Page 21 of Stuck on the Slopes

“How much shit did you order?”

“Notthatmuch, thank you very much. You gotta keep in mind my apartment in Orlando was so tiny, it was pathetic. They reimbursed up to $300 worth of home office supplies for managers, which included me by a technicality. I treated myself to a really nice standing desk and office chair. But trying to find the perfect place for them to fit? Oof.”

Before I could laugh, the comment about her apartment dawned on me. “Is the suite an okay size?”

“If you’re thinking of mocking me for needing space as a single woman, then save your breath. I don’t need much, and the suites are bigger than my old apartment. I appreciate you letting me live here for now.”

“I wasn’t going to mock you for that.” She rose an eyebrow as if to say what I was thinking: I needed to work on my tone. I quickly added, “Though I can’t blame you for thinking that.”

“Well, hey,” she said as she slid some skis out of a box and propped them against the wall in their respective spots. “At least you’re self-aware.”

I ripped into one of the cardboard boxes, ready to retort right back to her, but froze when I was met with the snowboarding boots I’d planned to offer for rent. The bulky white shoes seemed to stare back at me, reaching into the depths of my soul. I saw the promise of new opportunities for people who would use these shoes, but it also reminded me of everything that led to this moment.

I didn’t miss my old career. I didn’t miss the lack of privacy, not having any hobbies, the press in my face whenever they could, or the pressures the sport put on my body even well before the accident. But that didn’t mean the accident and everything that followed didn’t leave behind invisible scars.

As she noticed my silence, Rachel looked at me. “You look deep in thought.” She didn’t move from her spot but continued unboxing the cash register.

“Just thinking. This is the first time I’ve been face-to-face with some of this stuff in a long time, not counting those parkas and gloves I gave you. I hid a lot of it away or sold a lot with a burner account on eBay and a fake name.” I was well aware I could have made a killing by giving it to some auction house, but money was the last thing on my mind.

“Are you feeling okay?”

My gut reaction was to be snarky, something like, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” That’s how I would have responded to anybody else.

But Rachel was here to do a job, not because she was out to get me. The logical part of my brain knew that Allison was right. So instead of my go-to bitter bullshit, I answered her earnestly. “To my own surprise, yes.”

“Good. That’s good.” Rachel leaned against the counter after she put the new cash register on it. “I know it’s taken me a hot minute to get used to not having to do some corporate tango, so this might sound strange coming from me. But if you everaren’tfeeling okay, I’m more than happy to lend an ear.”

And there she was: Rachel Friedman, with no fake pitch in her voice and a relaxed stance. Between our movie night and today, I felt like I finally got a glimpse at who she really was.

About fucking time.

Wanting to extend the same courtesy to her despite my tower-high walls, I said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As the sky fully darkened, I closed out the open apps on my phone without paying much attention before setting it and my smartwatch down on their respective chargers. I was so tired from the long workday that my vision was fuzzy, but no matter how much I tried to fall asleep, my brain refused to turn off.

Instead, every time I closed my eyes, I saw Rachel and her funky earrings.

Now that she realized she didn’t have to adhere to bullshit corporate politics anymore, I felt like I was finally learning who the real Rachel was—and just as I had, I could have lost her to her past. I didn’t dare think how differently that conversation could have gone, especially if I had rejected her movie night like I initially planned.

But then, my brain betrayed me, straying to other thoughts like what else could have happened during our movie night.

I was a grown-ass man. At thirty years old, I was beyond making out and feeling girls up in the back row of a theater. I hadn’t heard anyone use the phrase “Netflix and chill” since my early 20s, but that didn’t stop me from envisioning the soft fleece of Rachel’s red and yellow blanket against my bare skin and her fingers trailing down my abdomen.

This was new.

To no one but myself, I said, “Can I not think about her for two whole fucking seconds?”

But I knew that if I rode this wave and got along with it, I’d actually be able to get some sleep. As I slipped my hand beneath my boxer’s waistband, I couldn’t help but think at how wrong jacking it to the thought of one of my employees was. But that only made my cock twitch in my hand, turning me on even more.

Fucking hell, what is wrong with me?

My mind wandered to her hair: what those curls of hers would look like cascading down her bare shoulders and breasts, what they may look like beneath her sweaters and flannels that were always a tad tighter on her chest than the rest of her torso. I wondered how the brown strands would feel tangled in my fingers and what noises she’d make if I gave them a gentle tug.

As I stroked myself, I avoided thinking about how messed up this was and how I shouldn’t be doing this, since that only seemed to make me harder. It didn’t have to mean anything.

The sudden thought of her sitting on my face and using my mouth to get herself off popped into my mind. I could feel my body tense, my release so close and desperately needed—needed so I could finally stop thinking about Rachel like this. My thighs trembled as my head fell back, hitting my pillow beneath me, and—

Rachel’s voice came through my phone.

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