Slow Heat

She’d stopped and had her weight braced on her poles. Bent over a little bit, she was huffing and puffing, out of breath. They were at well over eight thousand feet and altitude could be a bitch. It affected everyone differently, but breathlessness was the most common side effect.

Although an uncomfortable and worrisome thought came to him that maybe it wasn’t the altitude at all. When he’d lifted her before, she’d been light, almost… frail. People didn’t realize it took a lot of strength and stamina to ski, and he was nearly positive she didn’t have either. He put a hand on her shoulder.

She whirled to face him, saw the helmet dangling off his finger, and pulled out an earbud with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I think the altitude’s getting to me. I really should’ve gotten some caffeine down me before facing the mountain.” She slid on the helmet. “Thanks, Prince Charming.”

“Huh?”

“You know, Cinderella,” she said. “The prince had her slipper and you had my helmet… Never mind,” she said with a pat to his arm when he just stared at her. “Ignore me. Probably I should’ve put far more practical things on my list than skiing in the Rockies.”

And then before he could ask her what the hell she was talking about now, she’d tightened the strap beneath her chin, put her hands back into the handholds at the top of her ski poles, and pushed off.

He watched her head for the lift that would carry her back to safety, thinking two things. One, he really hoped she knew how to stop. And two, she was definitely a nut, but possibly the prettiest, most bewildering nut he’d ever met in his entire life.

Chapter 2

Bailey Moore considered it a win-win when she got herself situated on the lift without breaking another binding, falling on her face, or making a fool of herself. Especially since her concentration had been shot thanks to the mountain hottie she’d just skied away from.

Don’t you dare look back, she told herself firmly. There’s absolutely no reason to. Not a single one…

She totally looked back.

And there he was on his skis like they were an extension of his own body, as if the rugged badass mountains behind him had nothing on him.

He was watching her as well, or so she assumed since his dark lenses were aimed her way. She waved at him.

He didn’t wave back but the very corners of his mouth turned up. Then he planted his poles, executed a lithe jump to turn his skis in the other direction, and skied off with an effortless motion that Bailey knew she could never in a million years of lessons hope to replicate. It was… well, incredibly sexy.

But as Bailey also knew, the sexy ones weren’t the keepers. For the most part, they’d never been disappointed or hurt by love or life, and as a woman who’d faced it all at one time or another, she had no patience for the weak, shallow, or clueless.

And actually, she had no patience for this line of thinking at all. She had other things to concentrate on. Laughing a little at herself, she turned her head to take in the top of the peak as the lift carried her away from it. It had been the top, the very tippy top, and the stunning view suddenly made her glad for her map incident.

She’d never seen anything like it. Most anywhere you stood in Colorado, you were surrounded by mountains—towering, rugged, intimidating alpine peaks that you had to tip your head back to see and that always seemed to frame the entire world.

Not on Devil’s Face. For the first time, she’d been the highest point, and everything below her—the world—was at her feet. And as someone who until very recently had never been in control of her own destiny, it staggered her.

In a really great way.

The lift hit a snag and jerked. Bailey gasped and grabbed the steel bar in front of her for all she was worth. With nothing below her but thick pines and an endless blanket of snow, she could do nothing else. There wasn’t a building in sight, not even the comforting view of the base lodge.

When the lift jerked again, her hand ached from the tight grip, but she didn’t let go. If she was going down, she was going down holding the sissy bar all the way. And wouldn’t that be pretty effing ironic if after all she’d been through, she was about to expire right here, now, alone on a mountain?

And if by some miracle she didn’t die from the fall, her mother would kill her.

But miraculously the lift held firm and she lived to breathe another day. Ten minutes later she glided off without so much as a hitch. Perfect execution, she thought proudly and looked around, really wishing Mountain Hottie could see her now, that anyone she knew could see her.

But nope, just her.

She’d grown up in a tiny mountain town just south of Denver, about two hours from here and though just about everyone she knew was a big skier, she was not. She’d been concentrating on other things. Today, the wind hitting her face, the sun warming her cheeks, and the feeling of being in control—for once—had all given her a small taste of what she’d wanted for herself. And after her business meeting, she hoped for a bigger taste.

Beaming, she straightened on her skis and glanced over at the base lodge. She could see the entire north-facing wall. Unlike the rest of the building, which was sided with wood and glass, gorgeous and rustic looking, the north wall was smooth stucco. Easier to maintain than wood, but plain looking and, frankly, boring.

She’d been hired by the resort’s publicist to paint a mural there.

Painting was important to her, very important. She earned a living as a graphic designer, but painting reminded her of her grandma, whom she still missed so very much. One of her earliest memories was of sitting on a stool in her grandma’s studio with the sketch her grandma had given her to paint. Sort of a paint-by-numbers but personalized.

Don’t worry about staying inside the lines, Bailey darling… Just go for it.

That’s what Bailey intended to do.

Excited, she skied—okay, plowed—her way to the lodge. Luckily it was only a hundred yards or so and relatively flat, but that meant she had to use her poles. By the time she made it to the stairs of the lodge, she was sweating and shaky. When she finally managed to release her boots from her skis, she dropped to her knees to gasp in air. Probably she should add an exercise regime to her list.

Stat.

Hand to her pounding heart, she panted for air and changed her mind. Maybe she was grateful no one could see her right now. That’s when she lifted her head and… came face-to-face with Mountain Hottie. Of course, because heaven forbid she run into him two minutes ago when she’d been on her skis and looking good.

How he’d beaten her down the mountain, on his own power no less, she hadn’t the foggiest. “Hey,” she said, trying to act like she wasn’t breathing like a locomotive on its last legs. Or dripping sweat. Staggering to her feet, she casually leaned over her poles, surreptitiously trying to catch her breath.

“Hey,” he said. Not breathing like a locomotive. Not sweating. In fact, not out of breath or exerted at all, the bastard. “The binding held.”

“You wouldn’t have let me go if you’d thought it wouldn’t,” she managed.

“True.” He paused. “You going to yell at me again if I want to know if you’re okay?”

She managed a snort. “I didn’t yell at you.”

His mouth quirked a little as he stood there all wind-tousled perfection, clearly yanking her chain in his own oddly stoic way.