Page 15 of The Lodge

The magic carpet deposits us at the top of the hill. Even though it didn’t look terribly steep from the base, we’re definitely higher than I expected—I take out my phone to snap a photo for Chloe.

“My best friend will never believe I got out on the mountain unless she sees proof,” I explain. I fumble for half a second before remembering I’m not wearing the sort of gloves that are compatible with phone screens. I tug one off just long enough to open the camera app.

“Want me to get a video of the run for your friend?” he offers.

It’s not the worst idea.

I hand over my phone. Our gloves brush in the transfer, making me wish we were somewhere warmer, no thick fabric between us, like in front of a fireplace, maybe—curled up under a flannel blanket—hot chocolate in hand, or maybe some apple cider—

“Let’s check your form first,” he directs, pulling me out of my head and back to this cold, cold mountain. “Before I risk my life skiing down the hill with no helmet while making my cinematography debut, I just want to make sure I’m not going to capture a video of you crashing to your death.”

“Wow, you really know how to motivate a girl, Tyler.”

He laughs.

I show him my form, which—unsurprisingly—is a little rusty.

“Keep your shins tilted forward,” he says. “And make sure your weight is centered over your feet as you move with your skis.”

I thought I was doing those things already, but he closes the gap between us.

“Is it okay if…?” he asks, gesturing toward my legs as if asking permission to touch them.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Fix whatever you think will keep me from crashing into a tree.”

He laughs again, tucking my phone into his pocket.

“You’ve almost got it—but—”

Tyler touches the backs of my knees lightly until I’ve bent them in just the right way, then straightens to correct my posture, one hand at my hip and another on my upper back. He’s utterly professional, entirely respectful, yet it still sends shivers coursing through me.

“How does that feel?” he asks.

It takes a second too long for me to realize he’s asking about my ski stance and not his hands on me.

“Good,” I blurt out too emphatically.

“Good,” he echoes, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Very helpful, thank you,” I say, trying to recover before I die of embarrassment.

“Show me,” he says, mercifully not lingering on what we bothknow I was thinking. He nods at my skis, then at a section of the hill that’s more or less level.

I glide forward, steady and balanced, keeping my form exactly as he instructed.

“Better, yes—like that. Your technique isn’t terrible.”

“Like I said, you really know how to motivate a girl.”

“You’d be surprised how many people say they can ski but are atrocious at it. It’s a safety thing,” he adds, shrugging. “No one will book another lesson if they break their neck on the first day—it’s best for everyone if I’m honest.”

He makes a few more minor adjustments until he’s satisfied: a featherlight touch on my thigh, and another at my elbows to further reinforce my balance.

I could do this all day.

“Ready to head down?” he finally says.

I nod. “Ready to risk your life just so my best friend will believe this ski lesson actually happened?”

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