Page 38 of The Mountain
“Have a good lesson,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly. “I’ll see you after work.”
And then he’s peeling away from us, one hand lifting in a reluctant wave as he greets whoever it is he’s training for the day. Tessa is silent for a beat, watching Liam retreat with a mirth-filled gleam in her eyes before rounding on me.
“He’s completely gone for you,” she whisper-squeals as we make our way to the private lesson post. “Liam Sutherland, who hates everyone. Literally the grumpiest, most antisocial person I’ve ever known in my life. This is magic. A Christmas miracle.”
“Oh my god,” I snort, shaking my head. “Can you stop?”
Because we’re almost at the post now, and the other—much more dignified-looking and infinitely more experienced—instructors are eyeing us both with open curiosity. Tessa presses her lips together, but amusement is still written across her face like an advertisement, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
I shoot her a quelling glare, which she completely ignores, and try not to think about the way my heart is racing, my hands still trembling inside my gloves. It’s not just the remnants of adrenaline from standing up to John, or even nerves at feeling the eyes of all the high-ranking instructors on us.
No, I’m pretty sure the thundering in my heart is owing entirely to the way Liam looked at me, to that unspoken approval and the twitch of his gloved hand that spoke of a barely constrained need to touch me.
Tessa’s words echo in my head:He’s completely gone for you.
I don’t know if it’s true. But one thing is becoming increasingly clear: I’m completely gone for him.
For all of them.
Me: Hey Mom and Dad. I hope you guys are doing okay. Thinking of you.
Me: Did Grandma set up the miniature Christmas village again this year? It looks just like that here, she would love it.
Me: Look at all the fresh snow! It’s a winter wonderland! (Pic)
Me: Something happened the other night, and I’d like to talk to you about it. Please.
I frownat the string of unanswered messages, all marked as read in the group chat I have with my parents. The first ones sent last week, the latest one from a few days ago.
Someone bumps my shoulder as they shuffle past me in the narrow hallway outside the resort bathrooms, then quickly apologizes. I don’t even flinch, don’t even look up. I just stare at that silent thread, as if I can somehow force the people on the other end to answer—or better, to materialize in front of me. To smile at me with approval and love. To tell me my new instructor’s uniform looks nice. To tell me that they’re proud of me. To tell me what I should do about what happened with Tom.
I’m starting to realize that’s not going to happen.
“Everything okay?”
I plaster on a smile at the sound of Jackie’s voice and pocket my phone.
“All good,” I tell her.
It’s not entirely a lie. Because I’m here, teaching her, and for the first time since I came to the mountain, I feel like I belong. Because I spent last night surrounded by five guys I’mcompletely falling for, stomach and heart full, my body languid from a mind-blowing orgasm. Because I woke up to Seth and Matty in my bed, their large bodies wrapped around me, their warm breaths against my shoulder and neck.
Jackie gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying, but doesn’t press. Instead, she says: “That last run we did was really fun. I think… I think I’m starting to get the hang of this.”
“Youaregetting the hang of it,” I tell her, and this time there’s nothing forced about my smile. “You were absolutely amazing. That is not an easy green run. You’re way more confident on your toe-side turn now.”
“You think so?” Jackie gives a tentatively hopeful smile as we step back outside, cheeks flushing at the praise, making her seem suddenly younger, vulnerable. Like she could be my age, or even her daughter’s age.
My chest constricts. In this moment, it doesn’t matter that she’s twice my age, probably with a corner office full of fancy diplomas and interns scrambling to win scraps of attention from her each day. Right now, she’s just a student. Just like any of the teenage kids I’ve been teaching. Hungry for praise and terrified of failure.
Just like me.
“Definitely.” I give her a rough pat on the back. Like she’s a friend and not a student. Like she’s my equal and I’m hers. “You’re doing so good that I think we should try a blue run next.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Um. I’m not sure…”
“Oh, no,” I say, shooting her a challenging grin. “We have to do it now.” I wave my hand to the main chairlift—the same one we’ve been riding all morning, practicing turns on green run after green run. “If you get scared, I can always go back to holding your hands again. But you’re ready to take it up a level.”
She is. I’m sure of it. And the thought of helping her get there, helping her overcome another set of fears—it has my heart racing with excitement, pride expanding in my chest. By the end of this week, I want to see her cruising down a black diamond run, a smile on her face, confidence showing in her every move.
