Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
The wind is biting at the top of the slopes. And my heart is hammering so loud I'm pretty sure everyone can hear it. But as soon as he climbs from the second van, straightening to his full height, I plaster a bright smile on my face and pretend I'm not scared as hell.
Let's be clear: I am.
Let's also be clear: hell will freeze over before I let Harlan "You're a Breakable Little Ballerina" Ward know that. I'll die first.
People have underestimated me since I started dancing. I really hate that Harlan's doing it, too. I'm not an athlete to him. And, apparently, I'm not smart enough to keep myself safe, either.
Maybe skiing is risky, but it's no more of a risk to me than it is to any of the other dozen professional athletes standing out here with me…including him. Breaking something on this mountain could end their careers, too. But he isn't trying to stop them, now, is he?
No.
He stomps toward me, his boots crunching in the snow, and reaches for my skis without a word. Before I can even react, he's squatting beside me to fit the bindings to my boots.
When I try to protest, he flicks his gaze up, pinning me with it.
My mouth snaps shut.
He grunts when my toes crunch down, and my balance wobbles, but he still isn't satisfied. He checks the skis carefully, making sure the bindings are fitted perfectly to my boots.
"Harlan," I manage, "I'm good."
He rises to his feet without a word. His hands run down my arms, over the straps of my helmet, and then he tests to see if I'm zipped, velcroed, and harnessed in all the right places.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, my heart thudding against my ribcage.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he finishes his inspection, then meets my gaze. His eyes are so serious that I forget to breathe. "If you die on this mountain, I'll spank your gorgeous ass."
"If I die on this mountain, I'm haunting you," I grumble, scowling at him. "And I'm going to be an annoying ghost."
"Yeah?" A grin flickers at his lips before he hoists me onto the chairlift. "Haunt away, baby."
He sits beside me, pressed so close I feel his heat even through our combined layers. I try to ignore him, taking in the scenery, but just like last night, he's impossible to ignore. Not even the miles of snow stretching out around us compete with him beside me.
I should hate that a lot more than I do.
"Have you always been this stubborn?" he asks.
"I'm a ballerina, so yes," I snap. It's the truth. You don't get this far if you're the type who gives up easily or shrinks under pressure. Making it takes the tenacity of a terrier and the skin of a dragon.
His fingers wrap around a wayward strand of my hair, tugging gently. "You're beautiful when you're angry."
I swat him away. "And you're annoying when you're touching me."
"You didn't unblock me," he murmurs.
"Nope. I've been told my whole life that I'm good for a fat girl, that I'm not a real athlete, that I'm just a silly ballerina, that dance isn't a sport, that I was a pity hire or an experiment," I say, swatting his hand away again. Geez. He doesn't give up, does he? "I learned a long time ago not to give my energy to the people who say those things. I block them to protect my peace."
That gets his attention. He freezes with his hand in midair, his denim eyes narrowing on my face. "I'm not them, Sophie."
"Could have fooled me," I say, and then laugh, even though this whole situation is deeply unfunny. "You know what? You actually did fool me. I thought you were different. I was actually fa…" My voice cracks on the truth, and I quickly trail off, refusing to finish that sentence. "But it doesn't even matter anymore. I'm winning this race, and then I never have to see you again after the wedding."
"You were what?" he says, his voice intense. So is his gaze as it bores into me, like he can pluck the truth from my mind if only he stares hard enough.
"Nothing," I mumble as the lift shudders to a stop. I throw myself off it, just to avoid any possibility of telling him that I was falling for him before I read that stupid article. It's true, though. I was falling for him, so fucking hard.
That's why finding out what he really thinks hurt so much. It's been a long time since anyone said anything that got to me. What he said got to me because he's the one who said it. Yet again, I wasn't good enough. I'm used to that. But it's a different kind of ache when the person who caused it is the one you've let into your heart.