Chapter 10 Poppy
POPPY
Okay, so it’s true.
It’s not only dating that I’m inexperienced with. It’s… all of it.
I’ve never kissed anyone. Not even a peck.
But now, I have to kiss Jett in front of a crowd of onlookers. Reporters. Fans. Women who are out here, standing at the bottom of the ski hill in negative ten-degree weather, wearing bikini tops and holding signs with his name on them.
I guess some people aren’t too bothered by the scandal. One of them has his name written across her boobs, and all I can think about is how long it will take her to get it off. It looks like she wrote it in permanent marker.
The resort is packed, people gathering around to watch some of the best skiers in the world compete for a shot at the cup. Loud electronic music booms around us, the snow-covered valley thrumming with fervour and excitement.
My pulse is thrumming, too.
I shouldn’t be this nervous at the thought of kissing Jett. There are worse people to share your first kiss with than arguably one of the hottest professional skiers in the game.
It’s just so public, and we have to make it look convincing.
Like we’ve kissed a thousand times before.
What if I don’t know how? What if I open my mouth too wide, or use too much tongue, or not enough tongue? What if it’s wildly obvious to everyone here that I’ve never done this before? Our cover could be blown in an instant if I screw it up.
It’s not like I’m embarrassed by my lack of experience, though it’s not exactly a point of pride. I know there’s nothing wrong with me, I just never had the opportunity. I was never the kind of girl that people looked at twice through my formative years.
Sure, sometimes it stung, to always be left behind. But that’s the hand I was dealt.
Even if I had been interested in dating, I was off school so much for medical appointments or was too unwell to go. I wasn’t afforded the opportunity to be boy obsessed like some of my friends. Eventually I learned to accept it, if not embrace it.
Still, I certainly wasn’t planning on admitting any of this to Jett.
Now that the initial shock of him proposing to me has worn off, I’m left with a warring mix of nerves and relief. I have a real shot at saving Thistle + Thorne, just when I was starting to believe that all hope was lost.
Who’d have thought Jett would appear as the café’s knight in shining armour?
And who’d have thought I’d be here, trying to wrangle my nerves and work up the courage to kiss him?
My stomach is churning by the time I reach the front of the crowd. When I get up to the metal fence surrounding the finish area, I spot the man Jett was talking to after the skijoring event, Dan. He walks over to where I’m standing and unhooks a section of the fence to let me through.
“Poppy, right?” He asks. He’s middle-aged, with salt and pepper hair mostly hidden beneath a Nuclear toque. He has a kind, if not weathered, face.
I wonder how many of the lines are from dealing with Jett’s antics for so many years.
I nod, and squeeze through the fence. There are about a thousand pairs of eyes on me as I walk over to where the rest of Jett’s team is waiting for him at the bottom of the run. Dan quickly introduces me around.
I learn that he is Jett’s manager and coach, and the shorter man with the neatly groomed beard is his athletic therapist, Mark.
They’re both clad head to toe in brand-new Nuclear gear.
I glance around at their matching navy blue team parkas, and feel a little silly in the one-piece powder-blue snow suit Brooke picked out for me to wear.
It’s barely warm enough, the wind has picked up since this morning and the sky has clouded over, but she thought it looked cute.
It has faux fur cuffs around the wrists, and it makes me looks like a snow bunny, Jett’s usual type. She thought it might help me to not stand out, but she was clearly mistaken. I’m the only woman who has ever been allowed to stand with Jett’s team, so I may as well be wearing a neon sign.
The last skier that finishes moves off the course, and the announcer calls out the score over a loudspeaker. Then he calls the next skier.
It’s Jett’s turn.
“Ever seen him compete?” Mark asks me, his arms crossed as he glances up to the top of the hill.
Jett is a small speck up there, but in a matter of seconds, he’ll be down here next to me and then it will be my turn to put on a show.
“Mhmm,” I answer, absentmindedly. “Not in person, though.”
The jump I’m staring at must be about a hundred feet long and nearly as high. My heart pounds thinking about Jett going flying off the end of it.
“Watching Jett ski is like watching history being made before your eyes,” he says. “You’ve got one of the best seats in the house, too. All these women will be jealous of you.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. Dating Jett is kind of like willingly putting a target on my own back. The scandal has had quite the polarizing effect on Jett’s fans.
Some have accused him of being a cheat, of not taking accountability, of being given special treatment. Others have doubled down on their obsession, like he’s become forbidden somehow, and therefore more exciting.
I glance over my shoulder and look back at the crowd again. Some people are paying attention to the event, and others are too busy partying, doing keg stands, and causing a raucous.
I turn my attention to the hill where Jett is getting ready at the top, and shake off the distracting thoughts making my nerves buzz beneath my skin.
Focus on what you have to do, I remind myself. It’s just a kiss. Jett has done this a thousand times before, if not more.
Suddenly, the buzzer sounds and he’s off like a shot.
Even from a distance I can tell that he’s laser focused on the jump ahead. He’s speed, and fury, and determination. He’s in his element.
Jett points his skis straight down the hill, tucking himself inward to make his body more aerodynamic.
But as he nears the jump, I squint and can just make out his expression. There’s a wide grin on his face. He’s focused, but he’s also having the time of his life.
Jett talked the entire drive from Heartwood about this competition. He told me all about the points system, how each event earns him points that will determine his standing and whether he makes it to the World Cup Final.
There are two more competitions after today, and Jett needs to score high at each of them to qualify.
He sails off the jump, and my heart stills, my breath catching as I wait for him to make contact with the ground.
The announcer calls out a series of names for moves that I can’t make sense of, but whatever he does in the air is spectacular. He’s upside down, and twisted, skis crossed, and somehow, he manages to fully untangle himself as he drops back down to earth.
The crowd roars as he sticks the landing. Even the announcer is amazed, talking about the grace with which Jett completes his turns. The smooth control he has over his skis, over his body.
Jett’s body moves in a way that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, on and off the hill.
I shake off the thoughts as Jett finishes the last half of the run and comes to meet us all at the bottom. His expression is cool, collected, if not a little cocky. It’s apparent by the lopsided grin he’s wearing that he knows he scored high.
The announcer calls out his score like he did for the last skier, but I don’t hear it.
My senses have homed in on Jett as he takes off his skis and draws nearer, his gaze locked in on me. My breathing is shallow and rapid, as if I was the one who finished competing, not Jett.
The audience is still going wild, but as Jett steps into my space, the world around me goes quiet.
Quiet except for the roaring thunder in my chest.
He dips his face close to mine, and he wraps a strong arm around the curve at the base of my spine.
“You look good,” he murmurs into my ear.
Goosebumps scatter across my skin beneath my snowsuit. Electricity zips down my spine at his touch, at the sound of his voice.
Jett pulls back now, and I ready myself for what comes next. His hair is damp and sticking out from underneath his helmet, his cheeks a rosy shade from exertion, but it’s his lips that I can’t tear my eyes away from. The bow in the centre, the way the bottom one is slightly fuller than the top.
His tongue slides across them, and my pulse is a crescendo beat in my ears. I flutter my eyelids closed.
“I can’t kiss you, Poppy,” he whispers into the space between us so only I can hear.
“What?” I ask in a hushed tone.
My gaze snaps back up to his eyes, searching his face for an explanation, but he doesn’t offer one and my stomach drops.
What is happening?
Panic rises in my throat.
Do I have something stuck in my teeth? Or does Jett not want to kiss me because he’s having second thoughts about the whole plan?
With all these gorgeous women cheering him on, I wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to attach himself to me.
But there was no ounce of hesitation when he proposed the idea to me.
No turning back, that’s what we agreed to.
Jett lowers his head toward mine, his hand cradling the back of my head. He presses his mouth gently against my forehead, the soft puff of air from his nose sends a ripple through my core.
His lips are tender, and warm, and despite all the questions swirling in my mind, a feeling of comfort washes over me.
Dan interrupts us right as we pull apart.
“You need to get out of here. Now that we’ve dropped that bomb on your fans, you need to go home and hunker down,” he instructs us. “Go straight there, no après party tonight. The car is already waiting.”
Jett nods and follows Dans instructions, taking off his ski boots and handing him his gear. My neck starts to prickle, and when I scan the crowd, all eyes are glued to me. Including Miss Jett Titties. Her stare is like daggers.
As we turn to leave, I hear Dan mutter to Jett under his breath. Something about us not following the plan. Jett doesn’t answer but instead veers away from him and slides a gloved hand into mine. He looks down at me with his signature aloof and unfazed grin.
“Looks like I’m taking you home.”