by Avery Laval
He watched her head his way and for a moment warred within himself. He could blow her off. He knew that was an option. No one was forcing him into a one night stand here. But she was so damn voluptuous. Was it criminal to want to see that body without the parka, and the sweater, and the everything else, for that matter?
The devil on his shoulder reminded him that the only thing criminal would be letting this caliber of opportunity go to waste.
He listened to the devil. “This seat's open,” he called to her when she was still two feet away. “Can I buy you a drink?” he added in rusty Italian.
“Depends,” she said, and her American English rang out like a bell. “You're a ski bum,” she gestured to the tell-tale goggle tan on his face. Do you all know each other? I'm looking for another one named Charlie Ahlers. Heard of him?”
Charlie coughed a bit in surprise, and then laughed. It must be the beard, he thought. He was quite a bit scruffier now than he had been during most of the media coverage. “I know him. Intimately.”
She paused, tilted her head to one side. The penny dropped. “No kidding. Well, don't I feel stupid.”
He smiled. “It's the beard.”
“It's very, ah, voluminous.”
Ouch. “Italian ladies love beards.”
“I'm sure they do. Italian ladies feel differently than I do about hairiness.”
Double ouch. And, at the same time, hello. A little push-back. Maybe he'd read this girl's intentions wrong. Maybe her panties weren't on fire so much as just nicely toasted.
“I can shave,” he said a little more quickly than he should have.
She laughed, and wow, when this girl smiled—he wanted to make her do it again.
“I think the first step is a long hot shower.”
“Care to join me?”
She smiled again, but rolled her eyes. Those wide, skeptical eyes. Brown black, and yes, intelligent. “Apparently you've gone feral since the Olympics,” she said.
He shrugged. “I take it you're a fan.”
“Not really,” she said too easily. “Well, yes, and no. I mean, I am a fan. You were amazing in the games. Just phenomenal. But that's not why I'm here.”
“No?” He asked. But he was thinking, Well, damn.
“I'm here on behalf of Brad Bradley.”
Charlie stopped smiling. Tried not to growl, though he wanted to. Turned his body back to the bar, took his scotch off the coaster, and climbed off the stool. Without another word or look, he walked over to another stool four seats down—the only one open in a long row—and took it.
Shit.
Shit hell damn crap.
Shit.
Brad Bleeping Bradley had tracked him down in Italy. How the hell? And who cared how, really, because now that it had happened, his plan to hole up here all summer long was completely shot.
“Scusi, um, mi,” he heard the stacked pixie—no, the stacked henchman—say in bungled Italian to the guy on the stool next to his. And then, still in Italian though it was clear to Charlie she should have given up, “May I switch your seat with my bottom?” There was a little chuckling along the bar, and Charlie had to stifle a laugh himself, but so help him, he would not turn and look at that woman. Do not look a sports agent directly in the eyes, he reminded himself. It would only encourage them.
“Si, si, by all means,” said the traitor in that lilting English the Italians spoke like it was their home language. “Put that nice big bottom right here.” Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie watched the stranger slide off his stool and step aside. The Henchman replaced him, now less than a foot from his elbow, waiting for the slightest invitation to strike.
Do not look, he commanded himself.
“Grazie!” she chirped to the Italian, and then leaned over into Charlie's personal space. “Their English is so adorable, don't you think? I wonder what he meant to say.”
Charlie kept his face locked on neutral, but it wasn't easy not to smirk and set her straight.
“I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here,” she said, pressing on into the void. “I know you've been lying low, and I get that, really, I do.”
Involuntarily, his eyebrows raised just an inch. He doubted very much she “got it.”
“Oh good, you're listening. So maybe I don't get it. Maybe I have no idea why you dropped off the jumping circuit immediately after winning the highest honor in your sport. You're not hurt, you're not old enough to retire, you're sure as hell not rich enough to quit. Frankly, I'm not sure exactly how you're paying for that scotch.”
Now he couldn't stop himself. “I'm not. You are. Isn't that the whole point of a sports agency? To wine and dine me until I give in to anything?”
Her eyebrow—just the one nearest him—popped up. “That depends. Will you give in to anything for the price of one scotch?”
“Not for all the scotch in Scotland.”
“Well, then.” She paused for a moment. “Let me see if I can find something else to tempt you with.”
His head whipped her way. He half expected—and wanted—to see her leaning over, displaying some promising cleavage or seductively reaching for his thigh. Would he trade a night with a beautiful woman for a deal with Brad Bradley? Not a chance. But she didn't know that.
But that wasn't what she meant at all. She was fishing around in her handbag, pulling out a document printed on legal paper. Of course. Some stupid contract. And why would he have thought any different? Just look at her, he told himself. Not your average do-anything-for-a-deal agency shark. Not any kind of shark at all. She looked about his age, maybe a bit younger, and well, a little sweet.
But she worked for Brad Bradley. How sweet could she be?
“Bradley got this together for you last week. We've been calling and calling. Emailing. Texting. I even Facebooked you.”
“I don't want to be reached,” Charlie told her.
“Obviously. But this will make you change your mind.” She spread out the contract. It was an endorsement deal. He'd seen—and turned down—more than one since last February.
“The thing about this is, you're kind of a has-been.” she said. “I mean, no offense,”
“Why would I be offended?” he said wryly.
“But honestly, it's been a year. You could have had your choice of deals right after the games. Could have kept the magic going on the circuit this winter. But you didn't. And now, getting anything together for you, it's a huge coup.”
He took a sip of scotch.
“And it's a decent company making the offer,” she went on. “You said no fast food. No sugar beverages for kids. Fine. This is coffee. For grown-ups. And it's a lot of money.” She pointed to something several pages into the contract. It was a number. A big number. “Brad believes in you,” she said. “Brad knows you'll be at the games killing it. This is a company that wants to be the official coffee of you and of your brand, and they want it at the next games. It's a deal with legs, with another payday down the line if you perform.”
“No,” Charlie said, and swished his drink in the glass.
She sighed dramatically. “Will you just look at me instead of gazing into that stupid glass of booze like a time-worn old sailor?”
He cut her just a microsecond of eye contact, then returned his eyes to the booze. “I'm savoring it.”
“Oh yeah? Well, savoring time is over.” She reached over, snatched the rocks glass right out of his loose grip. “The time has come to drink,” she said, “or get off the stool.”
He took it back. Set it down in front of him defiantly. And went back to gazing at it.
“Fine. You won't? Then I will.” And then, as he watched in surprise, she threw his three fingers of 18-year single malt down her throat like a sorority girl at a vodka luge.
He watched her clamp her mouth shut around the warm, potent alcohol. Watched her throat gulp and her eyes bulge a bit. He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing and said, “Well. I've never seen anyone drink a thirty-dollar glass of sc
otch quite like that before.”
She coughed a little and took in a huge breath. Coughed a bit more. “I thought it was, like, a Jamison and ginger ale.”
“Lagavulin 16.”
“Oh. Well. Yes, I taste the difference now. Anyway, it got you looking at me.”
“In horror.”
“Good enough.” She coughed one more time, then cleared her throat. “So. The deal.”
“No.”
“Just listen to me.”
“No.”
“You don't want to miss this opportunity, Charlie.”
“I do.”
“A chance like this may not come around again.”
“Okay, then. Have a nice life.”
“You're being ridiculous. Hear me out, at least.”
“The only thing I want to talk about with you is what you've got under that parka.” There. If he couldn't get her to listen to his answer, maybe being a letch would get rid of her.
But she didn't even look shocked. Her eyes just narrowed even more sharply. “Another parka,” she said dryly. “And don't think you can scare me off with a little harassment.”
“It's not harassment if you're interested.”
“I'm not.”
“Rats,” he said with a shrug, and turned away from her, trying, but failing, to get the attention of the barkeep for another drink. “Then I'm not sure why you're still sitting here.”
She put her hand out over his, brought it back to the bar. “Come on,” she said, leaving her hand on his, as though she wasn't feeling the same zing of heat he was from the touch. “Let me take you some place we can talk. You need to think about your future. What you're going to do to salvage what's left of your Olympic notability. To get more chances to get back on the slopes, do what you love. Your career isn't over. It doesn't have to be, that is. But if you don't—”
“Spare me. I heard all this from your boss six months ago. If it moved me then, I'd be back in Colorado doing celebrity ski lessons now.”
“But I'm just asking you to—”
“And I'm just saying no.”
“Look, if you won't listen to me for your sake, what about for mine? I know I'm nobody to you, but I've got a job to do. At least let me do that job.”
Charlie tried not to laugh in her face. “Let me give you a little piece of advice. You're wasting your life in your souless job. Do yourself a favor and quit. Stay in Sestriere on their dime for a few days, hit the slopes, eat the amazing food, I don't know, maybe find a hot ski bum, and then go home and go do something truly worth devoting your life to.”
The girl quieted down over this. No quick protest, no sassy rebuttal. Had he gone too far?
But then she spoke. “I like my job,” she said in a stern clip that felt as sharp as a slap. “But you're right about one thing. I'm not wasting my entire time in Italy sitting in a dark dingy bar arguing with a has-been who won't even listen to reason.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, though dammit, the words hit home.
“However.” And now she smiled at him as if she hadn't just called him a has-been, “If you do want me to enjoy the slopes, I could really use a guide.”
My, my, my, but the girl was determined, he thought.
“My Italian's not great,” she went on, “and my skiing's worse, so a lesson from a pro would be a huge help. As far as I can tell, you've got nothing better to do. And you sort of like me, besides.”
His eyebrows raised a bit in surprise, and the corners of his lips betrayed him. He did sort of like her, despite himself. She had something. Heart. “Well, maybe I do,” he conceded. But rather than admit any meaningful attraction, he decided to keep it light. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? I'm not going to be the only skier in Sestriere interested in taking you for a few runs.”
“I'll tell you what. If your lesson is good enough, I may even pretend to ignore your inappropriate double entendre.”
“Good luck with that,” he said, and to her credit, she laughed.
“Just say yes.” She blinked at him with her big brown eyes.
He hesitated. Knew he was going to agree, knew he wanted another hour with this girl. Okay, maybe another four hours. “Fine, I'll take you skiing. But only if you promise not to rattle on about whatever deal Brad Bradley sent you here to close.”
She twisted her lips in thought, and then said, “I'll try. But if we pass a coffee shop and I happen to note how much I like coffee—”
“No contract talk. You lay off the contract, I'll lay off the come-ons. I bet we'll actually have a good time.”
“I bet we will,” she said.
About the Author
Avery Laval (a pseudonym for a women’s fiction author you might know) was not allowed to read romance novels growing up. We can all guess what happened as a result—secret rendezvous with Heathcliff, midnight trips to Manderley, and the development of a precocious ability to recognize Fabio in any possible period garment. Now she reads romance, mysteries, fantasy, and everything else she might desire, and she spends hours and hours in her own imaginary world, full of strong, smart, and passionate people who know nothing about love…at first.
Having spent a lifetime with her head in the clouds, Avery surrounds herself with other dreamers and loves big ideas and big plans, even when they seem utterly impossible. Avery loves writing to uncover the beautiful sameness of people in love—how even the hottest billionaire has insecurities, and even the strongest, most successful woman needs compassion.
Avery’s amazing group of strong female friends guides her work, friends who have seen her through the best and worst of times. You’ll see their fingerprints on all of her writing. When not writing, reading, or sharing a laugh with her besties, Avery’s editing, sailing, teaching, and squeezing in as much travel as she can justify. After all, it’s research!
Stay in touch with Avery through her author newsletter bit.ly/averylavalnews and her website www.averylaval.com.