8. Ginger
GINGER
Two hours later, I am questioning all my life choices as I stand at the top of what Tyler insists is “the gentlest slope on the mountain" but looks to me like a vertical drop to certain death.
"Remember what I showed you," Tyler says encouragingly, standing beside me in his own skis. "Knees bent, weight forward, pizza to slow down, french fries to go faster."
"I'm never eating either of those foods again after this," I grumble, clutching my ski poles like lifelines. "From now on, it's strictly spherical foods that don't remind me of potential death positions."
He laughs. "You've got this, Ginger. I'll be right beside you the whole time."
"Promise?" The word slips out before I could catch it, laden with more vulnerability than I intend.
His expression softens, snowflakes catching on his dark lashes. "Promise. I won't let anything bad happen to you."
Something in the way he says it makes me believe him, which was ridiculous given our entire relationship was built on mutual deception.
"Okay," I take a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs. "Here goes nothing."
I push off, just as he'd shown me, focusing on keeping my skis in the "pizza" position to control my speed. To my absolute shock, I didn't immediately face-plant into the snow. I was gliding—slowly, shakily, but definitely moving forward on purpose rather than by gravitational misfortune.
"You're doing it!" Tyler calls, keeping pace beside me, his movements fluid and confident. "That's it, just like that!"
Pride blooms in my chest at his encouragement. "I'm skiing!" I exclaim, giddy with accomplishment.
"Told you!" he grins. "Now try a gentle turn—shift your weight to the left foot, like we practiced."
I lean into the turn, my knees shaking but holding as my skis carve a wobbly arc through the powder. "I did it!" My voice echoes across the slope, startling a nearby skier. I pump my fist in the air, nearly losing my balance in the process.
"Look at you, snow bunny!" Tyler's face lights up, his eyes tracking my movement with genuine pride. "Ready to pick up a little speed?"
"Don't push it," I warn, but my cheeks ache from smiling, and my pulse races with the thrill of conquest. Wind kisses my face as I glide forward, steadier now.
"Straighten your skis a bit—there you go!"
I feel the increase in speed, a rush of cold air against my face as I gain momentum. For a brief, glorious moment, I understand why people love this sport. The freedom. The speed. The sensation of flying over snow.
Then my ski catches an invisible bump, and the world tilts sideways.
I have enough time to yelp. Then I am tumbling. Snow flying everywhere as I roll ungracefully down the slope. When I finally come to a stop, I am flat on my back, staring up at the impossibly blue sky, and laughing uncontrollably.
"Ginger!" Tyler's worried face appears above me, blocking out the sun. His blue eyes dark with concern as they scan me for injuries. "Are you okay? Anything hurt?"
"Just my pride," I gasp between fits of giggles. "Which was already in critical condition before this expedition."
He visibly relaxes, dropping to his knees beside me in the snow. "You had me worried there for a second."
"Because you promised no injuries, and a broken Ginger would void the warranty?"
"Because I care about you, you lunatic," he says, his voice softer than I expected.
Our eyes meet, and something shifts in the air between us. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he might kiss me—and worse, I realize I want him to. His gaze drops to my lips, and I feel my breath catch.
Then a spray of snow hit us both as a child skier whooshes past, breaking the spell.
"We should get up," Tyler says, clearing his throat. "Before we become permanent fixtures on the bunny slope."
"Right," I agree, trying to ignore the lingering warmth in my chest. "I might need some assistance. I appear to be stuck like a turtle on its back. If the Discovery Channel were filming, this would be the sad part where the narrator gets choked up.'"
Tyler laughs and gets to his feet, extending both hands to pull me up. I take them gratefully, trying not to notice how my smaller hands fit in his larger ones, or how easily he lifts me as if I weighed nothing, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath his jacket.
Once upright, I brush snow from my ski pants, wincing at a twinge in my hip. "I think that's enough adventure for one day."
"You sure? You were doing really well before the impromptu snow angel demonstration. That last move could revolutionize Olympic skiing."
"Positive. I want to end on a high note—which, by my standards, is 'survived without requiring emergency medical evacuation'. I set the bar at 'still have all original teeth and no new scars'."
He chuckles. "Fair enough. Hot chocolate at the lodge to celebrate your successful first real ski lesson?"
"Now you're speaking my language." I unclip my skis, relieved to have solid, stable footing again.
***
The massive stone fireplace dominates the central seating area, flames crackling against the backdrop of smooth river rocks.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the snow-covered mountains like living paintings—the same breathtaking view I hadn't noticed during our first days here, too busy hiding in our suite.
Tyler insistes on getting our drinks while I secure a coveted spot on one of the plush sofas nearest the fire.
I watch him at the counter, chatting with the barista who was delighted to have his attention.
She tucks her hair behind her ear and laughs at something he said, leaning forward slightly.
I couldn't blame her—Tyler had a way of making whoever he was talking to feel like the most interesting person in the room.
It was a heady thing, being the focus of that intense blue gaze, that genuine interest.
Not that I am affected by it. This was all pretend, a convenient arrangement with an expiration date just seven days away.
"One hot chocolate with cinnamon and Olivia’s secret recipe, as requested," Tyler announced, returning with our drinks. He settles beside me on the sofa, close enough that our shoulders brush, the warmth of him seeping through my sweater.
"You remembered the cinnamon," I note, oddly touched.
"I pay attention," he says, taking a sip of his own drink.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the flames dance in the fireplace, occasionally commenting on particularly spectacular wipeouts visible through the lodge's panoramic windows. The heat from the fire thawing my cold-stiffened muscles, and I find myself relaxing into the cushions.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For today. For teaching me."
"My pleasure," he replies. "Truly."
"Even though I spent more time horizontal than vertical?"
"Especially because of that," he teases, nudging my shoulder with his. "Your face when you realized you were about to fall was priceless. Pure cartoon character."
"Glad my humiliation could provide entertainment," I grumble, but there was no heat in it.
"Hey," he says, his tone shifting to something more sincere. "You did great out there. Most people would have given up after the first fall, but you kept trying. That's impressive."
I feel myself flush at the praise. "Well, I had a good teacher."
"Snow guru," he corrects with a grin.
"Don't push it, Reed." I roll my eyes, but couldn't suppress my smile.
His laugh warms me more than the fire or the adult hot chocolate. Dangerous, dangerous territory.
"MOM!"
I look up to see Karl and Julian racing toward us, still in their snow gear, faces flushed with cold and excitement, melting snow dripping from their boots onto the polished wooden floor.
"You should see our T-Rex!" Karl exclaims, launching himself onto the sofa beside me. "It's EPIC! The youth coordinator took pictures for the resort website and everything!"
"That's amazing, sweetie," I say, brushing snow from his hair. "I can't wait to see it."
"Dad, can we get hot chocolate too?" Julian asks, eyeing our cups enviously.
"Only if you promise not to bounce off the walls from the sugar rush," Tyler warns, one eyebrow raised in paternal skepticism.
"We promise!" the boys chorus with such perfect synchronization that Tyler and I exchange amused glances.
"Alright, but small cups," he concedes, standing to place their order.
"Mom, were you skiing?" Karl asks, noticing my damp ski pants with surprise.
"Attempting to," I admit. "Tyler was teaching me."
Karl's eyes widen. "Really? That's so cool! Did you fall a lot?"
"Only about seventy-three times," I say solemnly.
"Forty-two percent fewer falls than last time," Tyler adds as he returns winking at me. "Statistically significant improvement."
"Next time we can all go together!" Julian suggests excitedly. "Like a family ski trip!"
I feel my smile freeze at the word "family." A quick glance at Tyler reveals his shoulders had tensed too. The boys, oblivious to our synchronized discomfort, continue making plans for joint skiing adventures with the assumption of a future that didn't exist.
"Here are your hot chocolates," Tyler says, a little too brightly, handing the boys their drinks. "Careful, they're hot."
"We should go see your snow dinosaur before it melts," I suggest, desperate to change the subject. "Is it far?"
"It's by the kiddie lodge," Karl explains, slurping his drink, leaving a whipped cream mustache that he wipes away with his sleeve. "Miss Lisa—she's the youth coordinator—says they're going to keep it roped off so no one destroys it."
"High honor for amateur sculptors," Tyler notes, having regained his composure.
The boys launch into a detailed explanation of their creative process, complete with dramatic reenactments of disagreements over anatomical accuracy ("T-Rexes did NOT have long arms, Julian!
"), and soon the awkward moment was forgotten.
We spend the rest of the afternoon touring the resort's snow sculpture garden.
The boys proudly showing off their creation.
Despite its somewhat lopsided appearance, the sculpture was impressively recognizable as a tyrannosaurus—if tyrannosauruses had suffered slight gravitational anomalies.
"As the sun began its descent, painting the snowy landscape in watercolor washes of pink and gold, we head back to the suite. The boys racing ahead, arguing about what movie to watch that evening, their boots crunching in the fresh snow, while Tyler and I follow at a more sedate pace.
"About what Julian said earlier," Tyler begins hesitantly. "The family skiing thing..."
"It's fine," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Kids don't understand. They see four people having fun together and make assumptions."
"Right," he agrees, though something in his expression suggested he wasn't satisfied with that explanation. "Still, maybe we should be more careful about boundaries. For their sake."
"Of course," I nod, ignoring the twinge of disappointment his words triggered. "We don't want them getting the wrong idea."
He glances at me, a question in his eyes that I couldn't quite decipher. "And what idea would that be?"
"That this—us—is real," I say, gesturing vaguely between us. "That it's anything more than a convenient arrangement."
"Right," he says again, his expression closing off. "Temporary and practical."
"Exactly."
We walk the rest of the way with three feet of carefully maintained space between us.
Tyler checks his phone twice, though the screen remained dark.
I adjust my scarf, clearing my throat when the silence stretched too long.
By the time we reach the suite, he holds the door open without meeting my eyes, and I thank him with the same tone I'd use with a bellhop.
The warmth that had wrapped around us on the slopes had crystallized into something brittle and formal—the kind of politeness reserved for distant acquaintances.
The boys, thankfully, are too absorbed in their movie selection debate to notice the change in atmosphere.
They settle on an animated film about race cars, and we all gather in the living room, the boys sprawl on the floor with pillows and blankets, Tyler and I position at opposite ends of the sofa.
As the movie plays, I find myself unable to focus on the colorful cars racing across the screen.
Instead, my thoughts keep circling back to the moment on the slope—the look in Tyler's eyes as he knelt beside me in the snow, the warmth of his hands pulling me to my feet, the easy way we'd fallen into something that felt dangerously like real intimacy.
Seven more days. Just seven more days of pretending, and then we'd go our separate ways, back to our real lives. No more fake relationship, no more confusion about what was real and what was performance.
So why did that thought make my heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vise?
Next to me on the sofa, Tyler laughs at something in the movie, the sound so genuine and warm that I couldn't help but glance his way. He catches my eye and smiles—a small, private smile that sent a flutter through my chest.
Seven more days. How was I going to survive them with my heart intact?