“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.”
