Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Bash
Charlie plummets face-first into the powder for what must be the fifteenth time this morning. A groan—half frustration, half laughter—escapes her as she flips onto her back, snowboard still strapped onto one of her boots like an awkward appendage.
"Need a hand there, Shortcake?" I glide to a stop beside her, sending a small spray of snow.
"No, I'm just making snow angels," she puffs, her breath clouding white in the mountain air. "Very lopsided, one-legged snow angels."
I laugh and stretch out my gloved hand. "Come on, up you go."
When our hands connect, I haul her upright in one fluid motion, my arm automatically bracing her wobbling form.
My eyes can't help but linger—her light pink jacket frames her perfectly, white snowflake designs cascading down one side hugging curves that even winter layers can't hide.
Her cheeks glow with a flush that matches the rosy tip of her nose.
A few rebellious auburn curls have escaped her white beanie, dancing around her face in the breeze.
"You know what they say," I tell her, brushing snow from her shoulders. "You're not really snowboarding until you've eaten a face full of powder."
"Then I must be a professional by now," she says, adjusting her goggles. "I don't think I've fallen this much ever. Skiing is so different—at least your legs can move independently."
"But where's the challenge in that?" I tease, circling her on my board. "Besides, you're doing great for a first-timer."
"You're a terrible liar, Sebastian Montgomery." She tries to swat at me but nearly loses her balance again.
I catch her arm, laughing. "I'm serious! Most people spend their entire first day on their ass. You're already linking turns."
"When I'm not face-planting." She rolls her eyes.
I position myself in front of her, sliding backward across the snow, my board carving gentle arcs beneath me.
"Look, snowboarding is all about commitment.
You hesitate—" I mime a person toppling over "—you fall.
You second-guess yourself—" another exaggerated tumble motion "—you fall.
You've got to trust yourself and the board. "
Her eyebrows arch above her goggles, lips twisting into a dubious frown. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Former Pro."
"Hey, I wasn't born on a snowboard." I tap my chest with my gloved hand. "I ate plenty of snow when I was learning." The wind ruffles her escaped curls as I watch her jaw set with that stubborn determination that keeps peeking through her complaints.
"You ready to try again? This time, keep your weight centered over the board, and when you transition from heel to toe edge, commit."
Her chest rises with a deep breath, shoulders squaring as she nods. "Okay. Commit. Don't hesitate. I got this."
"That's my girl." The words tumble from my lips before I can trap them, but her eyes remain locked on her stance.
I guide her through the rest of the gentle slope, my voice carrying across the snow as she carves her way down.
Her body moves with a natural athleticism—hips aligned, knees bent at just the right angle—but I can see her brain working overtime behind those goggles, calculating each shift of weight like it's a life-or-death decision.
"That's it! Keep going! Look where you want to go, not at your feet!"
As we near the bottom of the run, something transforms in her posture.
The rigid tension melts from her shoulders, her movements flow into the board instead of battling against it.
Her turns carve clean arcs through the powder, her body swaying with newfound confidence.
When she reaches the flat section, she glides to a graceful stop without even a wobble.
"Oh my god I did it!" Her goggles push up onto her forehead, revealing eyes that sparkle with disbelief and triumph. "I actually did it!"
The radiance in her expression sucker-punches me. Without thinking, I slide up beside her, kick free from my board, and sweep her off her feet in a victory hug. Her laughter rings in my ears as I whirl her around.
"That was fucking perfect!" My hands linger at her waist as I set her down. "See? I told you—you just needed to trust yourself."
We're standing close—too close. Her hands rest on my shoulders, her face tilted up to mine.
Her smile softens, dissolving into something heavier, more electric.
The world beyond us blurs and fades—the other skiers, the pretense, all of it vanishing until there's nothing but the narrow space between us and the thundering urge to close it.
I find myself leaning down, pulled toward her like a compass finding north.
She jerks backward, throat bobbing as she swallows. "Um, thanks for the lesson."
Shit. My stomach drops. "Sorry," I say instantly, my hands falling away from her waist. "Got carried away with the proud fake boyfriend moment."
"It's fine," she replies, the words coming too fast as shutters close behind her eyes.
"Well," I offer, scrambling to rebuild the bridge I just burned, "always leave on a good note, right? After that perfect run, I think we've earned a break. How about the lodge for some food? Celebrate properly?"
Her shoulders visibly relax. "Food sounds amazing. I'm starving."
"Falling burns a lot of calories," I tease, fishing for that laugh, that spark that had lit up her face moments before.
It works—she rolls her eyes and smiles. "In that case, I should order the entire menu."
I unclip her board, tucking it under my arm alongside my own.
The weight feels comfortable, familiar, like second nature after all these years.
I stride easily through the packed snow toward the weathered wooden rental rack outside the lodge, the late afternoon sun catching on the dozens of boards already lined up there—a colorful mosaic of rentals and high-end gear.
Charlie follows behind, boots crunching rhythmically in the snow, her cheeks still flushed from our run down the mountain.
The heavy wooden door swings open beneath my palm, releasing a gust of alpine heat as Charlie steps inside.
My senses flood—the rich aroma of dark roast mingling with melting chocolate and sizzling beef patties, the crackling fire from the massive stone fireplace where exhausted riders stretch their legs toward dancing flames, sinking into worn leather chairs.
"Sebastian Montgomery! I'll be damned!"
My head swivels toward that familiar voice. There sits Frank Dillard by the frosted window, ski goggles perched uselessly on his weathered forehead, dog-eared paperback splayed across his fingers—the same man who'd corrected my edge control when I was barely tall enough to reach the chairlift bar.
"Frank!" A grin spreads across my face as I guide Charlie with a light touch toward his table. "How the hell are you, old man?"
His chair scrapes against the floor as he rises, weathered hand landing between my shoulder blades with surprising force.
"Still alive, which is more than I expected at my age.
" His gaze shifts immediately to Charlie, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"And who's this lovely lady? Far too pretty to be with the likes of you. "
Charlie gives him a polite smile, her eyes crinkling at Frank's grandfatherly charm.
"This is Charlie, my girlfriend," I say easily, my palm settling against the small of her back.
Her muscles tighten beneath my touch at the words.
"Charlie, this is Frank Dillard, the man who’s taught half of Aspen how to snowboard and used to give me tips when I was still a punk kid on the competition circuit. "
"Pleasure to meet you," Charlie says, her hand reaching forward.
Frank clasps it, his weathered eyes twinkling as he winks. "The pleasure's all mine, kid. You must be something special to nail down this one. Back in the day, he had a different girl on his arm every time he came through town."
Heat creeps up my neck and floods my ears. "That was a long time ago, Frank."
"Not that long," he chuckles, gesturing to the empty chairs. "Pull up a seat, both of you. Let an old man buy you lunch."
We settle at the table, and soon burgers and beers appear while stories flow freely. Frank has Charlie doubled over, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as he recounts my snowboarding mishaps.
"He's hanging there, board still strapped to his feet, upside down like a bat," Frank wheezes, hands mimicking the position. "And you know what he says? 'Did you get that on camera?'"
Charlie's laugh warms something inside me. "That sounds exactly like him."
What impresses me most is how Frank includes Charlie in the conversation, never letting it veer too far into insider snowboarding talk. He asks about her skiing background, compliments her on trying something new, and shares beginner tips that are actually helpful.
"The secret to snowboarding," Frank tells her conspiratorially, "is to keep your shoulders aligned with the board.
" He touches both of his shoulders. "Your body goes where your shoulders point.
And if Sebastian tries to get you doing any of those fancy jumps before you're ready, you just give me a holler. "
I'll keep that in mind," she says, the corner of her mouth quirking upward.
"She's a natural, Frank." The words tumble out before I can stop them, my chest swelling as I remember the graceful arc of her turns. "Should've seen her last run. Perfect form."
"He's exaggerating," Charlie protests, but I see the subtle blush in her cheeks as she ducks her head.
"I doubt it," Frank winks at her. "This boy doesn't give out praise unless it's earned. If he says you're good, then you're good."
Around us, the lodge fills with people, their voices creating a rolling hum beneath the rafters. Frank pushes his chair back with a creak. "Well, nature calls," he announces before weaving through the crowd.