Chapter 7
Chapter seven
NOELLE
Last night, we felt like a couple. We felt real. This morning, it’s like Roman reverted to the man I met a week ago.
“Are you excited for the snow-a-thon?” I ask, pulling my boots on.
“No,” he says. That’s all I’ve been getting all morning. Short clipped answers. I stand determined not to let his miserable ass darken my mood.
I love winter and sledding. I only saw people sledding on TV as a kid, so I’m excited. A snow-a-thon is all things snow. Sledding, skiing, snowboarding, etc.
When we met everyone downstairs, we were all full of joy. Except for Roman and Tessa.
“You ready?” Tillie asks.
“More than you know,” I reply, fixing my beanie.
“Oh, and the instructors at the lodge? Goddamn hot, like Italians, Germans, tall, thick…gorgeous.” Tillie shimmies her shoulders at me.
“Gorgeous men on Earth are such a blessing.” I giggle.
Tillie cackles. “Right? And they have the best asses.”
Roman’s shadow shrouds us. “Either you both stay here talking nonsense or get in the van.”
He turns and walks away.
“What bee got in his crotch?” Tillie asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Either way, I am too excited to care.”
It took us two hours of driving up a winding hill between snow-capped trees to reach our destination: Voss Winter Lodge I always feel the shock of the cold when I step outside. That cold stings my cheeks and makes my nose feel like it wants to bleed.
Walking past the family group in coordinated winter wear with their instructors, I go to the counter and grab a snowboard. One of the staff members walks around, offering hot cocoa.
The air is heavy with the smell of mulled wine, cloves, oranges, and cinnamon.
I walk down to the small slopes, looking for the girls. But they aren’t there.
“Shit,” I whisper to myself.
“There are on slope three.” My father’s voice comes from behind me. Twisting, I see my mom and him sitting with clear glass mugs in their hands.
Dread flows through me. “Noelle doesn’t ski. She is from the Caribbean.”
My mom shrugs. “Well, from what I saw, she can handle herself.”
“What are you both drinking? Eggnog?” I ask, looking at the milk-like liquid.
“Eggnog? My dear boy, we are never drinking that again.” My mom chuckles behind the cup as she brings it to her lips.
“It’s the ponche crème that your woman made,” my father replies. My woman…more like Nicholas’ woman. I don’t make her laugh the way he did this morning.
“It looks like we are in for a storm this evening.” My mom sniffs the air.
“You can take the girl out of the country, but not the country out of the girl.”
She blushes. “You want to put something in this country girl?”
I shake my head. “Later.” Walking to the ski lift, I wait patiently for the lift to come my way.
The lift operator signals me to sit, and then I am locked in.
If I weren’t so miserable, I would see how beautiful the trees look dusted and covered in snow, or how the snow blankets the ground.
But no. Now, all I can think of is damn Nicholas, and well, the Italian ski instructor.
Stupid instructor. You look pretty; where are you from?
Take my arm. Why was he holding Noelle’s hand at the crook of his arm?
The lift stops. I lift the guard bar, grabbing my snowboard.
I hear her laughing before I see her.
My eyes find her, and I am even more angry than before.
The taller of the two instructors is holding her fucking waist.
I clear my throat, and the four of them look at me. No one says anything, and this man’s hand is still on her fucking waist.
Don’t be an asshole, Roman. Don’t be an asshole.
“I don’t want you going down this slope. Let’s go.” I want to roll my eyes at myself.
Tillie laughs, and Noelle looks at me puzzled.
“You better be talking to Tillie,” Noelle says vehemently.
Tillie turns her head to Noelle. “Sorry, darling; no man speaks to me like that.”
You would think I would take the cue. No, not me. And why the hell is his arm still on her fucking waist?
“Noelle, I am not repeating myself.” God, it’s like I can’t control my feelings.
Noelle ignores me and looks back at the instructor and says, “So keep my knees bent?”
“Can you even ski, Noelle?”
Noelle sighs. “No, but I am really good at it.”
“‘Good at it’ is not enough. Let’s go.”
Her brows furrow. “No. I am good.”
I feel my emotions boiling over. “Remove your hand off my fiancée’s waist, or you will be picking it up off the ground with your other.”
Noelle’s eyes widen. “Did you just threaten this poor man?”
The poor man in question pouts. Like, what the fuck?
“I don’t make threats.” I shrug.
Noelle pulls her snow goggles down and bends her knees.
“Don’t do it!” I state.
“Screw you, Roman Voss.” Then she screams as she pushes forward and down the slope.
“Go, Noelle!” Tillie jumps and shouts.
I grimace at Tillie, then I drop the snowboard and step onto it.
Tillie and her boy toy’s conversation catches my attention. “They really need to fuck,” one instructor states.
“Agreed,” Tillie laughs.
The snow and the frigid air whip against my face as I hold my breath.
She was right; she actually was good at this. My heart drops when she hits something and begins to tumble. “Noelle!” I shout.
My voice echoes through the mountain, and fear pulses through me.
I flick my snowboard away as I see Noelle’s body face down in the snow. I run and fall to my knees.
“Oh my God, baby.” Dread hits my stomach.
I hear Tillie and the others coming behind me.
My hands hold her shoulders, and I turn her over slowly.
“Is she okay?” Tillie asks.
Noelle’s eyes are closed, and I can feel my panic rising. I hold her in my arms, brushing the snow away from her face.
“Noelle, baby,” I whisper.
There is a pause and a chuckle coming from Noelle.
She opens her eyes bright and smiles. “I want to do that again.”
Tillie laughs. “You had me worried.”
Noelle pulls herself out of my arm and stands. Dusting off the snow.
The instructor whose hand was on her waist steps forward. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I am fine.” She raises her arms up to show us that she is okay.
Tillie and her talk like she didn’t just tumble down a mountain.
“I want to go again. Let’s do it again.” I can hear the excitement in her voice.
“No.” Fuck it; if being an asshole keeps her alive, so be it.
“Roman, you can’t—”