Chapter 2
Nick
I check the schedule for the third time this morning, which is ridiculous. I already know who's booked for my nine a.m. private lesson.
Daria.
The woman from last night, whom I couldn't stop looking at during orientation.
The one with dark curls escaping a messy bun, wearing a green thermal that hugged curves I have no business salivating over.
The one who blushed when I talked to her and looked at me like she couldn't quite believe I was real.
I scrub a hand over my face. This is unprofessional. She's a retreat guest. I'm staff. There are boundaries for a reason.
Except I can't get her out of my head.
"You good, man?" Devon leans against the equipment room doorway, coffee in hand. He works at the resort bar and has an annoying habit of reading people too well.
"Fine. Just checking lessons."
"Right." He takes a long sip. "That's why you're staring at that clipboard like it insulted your mother?"
"Don't you have bottles to stock?"
"Already done. Unlike some people, I'm efficient." He grins. "So who's the lesson with?"
"Guest named Daria. Beginner."
"Ah." Devon's grin widens. "The curvy brunette you couldn't stop eyeing last night?"
I shoot him a look. "I wasn't—"
"You were. Pretty obvious."
Shit. If Devon noticed, others did too. That's what I don't need—gossip about my showing interest in a guest. Kelly already sent a staff memo about maintaining professional boundaries during her retreat week.
"It's a lesson, Dev. That's all."
"Sure." He pushes off the doorframe. "Have fun with your completely professional, not-at-all-interested lesson."
I flip him off as he leaves, laughing.
Devon's right. I am interested. More than I should be, more than I've been in anyone for a long time. There’s something about the way Daria looked at me—surprised and hopeful and uncertain all at once—that reached right through my carefully maintained professionalism and grabbed hold.
But she's young. Early twenties, maybe? I'm thirty-five. That's more than a decade between us. And even if the age gap isn't technically a problem, the power dynamic is. She's here to have fun and learn to ski, not to deal with an instructor who can't keep his attraction in check.
So I'll teach her. Be friendly. Professional. And ignore the way my pulse kicked up when I saw her name on my schedule.
At 8:55, I head to the bunny slope with equipment. The morning is clear and cold, with the sun glinting off fresh snow. Perfect conditions for a beginner lesson.
Daria appears at 9:03, bundled in a puffy jacket that's slightly too big, a knit hat pulled low over her ears. She's overdressed for the activity—she'll be hot within twenty minutes—but she looks adorable. And nervous.
"Morning," I call.
She spots me, and her face flushes pink. From cold or embarrassment, I can't tell. "Hi. Sorry, I'm a little late. I couldn't figure out the boots."
"You're fine. We've got plenty of time." I gesture to the equipment I've laid out. "I pulled skis and poles based on your height and weight from your registration. Want to try them on?"
For the next ten minutes, I walk her through the basics—how to step into bindings, how to hold poles, proper stance. Every time I adjust her position, my hands linger a fraction longer than necessary. I notice the way she tenses when I touch her, then relaxes into it.
"Okay," I say once she's geared up. "Let's start with the most important skill in skiing."
"Turning?"
"Falling."
She blinks. "You're going to teach me how to fall?"
"Everyone falls. Might as well learn how to do it safely." I demonstrate, showing her how to fall to the side, how to get back up. "Your turn."
She looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "You want me to just... fall over?"
"Yep."
"On purpose."
"On purpose."
She huffs a laugh and awkwardly tips herself over, landing in the snow with a soft whomp. When she looks up at me, there's snow on her hat and she's grinning.
"How was that?"
"Perfect." And I mean it. Most beginners are too self-conscious to commit to the fall. She just went for it. "Now get up and try again."
We practice falling and standing for ten minutes until she's laughing every time she goes down. The sound does something to my chest, loosens something that's been tight for years.
"Okay," she says, brushing snow off her jacket. "I'm officially an expert at falling. Can I learn how to ski now?"
"Now, you ski."
I walk her through the basics of weight distribution, pizza stops, and how to use poles for balance. She listens, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that show she's thinking about the mechanics.
When she slides forward for the first time, it's tentative and wobbly, but she doesn't fall. She makes it ten feet before losing balance and tipping sideways with a yelp.
I'm there before she hits the ground, catching her waist. "I've got you."
She's warm and solid against me, her curves fitting perfectly in my hands. For a second, neither of us moves. She looks up, eyes wide, lips parted. We're close enough that I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes, and I can count the freckles across her nose.
Close enough to kiss her.
I release her and step back. "Good try. Let's go again."
We fall into a rhythm. She skis, falls, laughs, gets up, tries again.
I adjust her form, offer encouragement, and try to ignore how much I enjoy making her smile.
She has this way of being unselfconscious when she's focused—no posturing, no performance.
Just genuine effort and delight when something works.
After an hour, I call for a break. We sit on a bench at the slope's edge, mountain views stretching endlessly before us.
"Want some hot chocolate?" I pull a thermos from my pack.
"You came prepared."
"Part of the service." I pour her a cup, our fingers brushing when she takes it and there’s a spark again.
She sips and sighs. "This is amazing. Do you do this for all your students?"
"Only the ones who show promise."
She cuts me a look. "I fell forty times."
"And got up forty times. That's the skill that matters."
She's quiet for a moment, staring at the view. "Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
The question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I just..." She fidgets with her cup. "I guess I'm used to instructors being kind of impatient with beginners. You're not. You're... patient. Nice. I don't know. It's unexpected."
There are a dozen ways to deflect this. Professional answers about excellent customer service and my teaching philosophy. But something in her voice—vulnerable and uncertain—makes me want to be honest.
"Why wouldn't I be nice to you?"
"I don't know." She won't meet my eyes. "I'm not exactly... I mean, look at the other women here. They're—"
"Not you," I finish.
She looks at me, confused.
"The other women aren't you," I say again. "They're not the ones who made me laugh during orientation when you looked terrified. They're not the ones who just spent an hour falling and getting back up without complaining once. They're not..." I stop myself. This is already too much.
"They're not what?" she whispers.
They're not the ones I can't stop thinking about. Or stayed up all night fantasizing about.
"They're not my nine a.m. lesson," I say instead. "You are. So yeah, I'm going to be nice to you."
It's not the whole truth, but it's all I can give her.
She nods slowly, a small smile playing on her lips. "Okay."
We sit in comfortable silence, finishing our hot chocolate. A group of intermediate skiers swoosh past, and I notice Daria watching them with longing.
"You'll get there," I tell her.
"You think?"
"I know. You're a natural. You just don't know it yet."
Her blush is back, and I want to keep putting it there. I want to keep making her look at me like I've said something wonderful.
"Should we do another run?" she asks.
We return to the slope. This time she makes it halfway down before falling, laughing the whole way. When I offer my hand to help her up, she takes it without hesitation.
By the end of the lesson, she's tired but glowing. We return the equipment, and she turns to me, slightly breathless.
"Thank you. That was... great."
"You did great." I should let her go. The lesson's over. But I hear myself say, "You've got another private lesson booked for the day after tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah. If that's still okay?"
"More than okay. Same time?"
"Yes." She walks away, then turns back. "Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad I booked these lessons."
I watch her head toward the lodge, something warm unfurling in my chest.
"Yeah," I murmur to myself. "Me too."