner way either. More like a terrified way. He doesn’t have any more ideas than I do, and we’ve got another press event tomorrow. Twelve hours from now, and he’ll be facing the firing squad again.

Anxiety isn’t something that’s ever affected me. I get pre-race jitters like everyone else, but mostly I’ve learned how to control it, channel it, harness it—use it instead of it using me. But Crash isn’t wired like that, and I don’t have a magic bullet.

“Hey, look. This isn’t the end of the line, okay? We’re going to figure this out together. I don’t think we can solve it by tomorrow morning, but I’m going to do whatever it takes to help you. You’re not alone.”

Crash nods, but he doesn’t look like he believes me. Probably all the yelling and the threats haven’t helped. But as much as he doubts me, I’m completely serious. I take my role to heart, and now I know Crash isn’t just being a dickhead, I’ll do everything in my power to get him through the next two weeks, whatever that might be. I mean, I’m not going to score him pot or anything—he’d know better where to find it than I would anyhow—but outside of that, Iwillthink of something.

“Look, I think better when I’m moving, so I’m going to go for a walk before I head back to the village. Curfew’s in two hours, so I’ll expect you back by then.”

Crash drops his head back against the banquette and groans. “Curfew? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. And if I’m going to spend my time trying to help you out, I feel like the least you can do is get back to the village on time.”

I slide my coat on and zip up because it’s freezing out there. Literally, freezing. I spend a lot of time in the cold, but that doesn’t make me immune to it. I also tug on a hat because there’s not so much between my scalp and the air, and then I offer him a hand. “Have we got a deal? I’ll see you at eleven?”

“Fine.” He shakes my hand, and I’m not entirely convinced he’s not crossing his fingers under the table, but that’s a bridge I’ll cross if we come to it. For now, I’ve got a job to do.

Chapter Five

Crash

I make it back on time for eleven o’clock curfew like I said I would, and when I walk in the door, Miles drops a nod, a little smile on his face. It’s not the big, million-tooth grin he gives to the press or the fans, and maybe they wouldn’t even think he was smiling, but I’ve looked at his face often enough to know he is. And that dip of his head, that small sign of approval, makes leaving the brewery before I wanted to worth it.

Tomorrow morning I’ll remind myself how good this feels, how much I like Miles not thinking I’m a complete and utter fuckup. It’s so much better this way.

“I have to confess I haven’t come up with anything, but I’ll sleep on it, all right? I’m not giving up and you shouldn’t either.”

I agree, but the queasiness is starting already and I’m not sure a nod, no matter who it’s from, is going to get me through tomorrow morning without me on my knees in the bathroom. I mean, if I were sucking Miles off, that would be an awesome way to start the day, but he decidedly didn’t offer when it came up earlier. So yeah, if I’m on my knees it will be in front of the toilet, puking up my guts.

It’s hard to go to sleep and even harder to stay asleep, so I spend my night tossing and turning, and when Miles’s alarm goes off and he hops in the shower, I’m tempted to rub one out to take the edge off. But the dude has no hair, so he takes like five-second showers, and while I can get the job done pretty fast, I’m not that fast, especially when I’m on my way to freakout-ville. So I don’t.

By the time Miles has got himself all spiffed up—he’s the only guy I know who can still look fancy in a tracksuit—and I roll out of bed, my stomach is . . . not happy. I’ve got that crawly, jittery feeling running from my fingers and toes, and it all seems to meet up in my gut where it doesn’t just add up. It multiplies.

I clutch at my middle to try to keep the protein bar I downed inside instead of outside, and that seems to help. What also helps is Miles clapping a hand on my back. “Ready to hit the dining hall?”

I want to say no, so badly, but if I do, there’s no way I’m making it to the studio on time for our interview. He knows it, and I know it. The way he looks at me says, “Don’t disappoint me, Crash,” and I don’t want to. So despite even the idea of being near food making my nausea worse, I say okay.

The cold air outside is actually helpful. Maybe it freezes some of the flying fish that are leaping around in my internal organs? I don’t know. By some miracle, I make it through being in a massive room full of food and noise without yakking. Then it’s time to get on the van that’ll take us to theTalk Americastudios, and I sit next to Miles, trying not to vom in his lap. Because nothing says you want to fuck a guy like laying a technicolor yawn on his junk.

Miles is cool, though. He steers me where I need to go, talks quietly to me so I don’t feel like a total freak even though I’ve basically lost contact with the planet Earth. If anyone asked me something, I don’t think I could answer without blowing chunks all over them. The upside to showing up with the rest of the team is that I don’t have to. Miles does it for me.

Until we’re set to go out on the jiffy pop set and I start to sweat and my knees feel like jelly. Not the good kind of jelly like after a badass day on the slopes that makes you want to collapse in bed with a warm body and have a nice leisurely fuck. The bad kind of jelly. Like . . . tension marmalade or some shit.

The lights are really bright out there, the studio feels like a goddamn sauna and my hair is sticking to the back of my neck. Also, my chest is starting to hurt like I slammed into a boulder. Or a tree. Yeah, I treed myself, and that’s new. Chest pains.

My head is swimming, and I might fall over. Fainting. Christ, that’s just what I need. But before I topple on over, I feel the familiar sensation of my meager breakfast coming up. I try,try, so hard to keep it down, but the second my foot lands on the platform, I lose it, and yodel groceries all over the corner of the set.

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