Page 38 of On the Edge

I check my phone incessantly over the next few minutes, waiting for her response. When it doesn’t come, I head out of my bedroom and down the stairs with one of the remaining stick-on warming pads from the stash she gave me two days ago. I can’t position it myself on my back, so I’m hoping someone is still up and can help me with it.

The two-story living room is empty. Everyone headed to their rooms earlier than normal tonight, since we’re leaving for Finland tomorrow. Packing takes forever; alpine skiers travel with an unbelievable amount of crap. Even though we’re only going for one race with two events this time, I’ve got six bags including all my ski equipment. When we head back to Europe after Thanksgiving, I will have far more to bring with me for the month we’re on the road. After Christmas, it’ll be a three month stint in Europe.

The lights are on in the kitchen, and as I round the corner into the large space, I’m caught off guard by the sight in front of me. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweater, standing on top of a barstool with her head in the cabinet above the refrigerator. Even though I can’t see any identifying features, I know it’s Jackson. I can tell it in the curve of her hip and the small grunts of frustration I’m hearing. I walk quietly across the kitchen, afraid that if I say something and scare her she’ll either hit her head on the cabinet or fall off the barstool. That protective instinct I’ve always had when it comes to her kicks in, and I want to fix whatever is ailing her right now. But she hates other people trying to take over and solve her problems for her—aside from the ongoing argument about getting married, the only other thing we ever fought about when we were together was when I tried to fix thingsforher instead ofwithher.

She pops her head out of the cabinet, curse words falling from her lips as she does.

“What’s wrong?” I ask quietly as I approach her side.

She gasps and loses her balance at the same time, pitching forward. I reach up, putting my hands on her hips to steady her, but in her attempt to push my hand away she fully starts falling toward me. I wrap an arm around her thighs as her upper body falls over my shoulder and hold her tight to my chest to break her fall. Using my core strength to break her fall doesn’t do anything good for my lower back.

“Put me down,” she grunts. My shoulder is digging into her stomach so she rights herself, bringing her upper body in line with her legs.

I loosen my grip so she starts to slide down my body toward the ground. “Is that how you say ‘thank you’ in your world?”

“Yeah, thanks for scaring the shit out of me so I fell off that stool,” she says, her voice laden with sarcasm.

I tighten my grip before her feet hit the ground. Her head is still a few inches above mine, so I look up at her. “That didn’t sound even remotely sincere.” I can tell by the look in her eyes—all fire and anger—that she’s not in the mood to be teased. It only spurs me on.

“Because it wasn’t. Put me down,” she repeats, her voice quiet like she doesn’t want anyone else in the house to hear. She puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes back, but my arm holds her securely.

“I’ll put you down if you tell me what you’re so pissed off about.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, and I have to hold my smile in because she’s adorable in her righteous indignation.

I loosen my hold on her and she slides down my body. I have to block the vision of this exact scenario with us naked that comes flashing through my mind, because I can’t afford to let my lust distract me for even a second. We are having this conversation, and we’re having it now.

Her feet land softly on the ground and I look down at the top of her head. My arm is still loosely around her back, and she hasn’t attempted to step away from me. But she hasn’t looked up at me either.

“So?”

“I stashed some salted caramels up here and they’re gone.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking about.”

She looks up at me then, her arched brows dipping in confusion.

“What’s had you so pissed off since you left my hotel suite that morning? It’s been two weeks of the silent treatment from you.”

“First of all, I talk to you every single day. I’m not giving you the silent treatment.”

I try not to let it annoy me that she’s refusing to admit what we both know is true. “During training, you only talk to me if you absolutely have to. Outside of the gym and off the mountain, you go out of your way to avoid me. The other night at dinner, I asked you a question and you turned away to talk to Jeff, pretending you didn’t hear me.”

“What part of this don’t you get, Nate?” she says, the frustration simmering to the surface. “You and I are never going to be friends. I’m your physical therapist. That’s it. When we’re not working, I have no obligation to talk to you.” Her words sting, like she intended them to, but things still don’t add up.

“So you left my hotel room pissed off because you have to work with me? That doesn’t make sense. We’d had a really good training session together. We’d had dinner, and I’d apologized about my mom. Things were improving between us, and then suddenly they weren’t.”

Her cheeks flush and I know I’m onto something. But she doesn’t reply.

“What happened that made things worse?”

She looks down at the floor. I wait patiently while she decides what she wants to say.

“I got some bad news, that’s all.”

I reach out and tilt her chin up so she’s looking at me. “What happened?” Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, but she doesn’t respond. And then suddenly,I know. “Your mom?”

She blinks and the tears run down her cheeks. Without even stopping to think about it, I wrap both arms around her and pull her to me. “I’m so sorry, Jackson,” I murmur against the top of her head.

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