Chapter 16
CECILIA
The bar is dim, deliberately lit to make everyone look better than they deserve to.
Low amber lights hang over the counter, casting soft halos over polished wood and cut-glass tumblers.
There’s a consistent hum of conversation layered over a low, steady bass I recognize but can’t place.
Not loud enough to drown out my thoughts, but enough to blur the edges and keep me moving.
The place smells faintly of citrus and whiskey and whatever expensive cologne men think makes them interesting.
I almost turn around; my body knows that this is dangerous.
She’s at the far end of the bar, tucked right in a spot where there’s just enough light to recognize there’s a person but not to clock who it is immediately.
I spot her, though, which doesn’t surprise me at all.
She’s tall enough that even seated she carries more space than anyone around her.
But it isn’t the height that pulls my eye. It’s the stillness.
Isabella doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t scroll. She sits with one elbow resting lightly on the bar, long fingers and manicured nails wrapped around a glass she hasn’t really touched. Almost like she’s suspended, waiting for everyone to come to her.
She’s not wearing anything dramatic. No couture coat or designer dresses like I’ve seen on her these past few weeks. No federation-perfect polish like the other night.
Just dark jeans that fit her like they were tailored, a cream silk blouse tucked in at the waist, the sleeves rolled up once, exposing clean lines of forearm, and a slim gold watch that probably costs more than my yearly rent.
Her hair is down tonight. Not the sleek, controlled version from events, though.
It falls loose over her shoulders, slightly softer, almost careless.
It’s unfair.
The lighting catches in her hair and along the bridge of her nose and across the curve of her mouth when she tilts her head towards the bartender. She laughs politely at something he says, brief and genuine, and the sound hits me even across the room and through the dozens of people between us.
I stop walking.
For half a second, I just stand there like an idiot at the other end of the bar, heart pounding too hard for someone who has competed in front of thousands of people without flinching.
She turns before I say her name. Of course she does. And her eyes find me instantly. A direct look that feels like stepping into a current I knew was there but wasn’t prepared to feel this strongly.
And then, the most devastating thing happens: she smiles.
Not the public one. The private one.
It changes her entire face.
I have to physically remind myself to move.
By the time I reach her, my pulse is everywhere—throat, wrists, behind my knees—and I’m suddenly aware of what I’m wearing, so much so that it makes me resent my own practicality.
Black jeans. Fitted. A dark green top I chose because it felt neutral and safe and didn’t look like I tried. She looks like she tried. And like she didn’t need to, all at once.
“You’re staring,” she says softly, as I stop in front of her.
I exhale through my nose, slow. “It’s impossible not to.”
Her eyes brighten at that.
There’s something almost girlish in the way she straightens slightly, like she wasn’t sure I’d say that out loud.
“You look…” I start, and then stop, because breathtaking sounds adolescent and inadequate and entirely too honest.
Her eyebrow lifts. “Finish that sentence, Ceci.”
I swallow.
“Like you planned to ruin my evening.”
Her mouth curves slowly. “Maybe I did.”
I clear my throat as I pull out the stool beside her before I can overthink it. Close enough that our knees almost touch, but not quite. The bartender slides over, gives me a polite nod, and I order something simple so I don’t have to think too hard.
When I turn back to her, she’s already watching me again.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say.
She tilts her head. “You’re three minutes late.”
“I like dramatic entrances.”
Isabella laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corner, and her hand drops to her thigh. “I noticed.”
There’s something warm in her tone, something indulgent, and it does very little to steady my nerves.
“I had to finish something back in my room,” I add.
Her gaze sharpens. “Finish what?”
“Work.”
Her eyes flick down, then back up, slow and deliberate. “You dropped off your stuff with me earlier.”
I blink.
“What?”
“The schedule?” She reminds me lightly. “The session adjustments. You delivered them to my office this afternoon in a wonderful display of competency.”
I stare at her for half a second before I understand, and then I laugh—full and unfiltered.
“Oh. That.” I lean back slightly, studying her. “No, Princess. My real job.”
Something in her posture shifts.
“What does that mean?”
I take a sip of my drink, let the burn settle in my throat before answering. “It means that coaching doesn’t pay my bills.”
Her eyes narrow slightly.
“I’m an accountant,” I continue casually. “Freelance, kinda. Mostly small businesses, a few clients with more complicated portfolios. Last year was rough.”
For a second, she just looks at me.
“You’re an accountant,” she says slowly, as if testing the word. “When did you even—”
“It’s a very boring story. I was in university while I competed,” I say, and Isabella tilts her head despite my warning. “When I retired, I was able to focus full-time and graduated a year after.”
“But you coach at this level,” she says, her voice going higher with disbelief. “And you also have a job?”
I shrug, but smile nonetheless. “Passion doesn’t pay rent, unfortunately.”
There’s something that flashes across her face—anger, maybe, or surprise—and for a second, I think I’ve overstepped.
“That’s absurd,” she says quietly. Her knee presses against mine, but I don’t move. “You should have endorsements and other deals, don’t you?”
I smile, slow and unbothered. “Should I?”
“Of course! You were a national champion.”
“Well,” I say with a shrug again, hoping this looks casual, “no one crowned me anything marketable.”
Her gaze locks on mine, and I can feel the temperature shift again—not towards pity or charity. But in the direction of something else entirely.
Admiration, maybe. With a hint of sharpness beneath it.
“That’s…” She exhales through her nose, almost a laugh. “That’s very inconvenient.”
“For you?”
“For my assumptions.” She moves closer to me and laughs softly against my skin, and the sound sends a shiver straight down my spine.
The bartender asks if we want another round and Isabella answers for both of us without breaking eye contact with me. The confidence of it makes something in my stomach flip.
“You’re very comfortable here,” I say.
She shrugs lightly. “It’s my hometown. Grew up sneaking into this bar during the winters when the snowboarders were training here. Made the whole season much more exciting.”
“I didn’t know this is where you grew up.”
She follows my gaze. “You can see my house from the next block over,” she says, almost absentmindedly.
My eyes snap back to her and the corner of her mouth lifts.
“That wasn’t an invitation,” she adds.
“That’s disappointing.”
She laughs again, softer now, and the sound lingers between us like something meant only for this corner of the room. The bar has filled up around us, bodies pressing closer, music louder, the low thrum of conversation rising until it feels almost intimate in its anonymity.
Isabella doesn’t look away from me. Her hand rests on her thigh, then it moves.
Slowly and deliberately.
Her fingers slide along the outside of my knee first, testing. Not asking permission, exactly, but more like checking whether I’ll flinch.
My breath stutters, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a visible reaction.
“You’re bold tonight,” I say, lifting my glass.
Her thumb shifts ever so lightly and presses into my muscle.
I take a slow sip to steady myself. She leans closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice over the music, and her mouth brushes my ear when she answers.
“Seeing how far you’ll let me go.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“You’re assuming I’m letting you, Princess.”
“You are.”
Her hand moves again. Higher, not quite inappropriate but so close that my pulse kicks hard enough and I’m certain she can feel it through her palm.
The bartender sets down our second round, but I don’t break eye contact.
“You look very pleased with yourself,” I murmur in her ear.
“I am,” she says with a blinding smile.
I could move her hand. I could create distance and remind her—and myself—that this is a terrible idea for many, many reasons. The main one being that my athlete’s future is largely in her hands, and if one thing goes wrong, I’m risking his career, not mine.
Instead, I shift on the stool, widening my knees just enough to make space for her hand.
“Fuck, Ceci,” she says, and her fingers tighten against my thigh.
The space between us has thinned into an electric tension. Her knee slides between mine. My hand drifts to her waist, fingers hooking lightly at the fabric of her top, not pulling, just anchoring me.
“Do you make a habit of corrupting visiting coaches?”
She smiles, slow and wicked. “You walked in on your own, baby.”
The crowd presses tighter around us and a group of laughing people squeezes past, jostling the stools.
And then—
A sharp elbow. A startled curse.
Cold liquid splashes across Isabella’s shoulder and down the front of her shirt.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—”
The apology barely registers.
Isabella sucks in a breath, glancing down at herself. The fabric is damp, clinging to her body. I can see the outline of her lacy bra, and for half a second, I forget how to function.
She looks up at me, eyes bright with something between annoyance and amusement before a loud laugh breaks out of her.
“Well,” she says after a while, “that’s unfortunate.”