3. The First Lesson

3

The First Lesson

Ivy

If the guy wasn’t so rude, I’d probably be all flustered around him. He’s exactly my type—strong muscles, sharp jaw, and deep gray eyes. His hair is a little long and bushy, but the light-brown color takes some of the edge off. Really, he’s Dan’s polar opposite. But it was never Dan’s looks that attracted me the most. He won me over with his nice-guy routine, saying all the right things. But grumpy mountain man? Definitely the kind of male specimen everyone is attracted to. Until you land on that resting scowl. But I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s always something wrong with men. Sometimes it’s a sour temperament, and sometimes it’s their inability to process their feelings. Or be a decent human being.

“You coming?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

I swallow hard. “As fast as I can with these things on.” I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to these boots. They’re clunky, heavy, and uncomfortable as hell. And they’re an ugly shade of yellow, but that’s beside the point.

He turns back around, and I follow him to the ski lift at the base of the mountain. He’s carrying my skis on one shoulder and his own on the other, and he’s managing to walk with his ski boots without looking like a disjointed puppet. He doesn’t have a coat on, but he probably doesn’t need it. His skin must be thick enough, and he has all that hair to keep him warm.

After what feels like an eternity, we finally reach the bottom of the lift, and I’m already sweating like a pig.

He drops the skis on the packed snow and glances at me. “Clip them on. Front first, then back.”

“Um, okay.” As soon as my boot touches the ski, it slides forward, and I almost do the splits, catching myself just in time.

With a long sigh, he slides it back into place, then braces his hands on the ski as I try again. I push my boot into the bindings as hard as I can, but it won’t clip on. I let out a frustrated huff. “I can’t.”

“Hold on to me,” he says, and I place my hands on his strong shoulders, resisting the urge to squeeze them. He wraps his hand around my knee, and even with the multiple layers I’m wearing, he can almost circle it with his large hand. He firmly presses my leg down, and with a loud clack, my boot hooks to the ski. Then, he walks around to my other side, and we repeat the process for the other leg.

“Thank you,” I say. I try to stand without falling down, but it’s super slippery, even though we’re on flat ground. This is starting to look a lot more complicated than I thought.

He clips his own skis on in a nanosecond. “Have you ever taken a ski lift before?”

I arch an eyebrow.

“Never mind,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Follow me.”

Grunting, I try to move, but I only manage to slide a few inches. “Um, I can’t.” When I glance up, I realize he’s already far ahead.

I wave my arms over my head and yell, “Hey, wait! I’m stuck.”

Turning around, he shakes his head and glides back toward me .

My neck warms until I’m probably red as a tomato. “I can’t get moving.”

His shoulders drop. “You have to use your body,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Just push from your thighs, and help yourself with your arms. Skiing is about balance.”

“Okay.” I glance up at him. “By the way, what’s your name?”

Frowning, he snaps his head toward me. “Why?”

What a weird way to answer a pretty basic question. “Well, so I know your name in case I need to call out to you.”

He averts his eyes, then brings them back to me. “Zane. But you won’t. Need to call me, that is.”

“Well, this isn’t working, Zane,” I say, trying not to get frustrated with myself.

“It’s not that difficult. Form a V shape with your skis, the tips further apart, and then push outward with your legs and use your body to help you move.”

I nod and try to do as he says. I feel more like a penguin than a human right now, but it does kickstart some movement. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to actually make me go somewhere.

With a groan, he slides in behind me, and I’m suddenly wrapped in his fresh mountain scent. Like pine and nature, all bottled up in the perfect aroma. He places some pressure on the middle of my back. “Now, use your legs and arms to get going.”

I try to ignore the fact that a man currently has his hands pressed on my back. A man who’s not my ex-fiancé. A man with large hands that seem to burn through my thick coat. He probably doesn’t need a heat pack to stay warm out here. That’s handy—no pun intended.

I jiggle my body, and it finally works. I’m moving. Slowly, but it’s progress. Zane quickly appears at my side, then overtakes me, and I follow him to the ski lift. That was the hardest task of my life. My ski lesson literally just started, and I’m already sweating like crazy.

“Woo-hoo,” I say, pumping my fist in the air when I get to the base of the lift. Hey, a positive attitude goes a long way. “I did it.”

Zane arches an eyebrow. “You haven’t even done anything yet,” he says, totally killing my vibe.

“Hey, Shane,” he greets the ski lift operator. I’m guessing he’s twenty-something, though it’s hard to tell with the beanie and sunglasses he’s wearing. His smile, however, is as bright as the snow that blankets the slopes.

“Zane.” His eyes travel from Zane to me, and I give him a small wave. “Oh, you’re filling in for Darwin today? ”

“This week,” he says, his low voice reverberating. “Tore his MCL.”

Shane winces. “Oh. That’s tough.”

“Tell me about it,” Zane says, shaking his head. Though I’m pretty sure Shane was talking about the guy tearing his knee ligament, not the fact that Zane’s stepping in for him.

“Ready?” Zane asks, turning to me.

I gaze up at the lift. “Um, nope.” Then, I swing to face him. “Wait, are you even a real instructor?” I ask, a hand on my hip. That would explain a lot.

He sighs, not bothering to hide his exasperation. Behind him, Shane lets out a small laugh as Zane retracts toward me. “I’m filling in for my brother. It’s his company, but I do have a ski instructor certification. Just haven’t used it in a while.”

“Clearly,” I say. I expect a rude response, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, he glances at the lift, then at me. “It’ll be fine. It’s just the bunny hill. You know, the training slope.”

I follow his gaze to the top of the small hill. He’s right. It’s not high at all, and the incline is gradual. While it’s a little disappointing that I won’t be zipping down this breathtaking slope surrounded by gorgeous mountain terrain, it’s probably for the best. This is definitely scary enough for me .

“What kind of lift is this? I’ve only seen the ones where you sit on a bench.” And this one looks a lot more intimidating. A pole attached on a conveyor belt arrives at lightspeed. Skiers grab it, stick it between their legs, and up they go.

“It’s a drag lift. We use these for smaller slopes. You’ll be fine. Kids are doing it, see? It’s easy.” He points to a group of kids taking the lift. “You got this?” he asks. “I’ll ask the operator to slow it down for you.”

“Probably a good idea,” I say with a small smile, and he almost responds with one of his own. Who knew he had it in him?

Shane slows down the lift, and the pole comes to a complete stop so I can secure it before he starts it up again. “Don’t worry, you’re going to do fine,” he says as the perch yanks me up the hill. “Just hold on and don’t sit down.”

It looks easy enough, but what they don’t tell you is that the ground is bumpy. Sure, it’s covered in packed snow, so your skis glide , but you’re pulled through a lot of rough areas that you need to be prepared for. Except I’m not, and I fall on my side about halfway up. I hold onto the perch at arm’s length, letting out a squeal as it drags me up the hill.

“Drop the perch,” Zane’s loud voice thunders behind me, and he doesn’t have to tell me twice .

“Move out of the way,” he bellows, but the bulky thickness of the equipment I’m wearing, not to mention the long planks attached to my feet, make it impossible for me to move like a normal person. I stay flailing where I fell.

“Watch out,” he screams, but there’s no avoiding it. To keep from colliding with me, he drops his own perch, and it knocks me right in the head.