Carve My Heart (The Carve #1)

Chapter Salzburg, September 25

Thomas

The pub is dim and warm, all shadows and murmured voices. I picked a table far from curious eyes. No need to set off a storm of gossip just because I’m sitting with a girl. Even one who’s starting to feel dangerously unforgettable.

This has been my life lately. Low profile or bust.

In Austria, we World Cup skiers are basically celebrities. Gone are the days when I could pass out under a bar table without consequences or flirt my way through the tour. Not that I have the energy for that anymore.

Still, sometimes I feel too young for this. Too young to act like a responsible adult.

That's the price tag on the dream life.

I glance at her across the table.

What was her name again?

She told me. I know she did. But the way her mouth curved around her wineglass and her leg brushed mine under the table... it short-circuited the part of my brain responsible for names.

Too late to ask now. Two hours into dinner, a full-on connection happening between us, asking her name again would be a serious buzzkill.

"So, the GS skis," I start, trying to sound casual. "Not the usual pick for a girl."

"For a woman, you mean," she corrects me with a confident little grin. "And no, not usual. But I used to race on them. It's been years, but I've always loved the long turn. These days, I usually pick something less aggressive."

"Why did you stop?" I ask. "Racing, I mean."

"I was..." She pauses, as if the question hurts, and hides her face in her glass of white wine.

Shit, I might've touched a nerve. The last thing I want is to upset her and spoil this one smooth evening, and the apparent chemistry between us.

"...good," she finishes, putting the glass down resolutely. "I was just good."

"Ehm, that's a bad thing?" I raise my eyebrows.

"For me, as I believe it would be for you."

"I'm good at skiing," I say with a snort.

“No, you’re not. You’re brilliant. It comes easy to you, Thomas.”

She says my name like it’s a secret. Like she’s allowed to use it in ways no one else is. My pulse spikes. I want her to say it again—closer. Slower.

Her compliments make me uneasy and delighted at the same time. Every sports magazine says this stuff about me, but hearing her soft, melodic voice say it with that spark in her eyes—it's completely different.

And no, it's not just those pink lips and long fingers playing with her wine glass. I'm used to being admired as a superstar, used to women looking at me like I'm some kind of Greek god. But not like this. This feels different. Like I'm seen. Like, I mean something.

I want her to know she is seen, too.

I want her to know she’s not just seen—she’s felt. Right now, I feel her in my chest, in my gut, in the tension building in my legs under this table.

God, I need to show her that I understand, that I'm empathetic and sensitive and all that women love, right? Hard to do so, when I forgot her name the minute she told me.

"You were just good and wanted to be brilliant..."

She smiles, and her eyes shine in the dim light. Yes, I got it! Points for me.

"So you stopped skiing and decided to do something you are brilliant at. Am I right?"

“Yes,” she flashes her eyelashes, but her smug smile disappears. “I chose writing and sports marketing. You know, I figured I’d never make it to be the hero of Olympic stories. So, I’d rather be the one to write those stories.”

I tilt my head, studying her face. There’s something familiar about the way she tilts her chin when she talks.

“Wait,” I say slowly, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

She blinks, caught off guard. “On the slope this morning doesn’t count?”

“No,” I shake my head. “Earlier. I’m sure I’ve seen you in Alta Badia last winter — the after-party, maybe? You bumped into me as I…”

A sudden memory stops me mid-sentence. The truth is, I had a nameless model on my arm that night, and she dragged me into a dark hallway, willing for anything.

She laughs, eyes knowing. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t embarrass me.

“As you were tending to the PR relations? Taking one for the team, right?”

“Yeah,” I nod guiltily. “Always a team player.”

She laughs again, the sound bright and unforced.

That laugh again. I knew it wasn’t just the crash that made her unforgettable.

“But not always that kind of player,” I feel the need to add.

“Relax, Thomas,” she says, and the way she uses my name warms my blood. “I’m the last person to judge you. Anyway, you seemed a little lost that night.”

“You noticed?” I raise an eyebrow. “The whole world wrote about the perfect champion being perfect in the post-race interviews.”

“Yeah, most people tend to miss most things. But I notice.”

“That’s fascinating,” I blurt out. “You are fascinating.”

She doesn’t smile, but looks me directly in the eyes, a hint of suspicion there. Maybe thinking my reaction calculated. I guess it hit a nerve.

“Thank you… I guess,” she says finally.

There was no calculation. The words were out before I could think them through.

But I wouldn't take them back, because that's what she is. With every minute of those two hours here, I get not only more attracted to this woman but also more intrigued by her.

Every piece of her is fascinating. Her voice, her body, her mind, her drive and ambition, and the way she talks about skiing. I love skiing. I love racing. But when she talks about it, it's as if it means more than I thought.

And all of a sudden, I realize that never in my life have I desired a woman more than I want this one. I sure as hell will not let her go home until the morning light.

"You know," I start tentatively and sigh. If I knew her first name, it would sure help my seduction attempts. But one has to work with what one has.

"Listen, I know it's going to sound cocky. And too blunt. But we're leaving Hintertux tomorrow..."

"So am I," she grins, but purses her lips in a playful expression, and I know she knows where I'm headed, but won't make it easy.

"So, I wonder if you would love to..."

“...watch the sunrise with you?” she teases, but there's a softness in her laugh. The kind of softness that comes right before clothes start coming off.

I grin. "That wasn't the line, but I like your version better."

She watches me for a second, and I feel the air shift between us, just slightly, but unmistakably. There's heat in it now.

"I haven't watched a sunrise in a while," she says slowly, running a finger along the stem of her glass. "Not with someone."

We fall silent. Around us, the pub hums with quiet voices and clinking cutlery, but in this corner, the world feels narrowed to just us. She's looking right at me. Still hasn't blinked. The glass between us might as well not exist.

"You don't have to," I say, feeling suddenly bad for the bluntness. "Just... don't want to miss the chance. Whatever this is—it's rare. You feel it too."

“I do,” she murmurs, tracing the rim of her glass again, this time slower, more deliberately. “That’s the problem.”

I grin. Can't help it. Something tight flicks under my ribs. "Then don't overthink it. Just come with me."

A pause. Her eyes drop to the table for the first time in minutes, then lift back to mine.

She nods.

It's barely a movement, but it says everything to my ego, my brain, and my body, which is slowly overtaking the course of action.

I stand, toss a couple of bills onto the table, and offer her my hand. She doesn't hesitate. Her fingers find mine, and the touch sends tingling up my arm. I cannot resist the urge to kiss her fingers, and she catches her breath when my lips brush her warm skin.

I bring her hand to my lips and press a kiss to her fingers, slow, deliberate. She gasps, just enough to let me know I hit the right nerve. Her pupils darken. My control frays.

That look she gives me, like she knows exactly what I want to do with her and gives in completely, is a little too much for my patience.

If we don't leave in sixty seconds, I’m going to drag her onto this table.

***

I feel her shiver beside me as we step out of the restaurant into the crisp mountain air, her small hand slipping perfectly into mine. Fuck, that simple touch ignites me. It sends a jolt straight to my groin.

I force my steps slow and even, gripping her hand just hard enough to feel her pulse racing through her fingers. I'm holding myself back from scooping her up and sprinting to the hotel like some caveman.

I stop under the streetlamp's glow and turn to her, letting my gaze linger on her face, dark hunger I can't hide. Her breath hitches; I see it in the quick rise of her chest, the way her lips part. She's used to smooth talkers, but this raw need is carving me open.

"Our hotel's just up the road," I say, nodding toward that sleek luxury tower dominating the valley.

She smirks, eyes flashing. "Of course it is. Austrian superstars get the best, don't they?"

"We train hard enough to earn it." I shrug, fighting a grin, and start walking again, her hand still locked in mine.

No room for my usual banter tonight, cause I'm wound tight as a spring, every nerve screaming to get her alone.

But damn, she slows her pace deliberately, drawing it out, and I catch that teasing glint in her eye.

Heat coils low in me, my cock twitching at how she's playing me, fully aware of the power she wields, making me ache.

"So," she purrs, "how does this usually work? Spare room for insistent fans?"

Her words pull a rough laugh from me, more growl than humor, tension cracking loose. "Nothing like that. I'll just ask for an empty room and count on their discretion."

"Trust me," she says, voice laced with mischief, "receptionists guard dark secrets like pros."

I grin wide now, adrenaline surging as we enter the gleaming lobby.

"Good evening, Mr. Kern," the clerk says smoothly, keycard already in hand. "Your key—"

Her eyes flick to our clasped hands, lingering. My little tease meets her stare with a bold smile.

"Another room, perhaps?" the clerk ventures.