Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
WES
Snow screamed past my ears.
Cold air knifed down my throat, my eyes watered, and the sled beneath me rattled like it had a death wish. The ground fell away faster than my brain could catch up, the hill dropping out from under the runners in a long, slick rush that felt like falling and flying at the same time.
A shout scraped out of my chest, sharp and ripped bare. Half furious, half something a lot closer to exhilarated.
Clara had shoved me.
No warning. No countdown. Just that wicked little glint in her eyes, her mittened hands braced, and a hard push that sent me and the sled tipping over the edge before I could finish telling her what a bad idea this was.
The first second was nothing but panic.
Too fast. Too much. Snow a blur, the slope tilting wrong, my stomach lurching in my ribs. My brain went straight to the worst-case scenario, the way it did now without asking permission.
If I wiped out, if the sled slipped from under me, if my leg caught wrong, if I twisted—
The prosthetic thudded against the packed snow through the thin plastic, every vibration a reminder of what could go sideways. My hands clenched around the rope until my knuckles ached. My shoulders locked. Every muscle in my torso braced like I was waiting for impact.
The hill didn’t care. It kept on dropping.
My body remembered anyway.
My weight shifted with the sled. My core tightened and leaned into the curve as the ground dipped. Snow sprayed at the sides in a cold arc when I hit a little rut, the runners bumping and skittering for half a heartbeat before finding their track again.
The leg held.
The strap bit into my residual limb, solid and familiar.
My balance wobbled, but it didn’t go out.
The hill under me was steep enough to feel, but not steep enough to kill me.
Wind tore at my eyes. My chest burned. The world narrowed to the hiss of snow, the pull of gravity, the drag of the rope in my fists.
Something in my ribs loosened.
A laugh punched out of me, raw and startled, like my body had gone ahead and decided before my brain.
The sound shocked me more than the ride.
I couldn’t remember the last time anything had just . . . yanked a laugh out of me. No warning. No effort. Just that hot, wild sting of adrenaline hitting joy and sparking to life.
The sled hit the flat at the bottom with a jolt, skidding sideways as it lost momentum. Snow sprayed up over my boots and onto my jeans, freezing through the denim. The runners scraped and shuddered and then finally gave up, the whole thing jerking to a crooked stop in a shallow drift.
Silence rushed in, huge and bright, broken only by my own breathing.
My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to get free. The cold bit at my cheeks, my ears, even my teeth. My ass felt like I had just ridden over twenty land mines. The hand I’d wrapped around the rope was numb and burning at the same time.
I sat there anyway.
Alive. Upright. In one piece.
My mind did a quick inventory, automatic and practiced.
Leg? Still attached. No extra pull, no sharp twist, no screaming protest from the stump. Just the usual deep ache where bone met socket and the faint ghost buzz of a calf that wasn’t there.
Back? Fine.
Head? Clear, aside from the left-behind echo of the shout that had ripped out of me.
I had not eaten shit on the way down the hill. I had not face-planted. I had not toppled sideways into some humiliating tangle of limbs and carbon fiber and sled.
The hill, from down here, looked . . . small. Manageable. The kind of slope I wouldn’t have given a second thought a year ago. Now it felt like I’d just summited something in my own backyard.
Snow glowed around me, bright and untouched except for the track I’d carved through it.
The pines stood sentry on either side, branches heavy with white, framing the cut of the path that led toward the dunes and the water beyond.
The air had that sharp, clean bite that came only after fresh snowfall, like the world had been scrubbed down and reset.
A breath left me on a shaky, disbelieving exhale.
From the top of the hill, Clara whooped.
The sound knifed through the cold—bright and sharp and so full of delight it made my chest jolt. I tipped my head back.
She was a small, bundled shape against the pale sky, hat crooked, scarf flapping, one mittened fist punched into the air like she’d just won something.
“You’re alive!” she shouted. “I was only, like, eighty percent sure that would work out.”
My laugh came out rough and still half breathless.
She just grinned wider, practically vibrating. Then she dropped onto her own sled with the easy confidence of someone who’d never had to think about how her body moved through space.
“Move over, old man,” she shouted. “I’m coming for you.”
Before I could tell her not to call me that, she pushed off.
Her sled didn’t launch as hard as mine had.
The plastic eased over the edge, then picked up speed, sliding down the track I’d carved.
Snow kicked up past the runners. Clara shrieked, a high, delighted sound that broke into laughter halfway down.
Her scarf streamed out behind her, hair spilling loose from under her hat, cheeks flushed bright pink from the cold and the rush.
The sight did something disorienting to my insides.
She wasn’t careful. She wasn’t calculating. She just . . . let go. She fully trusted the hill and the sled and the moment.
She also trusted me, by extension, because I was the idiot sitting at the bottom without a plan if she wiped out.
“Lean left!” I shouted when her sled started to drift toward the edge of the track.
She did, laughing the whole time, and the sled straightened, coasting the last few feet in a sideways skid that brought her right toward me.
The speed bled off fast on the flat. By the time she reached me, the sled was more drift than bullet, sliding in slow motion across the snow.
Reflex beat panic to the finish line.
My hand shot out and caught the front rope, fingers digging into the cold nylon as I hauled the sled to a stop. The plastic bumped my boot, and her knee knocked lightly against my shin.
We rocked once and settled.
Her breath came in frantic little puffs, fogging the air between us. A laugh still clung to her mouth, turning the corners up, but her eyes went straight to my leg.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, the words spilling out on one exhale. “Your leg. Does it hurt?”
The question staggered me more than the ride.
My body did another quick systems check. Residual limb? Achy, yeah. Not screaming. Prosthetic? Secure. No hot spike of pain, no warning flare, just the usual background buzz of nerves that didn’t know when to quit.
Shockingly okay.
Snow clung to the cuff of my jeans. My ass was numb. My heart was trying out for a rock band.
I snorted, still half laughing because I didn’t know what else to do with the adrenaline. “No,” I said, breath puffing white. “But you about gave me a heart attack. Christ, woman.”
Clara’s shoulders sagged with relief, then shimmied with leftover energy. She whooped into the sky—real and wild, head tipping back, the sound rolling out of her like it had been pressurized.
“I told you it would be fine,” she said, giddy, eyes sparkling. “Look at you. Sledding. Like a functioning human.”
“Big talk from the menace who committed attempted murder via a plastic tray,” I muttered, but it didn’t have any teeth.
She grinned at me, so close now I could see individual snowflakes caught in the ends of her hair, melting against the knit of her hat. Her cheeks were bright, lips flushed, eyes blown wide with excitement and something that looked a hell of a lot like triumph.
She hadn’t just wanted to drag me outside.
She’d wanted this. Proof. That I could still do something stupid and fun and not break.
The realization hit harder than the hill.
Clara shifted on the sled, boots digging into the snow so she could turn toward me.
The movement brought her knee up against my thigh, a solid, casual press that my body treated like a live wire.
She was close enough that her breath brushed my cheek when she laughed again, softer this time, still edged with adrenaline.
“You screamed,” she said, eyes bright with mischief. “Just for the record.”
“I did not scream,” I grumbled.
Her grin sharpened. “There was definitely a suspiciously high-pitched noise.”
“It was a perfectly reasonable exhale,” I said. “Caused by you shoving a one-legged man off a hill.”
“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes, the movement tugging her scarf askew and exposing the shallow curve of her throat above her collar. “If I’d waited for you to push off on your own, we’d still be at the top arguing about incline angles.”
I snorted, even as my pulse picked up. “I guess you’re not wrong.”
Her sled had drifted crooked, so she planted one boot in the snow and scooted closer to brace herself, fingers catching on my jacket. Her gloved hand landed on my chest, palm flat over my sternum, just long enough to steady her balance.
The contact was light, fabric to fabric. My body didn’t know the difference.
Heat punched through me, fast and hot, settling low between my thighs. My heartbeat kicked under her hand, thudding against my ribs hard enough I was half convinced she could feel it through the layers.
She must have, because her eyes flicked down to where her hand rested, then back up to my face. Some of the wild, delighted chaos in her expression shifted into something hotter, more focused.
“See?” she said quietly, fingers curling slightly in my jacket. “Still here. Fully functional.”
My dick twitched at the way she said fully functional, the words slipping right under my skin like they belonged there.
Every inch of me went too aware—of the damp chill seeping into my jeans, of the weight of the prosthetic anchored in the snow, of the warm, soft woman in front of me who had absolutely no business touching me like this and yet felt exactly right doing it.
Her mouth twitched. “Even if you did . . . exhale . . . in a cute little shrill.”
“You keep talking like that, Duchess,” I said, my voice coming out lower than I intended, “and hauling your ass back up this hill is going to count as PT.”
She laughed, breath ghosting across my face. “Oh no,” she gasped, mock dramatic. “Cardio and core strength? How will I ever survive?”
Her hand slid up a little as she pushed herself off the sled, palm dragging up my chest to my shoulder in a way that was definitely not necessary for balance. Snow clung to my jacket where her fingers had been. My skin burned underneath.
She got her feet under her and straightened, then leaned over me to flick at my hat, knocking loose a clump of snow that had landed there during my uncontrolled descent.
“Hold still,” she murmured.
Gloved fingers moved through my hair, brushing away the remaining flakes.
The touch was quick, half practical, half an excuse, but it sent a sharp electric line straight down my spine.
Her face was inches from mine—eyes intent, lips parted, cheeks flushed with cold and something that was no longer just victory.
I didn’t lean away.
Couldn’t.
My gaze dropped to her mouth, helpless. Pink and a little chapped from the wind, curved in a grin she was trying to tame and failing miserably. She smelled like cold air and sugar from breakfast, like my kitchen and my house and something that had started to feel dangerously close to home.
“Snow,” she said, flicking one last bit off my shoulder. “You were starting to look like a lawn ornament.”
“Rude,” I muttered, but the word came out rough, the edge dulled by the way her hand lingered that extra heartbeat before dropping back to her side.
Her knee stayed pressed against my thigh. My glove brushed her boot where it rested in the snow. Tiny points of contact, stupidly small, each one dragging my focus back to the fact that we were alone and flushed and buzzing with too much energy that had nowhere to go.
Clara sank down to kneel in the snow beside me, jeans darkening where they touched the powder. She looked at me the way she had at the bottom of the hill—like I’d done something more impressive than gravity and plastic could account for.
“You did good, Vaughn,” she said softly.
The praise hit with embarrassing force.
My throat went tight. “You assaulted me with recreational equipment,” I replied, aiming for dry and landing somewhere closer to fondness. “Minimal property damage, though. I’ll send you a bill.”
Her smile turned slow, satisfied, like she heard everything I wasn’t saying. “Pretty sure you owe me for that ride,” she countered. “Consider it exposure therapy.”
“Exposure therapy usually doesn’t involve attempted homicide.”
She tipped her head, eyes sliding over my face like she was trying to memorize something. “You’re laughing,” she said. “I’ll accept the charges.”
I hadn’t realized I was. A low raw sound still lived in my chest, an echo of the one that had ripped out of me on the way down. It felt foreign and familiar all at once.
Her gaze fell briefly to my mouth, then jerked back up. The move was quick. It still sliced a hot line through me.
Clara Darling had dragged me down a hill and straight into a reality I’d been avoiding for months.
I was still capable of joy. I was still capable of wanting.
And right now both of those things were sitting in the snow in front of me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, looking at me like I’d just done something that mattered.