Chapter 1
1
Kitzbühel, Tyrol, Austria
Keep it together, Soph. Clenching my jaw, I steeled myself against the barrage of abuse being hurled at me by my coach after the average time I posted in my first run.
“For fuck’s sake, did you even try to stay close to the gate?” he boomed, making the wall rattle behind me. “Did you even see the fucking gates while you were daydreaming your way down the course? This is a race , Sophie! Do you know what that even means? Are your ears painted on? I told you to roll your edges and hit the fucking gate! Am I wasting my time? You know I could be fishing? You never fucking listen! None of you do. You all think you know better. Now look where you are. A loser. As fucking usual.”
Everyone walking past the tiny room in the competitors’ race facility was looking in, fascinated, as they approached. They heard his tirade from well down the hallway and then hurried past as they regrouped between runs. He had me backed into a corner, my back against the wall, and I was struggling to hold it together as his acrid coffee-reeking breath rebounded off my cheek with every roar.
“How many times do I have to tell you, your problem is your size! You are fucking enormous and should be ashamed to call yourself an athlete. You look like a baby elephant in that suit. Did you lie in bed after your surgery and just stuff your face with chocolate cake? Stop fucking eating . Have you seen the Scandinavian women? At least they look like skiers. And if you tied down those fucking airbags, you would do better. How many times have I told you to rein the puppies in? You will never amount to anything until you fucking do what I tell you!”
Gripping my lower lip between my teeth, I exhaled forcefully and avoided eye contact. Jerkwad Jeff, we called him. Jeff had been an elite Olympic skier in his day, a household name, winning medals in both slalom and giant slalom. Now, he spent his days coaching skiers on the World Cup circuit and constantly reminding us how much harder it was in his day, how ski technology had changed, how the skis were better, and how we were soft. But in my case, the thing he loved to criticize was my size. As a US size 10, I was bigger than most of the girls on the circuit. I was curvy, but I was strong. Between Pilates and gym work, I was stronger than most, just not the slimmest. Strength and agility were critical in this sport, and I had both. But Jeff’s most significant issue was my DD breasts, which he took every opportunity to berate me for. It wasn’t like I could control my cup size, which had developed, much to my dismay, when I was sixteen. I had starved myself, flogged myself in the gym, and even spoken to a surgeon about a breast reduction, but ultimately had decided I was who I was.
For the millionth time, I wondered how much more of this I could take. Ski racing has been my passion since I was nine, and I entered my first competition. The sense of exhilaration when flying down the course, the wind rushing past, and the cheers as I flew over the finish line had been addictive, and ever since that day, all I ever wanted to do with my life. My chin dropped to my chest, and I tried to focus on my breath as he continued to roar at me, specks of his saliva spattering across my forehead as my shoulders dropped, and I wondered if I should even attempt my second run. But having a DNS recorded against my name would be worse and would guarantee me a one-way trip home.
Stop crying! I bit my lip harder to stem the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.
“Back off her, man. She needs to focus.” A low Midwest American accent emanated from behind him as I cowered in the corner. “She has another run. You aren’t helping.”
Jeff whirled like a viper to attack whoever had dared to criticize him, but his bravado visibly deflated when he realized it was Owen, the superstar of the US ski team. Everyone knew Owen. While we were at all the same events, we had never spoken. From what I saw, he kept much to himself.
“How about you focus on your second run and leave me to do my job,” Jeff snarled, but his tone was far less venomous toward Owen. “Your first wasn’t exactly anything to write home about, and you know it.”
Jeff was playing with fire. Owen was a champion and had sponsors clamoring to sign him. He was a quiet man though, not a pretentious, arrogant twat like many of the field who used their fame to attract women and publicity.
“How about you go get a coffee?” Owen took a step closer, glancing from my tear-streaked face back to Jeff. “You’ve made your point.”
Owen was well within swinging distance, and for a moment, I wondered how this would end. Roughly the same height, Jeff was larger, but Owen was undoubtedly stronger. With an athlete’s build, he was at the top of his game; his lycra race suit filled out with toned muscles in all the right places. I had never been so close to him before, and my heart skipped a beat as I took in his taut skier’s legs, the muscles clearly defined. An uncomfortable few seconds ensued as my heart stopped, watching the testosterone visibly fly between them, sizing each other up. Owen deliberately stepped to the side but didn’t adjust his gaze, making it clear Jeff needed to leave. He did, in a huff, but not before delivering his parting shot.
“Fucking get a bandage before your second run, and for fuck’s sake, do what I tell you.” He stormed off, slamming the door behind him, the sound reverberating through the tiny room.
“You ok?” Owen asked, studying my face before I could pull myself together enough to thank him.
I nodded, feeling the tears still wet on my cheeks.
“Sophie, right?”
Owen, knowing my name, impressed me, but also terrified me. Why would he know who I was? Did the guys laugh at me behind my back? While the World Cup circuit was a fairly close-knit group, it was highly competitive too. Not that men and women competed against each other, but we often trained on the same courses. Owen was Mr. Consistent, always in the top three. This year I usually finished in the top ten but struggled to podium since my knee reconstruction at the end of last season. I just hadn’t quite found my groove again. But it was early days, I just needed to keep practicing.
“Yes,” I tried to smile, but the emotion of the last twenty minutes, being screamed at for my performance and being over a second from the fastest time, was still dangerously close to the surface.
“Jeff is an ass. He needs to retire. What did you do?”
“Went wide on gate five,” I admitted.
“That one is shit,” Owen agreed. “Hairpin corner, right on the steep. I think everyone blew that one. Did you crash out?”
“No, just a bit off the pace. Ended in fifteenth.”
Owen exhaled forcefully. “The way he was carrying on, I thought you had blown it. You are fine. Nail your second run and you will make the cut.”
He was being kind, and I knew it. Owen was a GS skier, my event, but also Super G, the seriously hard-core race few had the skills or nerve for. He was stunning to watch, with a grace possessed by very few skiers. When he skied down the course, he was fast, smooth, and elegant, almost like a graceful dance.
“What do you need a bandage for?” Owen asked. “Are you injured? Do you need me to take you to the medical team?”
The stress that had built up in my chest exploded at that point, and he stepped closer to touch my shoulder, standing dangerously close as the dam wall broke and tears streamed down my face. God, he was hot, but right now, it was all I could do to not lose it completely. I felt like an idiot, blubbering in front of the biggest superstar on the circuit.
“No.” I pulled the tissue from my jacket pocket and held it to my eyes to stem the flow. “Jeff….”
“Jeff?”
“Jeff thinks my boobs are too big for ski racing,” I sobbed. “He told me I need to bandage them down or, better still, have them removed. He said a woman with double D breasts is too large for ski racing.”
Owen sniggered, taking me by surprise. “Seriously? That is his biggest issue? Clearly, he has reached the end of his coaching life. So what? By the time you are in a race suit, they are strapped down. Besides, you have a strength and style most of the women lack. You drive your ski hard; few women can do that. But you favor your left ski. You just need to work on your transitions, and you will podium every time.”
Wait, he had watched me ski?
“Umm…” I said, unsure of what to say as my face flushed deeper. “Knee reconstruction three months ago.”
“That explains it. You need to trust yourself. You did the rehab didn’t you?”
I was saved from responding as the announcement came for bib numbers one to fifty to progress to the marshaling area.
“That’s me,” I told him, grabbing my boot shells and bending down to tighten the laces on my liners.
“Sophie,” he pulled my attention back up to where he still stood. “You can do this. You have the skills. Focus on the transition of your balance from one ski to the other. Stop favoring your left leg. Good luck. I believe in you.”
Owen walked to the door and placed his hand on the handle. But turned back to me, a naughty glint twinkled in his eye. “Oh, and for what it’s worth, I think your boobs are hot as fuck.” My mouth dropped, but he was gone, leaving me with a view of skiers streaming past in the corridor.
Gathering my gear and getting to the marshaling area was a blur. Owen had spoken to me. Knew who I was. And thought I was hot? No, he thought boobs were hot , I corrected myself. All men think that. Well, except Jerkwad Jeff.
Stripping off my jacket and undoing the zip down the side of my pants, I started warming up, stretching, twisting, and loosening my hips. I had one shot at this. If I didn’t finish in the top five, I wouldn’t accrue enough points and my season would be over. Maybe not in as spectacular a style as last year when I blew my knee on course, but over, nonetheless.
As they counted down the competitor’s numbers, I clicked into my skis, and double-checked my gear. Bindings, ski edges, poles, helmet, arm guards, gloves. The last thing anyone wanted in a race was an equipment malfunction. One of the dangers of ski racing was the risk of serious injury. There was a concussion, knee blowout, or worse, at pretty much every event. While the Austrians were fabulous with medical treatment, the last thing I wanted was to injure myself now and spend the summer in rehabilitation. Again.
Focus. I steeled myself, watching the Czech girl in front of me enter the start gate. I counted the timer down. Three, two, one, beep . She burst through the start wand as soon as the buzzer sounded and flew down the course toward the first gate. Red, blue, red. Then she was over the crest and out of sight. I glanced at the time displayed on the huge digital screen. She made good time over the first part of the course. Sliding into the tiny hut, I slowed my breath and my heart rate and leaned into the wand. I glanced at the timing box. Thirty seconds.
Stilling my mind, I focused on what I needed to do, what I had done millions of times. Block out the world, the officials, the noise from the crowd. Only the timer counting down broke into my zone. The final five seconds were critical. A slow start was the end of the race. A good start was everything. One-hundredth of a second could mean the difference between first and fifth in this sport. Once you blew a gate, there was little chance to make the time up.
Five, four, three, two, one . Planting my poles, flexing my boots with as much tension as I could, and leaning up onto the tips of my skis, I counted the final beeps, and as soon as the buzzer sounded, I thrust as hard as I could out of the gate. I landed a few meters down the course, skating and using my poles to adjust to the pitch, tucking my body to reach the first gate where the technical part of the course started. Red, blue, red. Counting them down, I carved as close to the gates as I could without the fatal mistake of clipping it with my ski. Clack, clack, my arm guards whacked against each flag as I passed, and it felt good. I gained a rhythm, essential if I was to record a good time. Roll, roll, roll , I coached myself as I sped down the course, focusing on each tiny movement and remembering Owen’s words about being balanced on my skis. As I tucked the final few meters over the finish line, I skidded to a stop in front of the crowd, the cheering and ringing of cowbells breaking through my concentration as I became aware of the world around me. Spectators rang cow bells along the course, but usually, I didn’t hear it, too focused on the next turn and how my ski felt against the snow.
This was the worst part. Waiting, hoping I didn’t get a disqualification for a technicality. I didn’t need to wait long; the time flicked up on the huge Longines board at the bottom, and the crowd roared. My name flickered to the top of the list in white lights. First place. I dropped my head for a moment to recover my composure, before lifting my arms to wave to the crowd and the cameras, leaving the finishing area to hug my friends.
Although technically I skied for Australia, I had dual citizenship thanks to my father and trained at Beaver Creek in Colorado with many of the US girls. Since Australia was a small country in winter sports, the Australian Institute of Sport had negotiated a deal, and I was considered a de facto part of the US team. These girls were friends. We trained together and supported each other. We shared an apartment, and they were squealing, hugging me, as I tried to eject from my bindings. It was surreal, but I knew not to get too excited. There were another ten skiers after me, the second run being in reverse bib order. Any of them could clock a faster time and pip me.
The next twenty-five minutes were nail-bitingly tense as I changed into my warm-down suit, checked, and packed away my gear, watching each result from the athletes’ waiting room. Several skiers came close, but in the end, no woman skied a better time.
The squealing and hugging engulfed me as the girls embraced me, congratulating me on my first podium of the season.
“Maybe I should speak to you between all of your races,” Jeff grunted at me as he passed, although I noted he stopped short of congratulating me. Why did this man hate me so much? What did I ever do to him?
A roar of applause filled the room as everyone watched the screens mounted from the roof as Owen skied his final run, recording a time half a second ahead of second place. With such a considerable margin, we knew no one could touch him. Even with three skiers to go, it was clear he had won. The man was on fire, but as he waved to the crowd, it wasn’t with a sense of arrogance like many of the guys on the circuit. He thanked them for their support, shaking hands and congratulating the other racers. My skin tingled, remembering what he had said, how he had stepped in to help me.
Don’t get ideas above your station! I berated myself. He was just being kind. By tomorrow, he will be kind to some other girl and will have forgotten your name.
Within half an hour, my warm, fuzzy sense of accomplishment had morphed into a whirlwind. My head was spinning with the flurry of activity, being pushed from camera to press conference. Journalists tugged on my arm, asking me questions, and I answered the best I could, hoping I didn’t sound like an idiot. Everyone wanted a piece of me, and officials steered me to where I needed to be next.
Owen stood beside me at the awards ceremony and smiled as the Australian national anthem, Advance Australia Fair, played before his The Star-Spangled Banner. With what felt like the entire village of Kitzbühel before us, the media requested we pose for photos, displaying our medals. He slipped his arm around me as we held our medals out to the camera, and my heart beat a fraction faster, my skin warmed from his touch.
As the journalists drifted away, Owen whispered in my ear, “I’ll see you at the party tonight.” Before I could acknowledge him, he was gone, slipping into the crowd like he was a regular guy, not a world-class athlete.
With all the well-wishers wanting to congratulate me, it took forever to make my way back to my room. Finally, I closed the door and leaned against it. My head was abuzz. I was floating, that sense of surrealism that comes when you win something, and you aren’t sure how. My roommate Jodi wasn’t here, and I allowed myself to relax for a moment and take it in.
I lay on my bed, staring out at the snowy mountain outside as the sky darkened, casting a luminescent glow over the snow. This was everything I dreamed of. I had won my first event on the female World Cup circuit in two years. I had worked for this for so long. Now, I needed to back it up and podium at the next event in Chamonix. I could relax and enjoy tonight, but tomorrow, I needed to get back out there and train.
Closing my eyes, I remembered the roar of the crowd as my name was called in first place, the thrill of knowing that I had earned this. It all felt so remote, like a dream. It had been so long since I had won a race.
My phone buzzed, pulling me from my daydream.
“Hi Mum,” I answered, unable to keep the smile from my face as she started babbling about how they had watched and were so proud of me. Dad’s voice was slightly quieter. She was obviously on speaker and holding the phone.
“Thanks …. Yeah, it’s pretty exciting…. No, I’m fine, just tired…. There is a party tonight, then I am moving on to Chamonix. You know how it is. I don’t get to celebrate for long… I will. I will enjoy this moment. Thanks for calling, I need to shower before this event… You need to go to bed, too; it must be early morning there. Love you too. Hugs to Dad and Chris. Bye.”
As I dropped the phone on the bed beside me, the silence in the room closed in. Once more, I tried to meditate, slow my breathing, and center myself. The conversation with my parents reverberated in my mind. They were my biggest supporters. No matter what time it was in Australia, usually in the middle of the night, they watched every race and called me afterward. It meant the world to me to know they still supported me, just like they did when I was a junior and accompanied me to all my races.
The door clicking closed yanked me from my trance, and I opened my eyes to see Jodi in the room beaming at me.
“I’m so happy for you!” she squealed, dropping her gear in the doorway. “You absolutely rocked it. You must be thrilled.”
“It is quite the buzz,” I admitted, sitting up as she squeezed the air from my lungs. “I don’t really know how to feel.”
“I get that,” she admitted, pulling back, but the smile hadn’t left her face and I felt her joy at my achievement. Most of the women’s team were close, one win was shared by all.
“Not that you asked, but my advice is to enjoy every second. You earned this and you deserve it.”
Jodi was one of the senior female members of the team and my best friend since I arrived in the US three years ago. At twenty-eight, she was the oldest, and while still competitive, wasn’t quite as fast as she was in her prime. Still, she was solid, and nearly always finished in the top ten, and desperately wanted to go out on top. Retire on her terms. While no one else knew, was that this was her last year. Jodi wanted to marry her long-term boyfriend Leo, a ski patroller in Colorado, and have kids before her body gave out. Like most of us, she had experienced the usual litany of injuries, blown ACLs, shoulder reconstructions, and concussions. The body of a ski racer was old before their time, and too many brilliant skiers had retired early because of injury. Leo was so patient, waiting for her to fly around the world and come home to him. She was one of the lucky ones, and she knew it.
“Do you want to shower first?” Jodi asked, picking up her jacket and hanging it on the rail with our race suits and ski clothes.
“No, you go ahead. I need to rest for a few minutes more before I face the crowd.”
“Everyone will want a piece of you, you know,” she teased. “You are the woman of the hour. We work so hard and sacrifice so much for so many years for a few minutes of success. Enjoy it.”
“Trying,” I admitted. “I am not good at being the center of attention.”
“Well, you will get a lot tonight, so enjoy the peace while you can. Do you mind if I shower?”
“As long as you leave me enough hot water to wash my hair,” I joked.
“Your hair always looks gorgeous,” she sighed. Jodi had short, dark hair, which stuck up in all directions when she took off her helmet. Hedgehog hair, she called it, and while I never agreed, it was fitting. Mine was long, thick, and blonde. My mane was part of me, and I couldn’t bring myself to cut it. Usually, I braided it when I skied. Many people who only saw me on the course had never seen me with it out, mid-back length and slightly curled. Being Australian, I was so fortunate to have spent most of my summers on the beach and winters in the snow, until I started racing competitively. Then my life became an endless winter, flying back and forth between the northern and southern hemispheres. While I missed the relaxed beach culture of my youth, sailing, and swimming, this was my life now. Most of the time, I loved it.
“Holy shit, you are so hot,” Owen murmured under his breath as he greeted me, kissing my cheek as people milled around us. He had a slight scent of whisky about him as his lips warmed my cheek. It was expected that we would greet people together as the two gold medalists, and I had no objections to being in his company.
He slipped his arm around my waist, and I felt his fingers lightly stroking my side through the silky fabric of my electric blue dress. It showed off my athletic but curvy figure, and I had deliberately chosen this dress as the plunging V neckline, lined with lace, enhanced my natural assets. Fuck Jerkwad Jeff, I had thought as I dressed. Let him see I can win despite my DD cup breasts. Putting them on full display and wearing the snowflake necklace my parents had given me for my eighteenth birthday, I watched his face flush crimson as I entered the room, my already long legs elongated with the mid-height silver heels I rarely had the opportunity to wear.
Someone thrust a glass of wine into my hand, and I accepted it, sipping slowly. As an athlete, I didn’t have a head for alcohol and rarely drank while training. In the northern hemisphere summer, when I returned to Australia to work as a ski instructor at my home mountain of Perisher, I relaxed a bit more with my diet. But right now, everything I did needed to be focused on my single goal—winning. The refills helped me relax as Owen expertly steered me around the room, and he engaged me in each conversation, allowing me to enjoy the event so much more than if I had attended with the women. Competitors and officials from all nations came over to congratulate us, and I sipped more frequently than I expected as I was talking so much. Owen was an expert at this, knowing who everyone was, and they greeted him like an old friend. But he introduced me every time, and I felt included in this little gang, one I had never really been a part of. Between conversations, he whispered snippets into my ear about who each person was, their coach, and their skills. It helped me remember each person, but the single overwhelming impression that remained with me was his respect for everyone. Even to his ardent opponents, he was kind and welcoming. He was a genuine guy, and everyone liked him. He was down to earth, well-mannered, and not arrogant in the slightest.
As the night wore on, I wilted with the constant need to be social after a big day. Owen felt it and studied my face for a moment before making a decision. Silently, he steered me past a few girls talking in the hallway, and around a corner into a secluded window seat covered with burgundy velvet. Drawing the heavy drapes around us, he carefully pushed me onto the seat, and sat beside me, cupping my face in his hands.
“I have wanted to do this all night,” he murmured, and kissed me before pulling back and scanning my face to confirm I was consenting. So, he was a gentleman.
I reached my hand behind his sandy head and pulled him towards me. He needed no further encouragement. My heart leaped into my chest as his hands slowly caressed my back, accentuating each movement.
“God, you are so hot,” he murmured as his breath came faster, and I knew it was true. This man could have any woman he wanted, yet he was here with me. His accent made my heart leap as he purred in my ear.
“Me?” I whispered.
“You are a real woman, not a pretentious stick figure. You have no idea how sexy that is.”
Stop thinking! I berated myself as my mind whirred, and my heart jittered with the thrill of being touched. Standards Sophie. Don’t be his one-night stand girl. You aren’t that kind of woman! But as he kissed me long and deep, I was his. There was no doubt in my mind. I was conflicted, torn between the desire for him to throw me on his bed and take me, and the fear of being perceived as easy. My head battled with my heart. He was an amazing kisser, and I couldn’t get enough. As he caressed my breasts, my head rolled back, and his lips ran down my neck, taking his time, savoring me. All resolve I had vanished, and I just wanted him. Now.
Voices passing in the hallway broke into our bubble, and I pulled back slightly, fearful of being seen.
“ Ashamed to be seen with me?” he breathed, making my panties wetter than they already were.
“Not at all,” I admitted. “I just thought maybe you…”
“What? Saw you as a conquest and was just waiting to brag to the guys?”
My heart chilled, and my back stiffened as I wondered if someone had set me up.
“Never,” he whispered and kissed my neck again. “I was raised by a traditional family, with values and morals,” he whispered, kissing my neck again. “Church on a Sunday. I have three strong-willed sisters and I don’t treat women as objects. My mother would kill me if I disrespected a woman.”
“Then why are you with me?” The question popped out before I could stop it. Great, now he will think I have low self-esteem.
“Because I want you. You are the only woman on this circuit that I find attractive on a physical, emotional, and intellectual level. I have been waiting for an opportunity to speak to you. We have so much in common. We can talk, we share the same passion, the same goals, but you are a good person Soph. I watch you out there, in your spare time, teaching the kids. Without being asked, you dedicate your time to help them with their technique and treat them like they are worthy of your time. You don’t need to, but you do. You choose to give back, even though you are not obligated to, and I admire that.”
“You do as well,” I noted.
“My family raised me in a certain way. I am not from a wealthy family. I worked my way up and didn’t get a free ride. So, I see it as something I need to do. I competed with all those race club kids, those who ridiculed me because I had secondhand skis, didn’t have the most expensive coaches, and wasn’t a member of an elite club and wore a uniform. For many years, I was self-taught. All my junior races I entered as an independent. But when I started winning, the selectors needed to take notice of this skinny kid from Michigan who was beating the kids from the most elite ski clubs in North America.”
“Neither did I,” I admitted. “I am Australian. Ski seasons are short and unpredictable. My parents weren’t rich, but lived in a ski town because they valued the lifestyle. From the age of fifteen, I took a part-time job after school in the local supermarket so I could help pay for my gear and my training. My parents gave up so much for me to ski and train in the US during my summer holidays. I want to make them proud.”
“They are. Just the way you speak about your family, with so much love and respect, they know.”
“They only ever set two conditions on me.”
“What were they?”
It was getting harder to focus on my words as his hands caressed my back. “The first was that I only did it while I loved it. The minute I stopped loving it, I stopped ski racing.”
“Fair. What was the second?”
“I needed to keep my grades up.”
“And did you?”
Shyly, I smiled. “I am two subjects short of my degree in physiotherapy from Sydney University.”
“Ah, so intelligent as well as beautiful.”
“Hardly. But I felt the need to help others, and physical therapy is a way I can do it. I volunteer with the Disabled Wintersports team when I am at home and know how much I can help others. That is my dream.”
“No wonder everyone loves you.”
“Jeff does not love me,” I said firmly. “Only I have no idea why.”
“Oh, I can answer that. Jeff hates you as his wife Tash was also a curvy blonde ski racer. Like you, she was strong, powerful, and gorgeous. She was also Australian. He was besotted with her, and they were the golden couple of the sport. He gave up his career for her when he was at the top of his game, followed her to Australia because she wanted to move home, then within a year she left him for another guy. When she was pregnant with his child. But as his permanent residency visa wasn’t finalized, and she removed her support for him, the Australian government deported him, and his child was raised by another man. So he lost everything. His wife and his son, and hates anything or anyone Australian as a result. When he returned to the States, he was emotionally shattered and never got back into the race circuit. Moped around until they gave him a coaching job and he has been here ever since.”
“That poor man,” I gasped, my hand flying to my chest. “I had no idea.”
“Likely he sees in you everything he lost. Your looks, your style. That you are Australian, and that is obvious every time you open your mouth, he will never give you a fair chance.”
“Now I feel terrible. I wonder if I can talk to him? Help in some way?”
Owen stared at me. “How is this your fault?”
“Some people never get over trauma,” I admitted. “He lost his child. But it explains why he hates me with such a passion.”
“You are an amazing woman,” Owen said, astonished. “Most people would say ‘that is his problem, and he needs to get over it. It was years ago, and it wasn’t me.’ You are so kind and considerate.”
“But what happened to him was awful,” I said feelingly.
“Come on, we need to get to bed. And as much as I want you, I don’t mean together. I am old school Sophie. That might be uncool, but I want to date first, get to know each other. Then let things progress, if that is okay with you. Now, what room are you in?”
“I can get myself back to my hotel room,” I teased. “I am not that drunk.”
“No, but my mother would kill me if I didn’t escort my date home and open the door.”
“Your date?” I asked hesitantly. Was that what this was?
“Ok, maybe not date.”
My heart sank as he paused. So, he didn’t want me .
“I want you to be more than that. Girlfriend. Is that alright?”
My stomach lurched as I tried to disguise my joy. “205. Your girlfriend is in room 205.”