Page 28 of Reckless Hearts
“Fuck. The poor guys of America. They won’t know what’s hit them with the two of you on the prowl,” John says.
Saskia laughs. “Yup. That’s the plan.”
I huff a laugh but can’t help throwing a glance back at Seb.
He now has his book on his lap and is looking out the window at the mountains of Queenstown coming into view through the foggy windows. He reaches out, his fingers tracing a pattern through the condensation on the glass.
Queenstown bills itself as the adventure capital of the world, with bungee jumping, jet-boating, parasailing, and skydiving among the thrills it offers. But today, we head straight to the Remarkable ski field. The wind whipping off the mountain carries the promise of fresh powder.
“You’re going to do the Casterway with us this time, Marcus. No excuses,” Saskia says as we’re putting on our ski boots.
Fuck.
Unlike these South Islanders, I grew up in Wellington with no ski fields nearby. The last time I came on a ski trip with Saskia, I was a novice skier, and I’d stuck to the beginner slopes, where there was the magic carpet and one low chairlift.
But now she wants to take me to the top of the mountain.
I lean down to adjust my ski boot so I can hide my face.
When I straighten, I flash Saskia my trademark cocky grin. “I eat black diamonds for breakfast.”
Saskia laughs. “I think it’s more likely you choke on cheap quartz crystals.”
I turn to see Seb clicking into his bindings. He glides off, then effortlessly turns around to face us as he waits.
I don’t know why I expected Seb to be a bad skier. He had the same childhood as Saskia. But somehow, his confidence in the snow doesn’t match the bumbling guy off skis.
Standing feels like I’m balancing on two very uncooperative planks. I edge forward and my skis have a mind of their own as I awkwardly pizza my way toward the chairlift and join the queue.
The line inches forward, and Neets, John, and Saskia laugh and chatter. Instead of joining in, I focus on keeping my balance.
The attendant waves us forward.
Saskia, Neets, and John glide out to get into position for the chairlift. I try to join them, but my skis cross, and I stumble, barely catching myself before I fall.
I suddenly realize Seb hasn’t joined the others but has hung back to wait for me.
“Last one down buys the first round tonight!” Neets calls as their chairlift becomes airborne.
Fuck. It’s just Seb and me to catch the next chairlift. Being alone with Seb is the scenario I’m trying to avoid this weekend, and I’ve already failed.
“You ready?” Seb asks as the attendant waves us forward.
“I’m always ready.” I manage to awkwardly maneuver into position, and then the chairlift scoops us up, the attendant lowering the bar to hold us in place, Seb’s shoulder nudging mine.
But as the chairlift takes off with a lurch, I’m not worried about Seb’s body pressed against mine. I’m too busy concentrating on not looking down. I clutch the chairlift bar like my hands are frozen solid on it.
Shit.
Panic tightens my chest and I try to focus on my breathing, but it comes in short, sharp gasps. The wind whistles past us, and every creak of the chairlift sends a jolt through my body. My eyes are locked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the vast emptiness below us.
“Marcus.” From the worried tone in Seb’s voice, it’s not the first time he’s said my name.
My gaze flies to his.
He’s pushed his goggles up so they’re positioned on the top of his helmet, and he’s looking at me with concern etched into his forehead.
“Are you okay?”
