Page 4 of Ice To Meet You

He gave a wry laugh. “One fully booked trip at the end ofthe season isn’t enough to plug the hole. I know we’ll make the money back next season, but the delays have caused a cash flow issue.”

A bitter taste crept into the back of my throat. After financially propping up the project for months, I had cash flow problems of my own.

Technically, I was a wealthy man. My parents died in an accident when I was a toddler, and my grandparents became indulgent caretakers of their “wild” grandson. Unfortunately, our family lawyer still had full visibility of the trust fund they’d settled for me. Though I never wanted for anything, I dare not risk my grandparents knowing about my business activities. They wouldn’t understand.

“Why don’t you ask Gio to help? He could give you a loan.”

“No.” My voice came out harsher than I expected. I unleashed a breath. My first foray into business was something I wanted to do alone. The thought of my grandfather even knowing about my plans curdled my blood. He’d laugh. Dismiss it as another one of my hare-brained schemes.

He only cared about plans that involved me taking over the family’s art business. I liked art, but there was so much more to life. My grandfather still saw me as his responsibility. If he found out about the lodge, he’d try to get involved, or worse, stop me.

I just needed one year. One year to prove my idea would work.

“No. I’ll take care of it. I’ll get to Rome as soon as possible and put the funds together while I fly.” It would mean missing my grandparents, but I’d come up with an excuse.

I shuffled forward on my skis, the chatter at the front of the queue growing louder. Glancing up to see what was happening, my eyes landed on... pink. Pink and glitter and fur. Only the person dressed like a fancy flamingo had a thunderous look on their face, like they were ready to murder someone.

“Antonio, I have to go. I’ll call you when I land. Ciao.”

Hanging up, I stuffed my phone into my jacket pocket and moved forward, cutting through the queue. After a few tuts and grumbles from the school kids, the group parted to reveal the source of the pink overload.

A woman struggled toward the chairlift. She dragged one ski behind her like a wounded animal—like someone had nailed it to the ground, and she needed to get away fast.

I drew my brows together. The poor thing was obviously having trouble with her equipment. With her shiny, tight ski-pants, she was channelling seventies disco hard. Maybe that was her era. She could very well be one of my grandmother’s friends. Regardless, if she wanted to make it onto the chairlift in one piece, she needed help.

I pushed through the crowd, my skis gliding over the packed snow. The moment I made it to the front, the chairlift’s wheel gave an unearthly squeal, and the woman turned in my direction. My breath caught in my throat.

She wasn’t my grandmother’s age at all. She had a thick chestnut braid. Her nose turned up a little at the end, and the glow in her cheeks nearly matched her ridiculous earmuffs.

She was beautiful.

The woman stopped in line, waiting for the next chairlift. Her ski, still unattached to her boot, slipped awkwardly to one side, and I winced.

Her high-pitched whimper cut through the chatter as she lurched forward, bracing against her ski poles. At their sharp angle, they were seconds from slipping out beneath her. If I didn’t get her upright—fast—the lift wouldn’t scoop her up. It’d smack her backside and launch her tumbling into the snowbank.

Her eyes widened, like she’d just come to the same realisation as me. When she shut them tight, as if accepting the inevitable, something tugged in my chest.

I dug one ski into the snow and took off towards her, sending the school kids scattering in all directions. There was no time to hesitate. I had one goal—one thing on my mind. To get this beautiful woman out of the queue, onto the chairlift, and fully in my debt.

3

ESMÉ

The second my loose ski lurched away; I was doomed. I jammed my weight onto my poles, begging them not to betray me, too. Landing face-first in front of a horde of pre-teens with smartphones wasn’t on my weekend bucket list.

I leaned forward to outwit gravity, but my skis slipped beneath me. As I began a slow descent toward the ground, my stomach plummeted. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying to the ski gods for a miracle.

But just as the crush of face-planting into ice seemed inevitable, something steadied me. The scent of pine—crisp and unexpected—cut through the air.

I peeled an eye open. Two large, gloved hands—strong and firm—gripped my waist, guiding me backwards. Within a second, a solid surface met my bottom, and the wind left my lungs as the chairlift scooped me and my rescuer into the air.

I blinked, pulling in a shaky breath, before turning to meet deep brown eyes beneath the brim of a ski helmet. The man didn’t say a word, simply nodded to the space above my head.

I followed his gaze. I saw the pulley mechanism for thechairlift. Was he a safety inspector? The chairlift looked rusty, but surely it wouldn’t come apart during our ride.

"I glanced back at him. He half-smiled and murmured, 'Per favore,' before taking the ski poles from my hands. I’d been holding them against my head like antennae.

With one swift motion, he laid them across his lap, along with his own, and pulled the safety bar down, securing us in place.

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