Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
MAISY
I wake up to the smell of coffee floating through the air. My lashes flutter open, and the first thing I see is the faint glow of the fireplace across the living room, embers still alive from last night.
Shit.
After helping Sterling to bed last night, I tried going to my own bed, but the silence there had been too loud, my thoughts sprinting laps in the dark, so I came back out to read on the couch and I guess I must’ve fallen asleep out here.
A sudden clink of ceramic behind me jolts me upright. My heart thuds before I remember where I am, and I twist slowly, peeking over the back of the couch. A few strands fall loose into my face, and I quickly tuck them behind my ear—only to freeze at what I see.
Sterling in the kitchen, bare-chested, muscles flexing as he pours steaming coffee into a mug.
A towel hangs carelessly over one broad shoulder.
Morning light from the windows cuts across his torso, carving shadows into every ridge of his stomach, the sharp V at his hips leading down into the waistband of low-slung sweats.
“Holy shit,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
My gaze drags helplessly downward and back up again, like I’ve got zero control over my own eyes. He was hot three years ago, but now he’s lethal. As if he feels it, his head tilts, eyes finding mine across the room. That familiar smirk curves at his lips.
“Coffee?” His voice is rough, sleep-worn, and God, it does something low in my stomach.
The glint in his eye tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. He slides one of the mugs forward on the counter, a silent offering, his brow raised like he’s daring me not to take it.
“Uhm—yeah,” I say too quickly, pushing myself upright. The blanket that had been thrown over me tumbles to the floor. I frown at it—I don’t remember covering myself. Did he…?
My cheeks burn at the thought.
I shuffle to the counter and wrap my fingers around the warm mug, grateful for something to do with my hands. Sterling pours a second cup for himself, moving easily, like he hadn’t been stumbling drunk only hours ago.
“How’re you feeling?” I ask, lifting the cup to my lips.
“Surprisingly…not horrible,” he says, raising his own mug. Then he pauses. “But I don’t remember a single damn thing.”
The words make me freeze mid-sip. I set my mug down slowly. “Nothing?”
He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck, brows knit as he digs through the fog. “The last thing I remember is you crashing into that tree on the mountain.”
I blink. That’s hours before he got home drunk. Before I hurled lies at him to push him away—words I wish I could swallow back down. I stare at him, and he looks back at me innocently, but I don’t know whether he’s being serious or not.
“Is that normal?” I ask carefully. “That’s a huge chunk of time to lose, Sterling. You were still sober when I crashed. Maybe you should get checked out at the hospital, just to be safe?”
He waves me off with a sip of coffee, like I’m overreacting. “Nah. It usually comes back after a few days. A shitty side-effect of drinking too much.”
If he’s being honest about not remembering, that means in a few days, he’ll remember every single word I said. Bile rises in my throat.
“I…said some not-so-nice things to you,” I admit, voice low. “After the crash. I know you don’t remember, but I’m sorry.”
His mouth tilts up, one corner lifted in that crooked almost-smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you’re making it sound.”
I give him a weak smile back, though the truth tastes bitter on my tongue. It was worse. Way worse.
He sets his mug down and leans on the counter. “Why don’t you grab a shower while I start breakfast?”
I arch a brow. “Wow. Is that your subtle way of saying I look like shit?”
He snorts. “Maisy, you could never look like shit.”
Heat prickles across my cheeks. I hide behind another sip of coffee, pretending his words don’t send my stomach flipping. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw me hungover.”
“Ah, right.” His grin spreads. “I almost forgot you drink now. We’ll have to get you wasted before I leave, just so I can witness Hungover Maisy in all her glory.”
“In your dreams, Sterling.” I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the coffee.” I slip away toward the shower, his gaze heavy on my back.
The mountain air is crisp when we get to the resort earlier than usual, the slopes mostly deserted. I’ve always loved mornings like this—the world still asleep, the snow untouched, the mountains rising endless around us. It feels surreal.
On the ski lift, my hands clamp around the safety bar, the cable hums above us as we glide higher, and beside me, Sterling turns just enough to watch me, his profile defined against the rising sun.
“You know what I’ll never understand?” he asks, smirk tugging at his lips. “How the hell you’re a pro skier but terrified of ski lifts.”
“I was a pro skier,” I correct. “Past tense.”
“You’re still a pro skier, Maisy,” he says firmly, his voice holding something that makes every hair on my neck stand on end. “And I don’t get it. You’d launch off jumps almost this high every day. But this?” He gestures to the lift, incredulous.
A laugh escapes me, one that feels foreign, but good. “It’s different. Up here, I’m not in control. The cord could snap, and there’s nothing I can do. We’d just…fall.”
“And what about your ski tricks?”
“At least with those, if I saw the fall coming, I could adjust. Maybe not save it completely, but soften the blow.”
He hums, quiet for a beat. “So it’s about control.”
I nod.
His gaze lingers on me. “Is that what you did, that year of your injury? Adjusted for the fall?”
Memories slam into me—the jump that felt all too wrong, the crowd’s gasp, the sickening impact. I swallow hard, then nod. “Yeah. Instead of snapping my neck in front of everyone, I shifted enough to only cause a herniated disc.”
He goes silent, staring out at the mountains. I can’t read his expression. Finally, he looks back at me and murmurs, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left.”
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. “I basically forced you out. And anyway—it doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”
He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t look away, either. His silence says more than words ever could. By the time we reach the practice zone, the air between us is heavy.
“Alright,” he says, shifting into instructor mode. “Yesterday proved we’ve got to keep working on your edging, unless you want to risk another out-of-control ride and a repeat of your tragic assault on that poor tree.”
“Hey!” I smack his arm, laughing despite myself. His grin is wicked, teasing, and it pulls one out of me too.
“Let’s start with something called the Falling Leaf.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Think of how a leaf drifts down in a zigzagging motion, back and forth. That’s what you’ll do. Sideslip your board in controlled zigzags all the way down.” He tosses his board onto the snow, clips in, and winks at me. “It’ll give you complete control.”
I clip into my board, raising a brow. “I doubt it’ll be as easy as you’re making it sound.”
“You never liked easy anyway,” he fires back, smirking as he pushes off.