Page 39 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
“You’re doing fine,” Charles said, his voice smooth and reassuring.
Standing beside me at the top of the small hill, he looked effortlessly perfect, of course, in his sleek black ski jacket and expensive goggles perched on his head. He might as well have walked out of a catalog. Meanwhile, I looked like a walking thrift store.
I scowled at him. “Fine? I haven’t even moved yet. When do my legs stop shaking? Is it time for a break now?”
He grinned. “You’re already better than half the people who crash before they even start.”
“Very funny,” I muttered, gripping the poles like they were lifelines. I guess, to a degree, they were.
Charles moved closer, his gloved hand resting lightly on mine. “Relax. You’re overthinking it. Bend your knees, lean forward a little, and let gravity do the work.”
I glanced at him, skeptical. “Let gravity do the work? Sounds like a fast track to a face-plant. Why did I agree to this again?”
“Trust me,” he said, his tone dropping into something softer, more coaxing. “I’ve got you.”
And I found that I believed him. He wouldn’t let me crash if he could help it.
“And you agreed because I said that I’d warm you up afterward.” He waggled his eyebrows.
With a deep breath, I pushed off, my skis sliding forward in a wobbly line. For a few glorious seconds, I was moving—until a kid about eight years old sliced by me, causing me to lose my balance and topple sideways into the snow. Charles was there in an instant, laughing as he helped me up.
“Okay, see? You’ve had your first fall. The scary part is out of the way. Now you’re ready to go again.”
“Again?”
“Come on,” he said, dusting the snow off my shoulders. “Four-year-olds can do this. You’re at least as brave as a four-year-old, right?”
I glared at him. “You think getting me angry will work?”
“Yes,” he said, grinning. “Absolutely.”
Maybe he was right.
I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up inside me. “This is mortifying.”
“Nah,” he said, picking up one of my discarded poles. “You’re adorable.”
My cheeks burned, and not from the cold.
So, once we had my skis pointed the right direction again, I gave it another try. I leaned forward and pushed off gently.
“Remember,” he called from behind me. Probably because it was safer back there. “Pizza to slow down. French fry to go faster.”
It felt infantile, but it worked. As I very slowly sailed down the small slope, I kept my toes mostly pointed inward, getting used to the feeling of a controlled descent.
“There,” he said. “You’re doing it. Piece of cake, right?”
“Don’t throw any more foods at me!” I shouted back. “I’m concentrating!”
With my eyes firmly trained on the end of my skis and my full attention dedicated to keeping my balance, I felt like I was starting to get the hang of it. Until I saw the cluster of people at the bottom of the hill getting ever closer, and the bright orange plastic fencing that marked the dead end. Panic set in.
“Hey!” I shouted at Charles. “Hey! How do I stop these things?”
“Pizza!” he shouted back.
“I am pizza. I’m doing pizza!”
I pointed my toes inward but I kept sliding. Just as I was about to take the emergency escape route and simply fall over, Charles grabbed me from behind and brought us to an abrupt halt. Not a moment too soon, as a corral of unsuspecting children almost became my crash barrels.
