Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Charlie
The helicopter blades whir to a stop above us, and I squint against the blinding white landscape of the San Juan mountains.
I've seen Colorado's beauty from many angles, but this—this is something else entirely.
Untouched powder stretches in every direction, the mountains rising like giants against a perfect blue sky.
"Holy shit," I whisper, my breath clouding in the frigid air.
Bash is already hopping out, extending his hand to help me down. His face is lit up with pure, unbridled joy—like a little kid on Christmas morning who just got everything he wanted and then some.
"Charlie, this is..." He spins in a circle, taking in the panoramic view. "I can't even—you have no idea how fucking stoked I am."
I smile, watching him. During the entire forty-five-minute flight, he'd practically vibrated in his seat, pointing out landmarks and telling stories about different mountains he'd conquered.
I couldn't stop taking pictures—of the scenery, yes, but mostly of him.
The way his eyes were lit up the entire time.
How his hands gestured animatedly as he spoke.
The reverent way he looked out at the peaks below us.
There's something about seeing someone in their element that changes how you see them. And Bash in the mountains, surrounded by snow and sky, is magnetic.
I snap another photo as he stands at the edge of our landing zone, arms spread wide.
"Got enough pictures there, paparazzi?" he calls over his shoulder.
"Just documenting you in your natural habitat," I reply. "For scientific purposes."
He turns, eyebrows raised. "And what science would that be?"
"The study of what happens when you take an overgrown man-child to a mountain of fresh powder."
His laugh bounces off the snow-covered slopes, crystalline and full. "I prefer the term 'enthusiast.'"
Our guide, Mack, clears his throat behind me. "Let's go through the safety briefing before you two start shredding."
Mack's words command our attention as he walks us through avalanche protocols, demonstrating how to activate our beacons, and tracing potential hazards on a map of the terrain.
My fingers tighten around my poles. I've carved my fair share of mountainsides over the years, but nothing this isolated or extreme.
The looming threat of danger sends a thrill racing up my spine, mingling with the electricity already crackling in the air.
While buckling into my gear, my eyes keep drifting to Bash. His fingers dance over his bindings with practiced precision, tugging straps and testing clasps without even looking down. The muscles in his forearms flex with each adjustment, his movements fluid and assured.
Wait. What am I doing? I shake my head, blinking hard. This is fake. This is pretend. This is... my heart hammering against my ribs every time he moves.
He catches me watching and winks, sending a warm flutter rippling through my chest.
"Ready to eat my snow, Shortcake?" His eyes sparkle with the challenge.
I snort, grateful to slide back into our comfortable rhythm. "Please. I've been skiing since I was five. You're the one who'll be eating snow."
"Skiing," he scoffs, hoisting his snowboard up with one easy motion. "That's cute. Didn't realize you needed training wheels to get down a mountain."
I narrow my eyes, trying my hardest to contain a smile. "Them's fightin' words."
"Just stating facts." His lips curl into that infuriating smirk.
"We'll see about that."
He steps closer, bringing with him the scent of pine and cold air. Suddenly the playful atmosphere crackles with something deeper, more dangerous.
"Want to make it interesting?"
I raise an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"
"A race. First one down gets a prize."
"What kind of prize?"
His eyes darken, blue ice melting at the edges. "If I win, I get a kiss."
My heart stumbles over itself. "And if I win?"
"Name it."
My mind races through possibilities, each more impossible than the last. What do I want from him? The list grows longer by the second.
"I'll let you know when I win," I say finally.
His grin spreads slowly. He extends his hand. "Deal."
We shake on it, his gloved fingers swallowing mine completely. For a heartbeat, I think he might pull me closer and claim that kiss anyway, but Mack's voice cuts through the moment.
"Time to move out! The weather window's perfect right now."
We follow our guide to our first drop point, the anticipation building with each step. The hike up is tough, especially in the thin mountain air, but the view at the top is worth every labored breath.
"This is the money spot," Mack tells us, gesturing to the pristine slope below. "About a three-mile run down to our pickup point. We'll stay in the fall line. Watch for the markers, and remember what we discussed about tree wells."
"Let's get this party started," I say to Mack, adjusting my goggles over my eyes. The adrenaline rushing through my veins isn't just from the altitude or the untouched powder beneath my skis—it's the way Bash looks at me, like I've given him something priceless.
Mack nods. "Whenever you two are ready. I'll take up the rear, keep an eye on things." He motions to the expanse of pristine snow stretching before us. "Ladies first?"
"Always," I reply, shooting Bash a competitive grin. "Hope you're ready to lose, Montgomery."
Bash raises his goggles to his forehead, those blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. "We'll see about that, Shortcake. Don't get too comfortable with that head start."
I push off without warning, wanting to catch him off guard. The first turn sends a spray of powder flying behind me, and I hear Bash's surprised laugh followed by the distinctive sound of his board cutting into fresh snow.
The mountain opens up beneath me, and suddenly I'm flying.
My skis cut through powder like butter, each turn kicking up a cloud of white.
The rush is immediate and all-consuming—the cold air stinging my cheeks, the absolute silence broken only by the soft shush of my skis and my own exhilarated breathing.
I risk a glance over my shoulder and spot Bash gaining on me, carving deep, graceful turns through the snow. Even through the distance and his gear, I can see the easy confidence in his movements, the way his body works with the mountain rather than against it.
"Come on, Whitaker!" he calls out, voice carrying across the slope. "That all you got?"
I lean forward, picking up speed, focusing on the fall line Mack pointed out. The gradient steepens and my thighs burn with the effort of maintaining control. For a few minutes, I lose myself completely in the rhythm of it—turn, weight shift, powder spray, repeat.
Then Bash appears in my peripheral vision, slicing through the snow beside me. He flashes a wicked grin before executing a perfect jump off a natural hit, spinning 360 degrees and landing with infuriating grace.
"Show-off!" I yell over the wind.
He laughs, the sound as bright and clear as the mountain air. "Jealous?"
"You wish!"
I dig deeper, pushing my limits. The competitive fire I've always carried flares to life, and I take a more aggressive line down the mountain, finding a steeper section that will give me more speed. My form isn't as pretty as his but what I lack in style, I make up for in determination.
The race blurs into a rush of adrenaline and snow. My lungs burn with the cold mountain air, but I push harder, determined not to let Bash win. I might be in over my head—he's a former pro, after all—but I'll be damned if I don't make him work for it.
A patch of trees appears ahead, marking the narrowing of the run as we approach the end. Bash has edged slightly ahead, his form perfect as he carves through the powder. The competitive streak in me flares brighter.
"On your left!" I call out, taking a tighter line than I probably should.
I cut across his path just enough to make him adjust his line, buying myself precious seconds. The look of surprise on his face is worth the risk.
"Playing dirty, Whitaker?" he shouts, but I hear the smile in his voice.
"Just evening the odds!"
The final stretch opens up before us—a wide, gentle slope leading to our pickup point where the helicopter waits. We're neck and neck now, both of us pushing to the limit. My thighs continue to scream in protest, but the finish line is so close.
A bump in the terrain catches me off guard. I hit it at the wrong angle, and suddenly I'm airborne when I don't want to be. For one terrifying moment, I'm completely unmoored, skis flailing, arms windmilling.
"Charlie!" Bash's voice cuts through my panic.
I manage to land but can't recover my balance. My legs tangle and I tumble, snow filling my jacket collar, my glove, somehow even getting under my goggles. The world becomes a disorienting blur of white and blue and white again as I roll down the remainder of the slope.
When I finally stop, I'm sprawled on my back, staring up at the impossibly blue Colorado sky. Both skis have popped off and are nowhere to be seen. Snow is melting down my neck and into my thermal layers.
"Charlie!" Bash appears above me, his face tight with concern. He kneels beside me, snowboard still attached to one foot. "Are you okay? Does anything hurt?"
I take a mental inventory. Nothing feels broken, just bruised—mostly my pride. "Only my ego," I groan, lifting my goggles.
Relief floods his face, followed by the beginnings of a smile. "That was quite the yard sale."
"Yard sale?"
"You know, when you crash and your gear goes flying everywhere." I slowly sit up as he gestures around us, where indeed my poles, skis, and somehow one of my gloves are scattered across the slope.
I can't help it, I start laughing. The absurdity of the situation, the spectacular way I wiped out, the look on his face, it all comes together in a bubble of hilarity that bursts out of me. After a moment, he joins in, his laugh deep and rich.