Page 16 of Counting Down To You

A little laugh bubbles out of me. It sounds slightly manic. “No one would believe it. We don’t know each other,” I say again, like I need to hammer the point home.

He waves a careless hand in the air. “We’re at work, people aren’t going to expect big displays of affection. And I won’t always be on the same shifts as you—I’ll be training on the slopes a lot of the time.”

“Skiing?”

“Ski rescue.”

“Ski rescue? So by day you’re a hotel manager and by night you’re out there saving people?”

“Well, training to. I’m not qualified yet.” There’s something about the way he says it, though I can’t quite work out what. I can’t help but be a little impressed, though. Okay, yes, I’m not entirely sure what a ski rescuer does, but I reckon clue’s in the name.

We both go quiet, like we’re taking stock of one another. I bite my lip. “You seriously want to set this up just to save me embarrassment?”

He sighs. “Look, it might help me a bit too. I have a bit of a…reputation, left over from a couple of years ago.” Which means he must be one of the people who returns to the same place for multiple seasons—Cal always liked those people, said they made his life easier.

A reputation, huh? Robyn’s voice is sly.

“A reputation?” I repeat.

“Yes.” That one word makes it clear that it is not up for discussion. “And this may help even it out a little.” I want to ask why. I want to ask if it has anything to do with why Lucie is so pissed off. I’m pretty sure I can’t ask either of those things, though, given how we ended up here.

“Besides,” he continues, with a wry almost-smile, “you won’t be able to convince them otherwise now anyway, not now the rumor mill is in full force. Trust me, I know what it’s like out here.”

I wince. How did this happen? When I tell Cal, he’s not going to believe me. Of all the men in all of London, how did I manage to take a photo with my future bloody manager? And okay, I was right on the outskirts of London with limited options, but still. Although that raises another question.

I frown. “If you’re the manager here, how come you were in London?”

He hesitates, then says, “The ski lifts don’t open for a few days yet.” Which is a distinct nonanswer.

“You were near the hospital,” I say slowly. Is it me, or does he still a little at that?

“I was,” he agrees. “I dropped off some things for the fundraiser raffle.” Ah, so that would explain the massive box of chocolates. Before I can ask anything more, he cuts in. “You were there too?”

My turn to hesitate. “Yes,” I say eventually, seeing no point in lying. “I wanted to show my support for the fundraiser too.”

He nods slowly, and as I meet his gaze it’s like an agreement is formed—that we won’t pry into what brought us to that hospital, specifically. Or into who we might have lost.

“Look,” he says, in an ultra-pragmatic tone, shifting the conversation back to the subject at hand, “in a few weeks, if anyone asks, we can just say it petered out. Likelihood is someone else will have done something to distract everyone by then anyway—gossip doesn’t stay hot here for long.”

I bite my lip. It’s ridiculous. I should be refusing to even entertain the idea. I don’t understand how he’s being so damn reasonable about it.

He taps his foot against the rug on the wooden floor, a hint of impatience creeping in. “It’s your call. It’s no big deal either way—that’s all I’m saying.”

No big deal. Maybe he’s right about that? What’s the harm in letting people believe what they already believe? It saves me going out there and trying to explain the whole thing. And he said it would help him too, right? Even if I don’t totally understand how. So, really, I’m doing him a favor.

But, in reality, it’s none of those things driving me. Because in the back of my mind is the writing on the little piece of paper from my calendar.

Say yes to something you’d usually say no to.

And here it is being offered to me on a plate, the chance to complete another challenge, just like that.

I get to my feet, and his gaze moves up with me. I nod. “Okay.”

His eyebrows raise, just a fraction. “Okay?”

“Yes. Let’s do it.” Why not, right? It can’t make anything worse, surely.

I hear Robyn’s voice. Atta girl.