Chapter 13
Our Tiny Kingdom
Playlist:
The Foundations: Build Me Up Buttercup
Liz Callaway: Wound’t It Be Nice
Reiteralm, Austria, January 30
NICO
The alarm screams into the dark.
I reach for it blind, slap it silent, and for half a second lie still, trying to remember what day it is. January. Reiteralm. Training.
Right.
I go to roll out of bed, except I can't, because élise has somehow migrated from her side of the mattress to mine, claiming not only the entire duvet but most of the bed.
She's sprawled diagonally, one arm thrown over my chest, a curtain of golden hair across my mouth.
I can taste it—floral shampoo and something faintly metallic, maybe leftover hairspray.
I gently lift her arm, trying to extract myself without waking her.
She doesn't stir. Just exhales, long and slow, burrowing deeper into the pillow I was using.
I swing my legs over the edge, feet hitting the icy floor with a hiss. The bedroom, if you can call it that, is barely big enough for the bed and a chair that's currently buried under her clothes. The walls are thin enough that I can hear the neighbor's radiator clunking to life next door.
The old fridge hums in the kitchenette, a low, persistent drone I've gotten used to but can't quite ignore.
I grab my hoodie off the chair, yank it over my head, and pad into the tiny hallway.
The kitchenette is barely functional; one burner that takes forever to heat, a sink the size of a salad bowl, and a counter just wide enough for the moka pot. I fill it with water, tamp down the coffee grounds, and set it on the stove.
While it hisses to life, I slice bread. Two thick pieces, butter, jam. Pack a banana and a protein bar into my gym bag for later. The moka pot gurgles, steam curling into the cold air. I pour myself half a cup, leave the rest for her.
Then I grab a sticky note from the magnetized pad on the fridge, scribble a quick line with the pen that's been there since I moved in.
Gym → hill. Coffee's ready. Wake me up indecently when I'm back.–N
I stick it to the counter where she'll see it first thing.
Then I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab my keys, and slip out the door.
The stairwell is freezing, my breath fogging as I take the steps two at a time. Outside, the air bites, sharp and clean, the kind of cold that makes you feel alive.
I picture her again, the silky fabric barely covering her shapely ass, her golden hair covering my pillow.
I have this beautiful woman, my élise, in my bed.
Over all the luxury she had at home, the giant fish tank and marble halls, she chose to sleep in my messy bed.
Perhaps, we were just overly dramatic yesterday. This was not such a bad idea.
I grin, pulling my hood up as I head toward the training center.
My brain's already on the hill. On speed. On getting stronger, faster, sharper.
And later, when I'm back, sore and sweaty, on what indecently might mean.
***