“HERE’S WHAT I KNOW so far,” Harley says. “We all work these fifty or sixty hours a week….”
“With just one day off,” Melissa says.
“Which can’t come too soon, as far as I’m concerned.” She changes out of her black pants and into jeans. “Can I say how good it feels to leave my grungy clothes behind?”
“You’re only going into town for an hour,” Harley says. “Why bother?”
“Because at least then I feel like I have an hour off.” Melissa shrugs and checks out her reflection. “So much for glamour,” she says, tucking a sprig of curl behind her ear.
“Glamour’s not everything it seems,” Harley says.
Melissa laughs. “Oh, yeah, this coming from Miss Outdoor World herself.”
Harley smiles. “Really? You think I’m, like, rugged or …”
“You’re a camping advertisement. You belong naked, in the woods, with lascivious hikers watching you or something.” Melissa studies Harley’s thick hair; the rough chop of it falls to her shoulders. “Did you cut your hair yourself?”
Harley swallows, picking up Melissa’s lip gloss as though she’s considering sliding it on, but then puts it back down. “Yeah. On the way here.” She touches her hair. “It was long.” She looks at her reflection. “But now it’s not—anyway.”
“Anyway, yeah—our hours are long, the work is hard….”
“Well, your work is,” Harley says. “I thought for sure it’d be more intense, but the guests seem pretty mellow so far. Maybe I just lucked out for this first batch, huh?”
Melissa shrugs. She pulls on a tight-fitting light blue shirt, and a navy blue vest. My hands still smell like onions, she thinks. They probably will all day. “Could be.”
“Yeah,” Harley says. “Maybe European royalty is the most laid-back kind of guest.”
“Or maybe we just want to get laid.” Diggs and Luke stand at the doorway, poking their heads in and laughing.
“Hey!” Melissa grabs her scarf close to her as if the boys have caught her naked. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Hey!” Diggs imitates her. “We’re paying to be here, so we can be just about anywhere we like.”
Harley sighs. Maybe it was too good to be true, having quiet, easy guests who take care of themselves. At least I got to see James practice. He and Gabe had both waved to her, seen her, registered that she was there, but hadn’t been able to break away to talk. Harley had stuck around drinking coffee, chatting to other early morning onlookers, and felt her breathing rate increase when James waved from the top of the run. The thought that James, who had lived in photo form in her locker for two years, whose face and ski slope statistics she had committed to memory, knew she existed was so amazing, so surreal, she didn’t even notice that Celia Sinclair was next to her. They’d both stood watching until Celia posed for a couple of paparazzi shots, and then nudged her way in front of Harley, smiling in a way that wasn’t true to the action. Harley tried to catch another glimpse of James and Gabe but they were halfway through their runs, so she’d drained the last of her coffee and come back for breakfast.
“So, what is it you two boys are looking for?” Harley turns to Diggs and Luke.
“You’ll do,” Luke says, all lanky limbs.
“Not likely.” Harley squints at them with fake anger. So much for privacy in the rooms. There were already rumors circulating around Les Trois about late-night sessions between staff and guests—which were highly frowned upon by the higher-ups.
Diggs lets a goofy grin appear on his face. “If I were older? Come on, you know you’d have a thing for me.”
Harley nods. “Okay, okay, boys. Yes, Diggs, if you were older, perhaps you’d be the object of my affections….”
“So you’re saying there is someone already in that capacity?” Luke intervenes, using his hand like a microphone, pretending to interview Harley.
Melissa watches, amused. “Yeah, Harley, is there some ace skier you’ve got your eye on?”
Harley looks down, blushing, then grabs Luke’s hand and speaks into it. “Why yes, folks, there is someone. The old ace up my sleeve …”
“Or in your pants,” Diggs adds, funny with his ultraserious voice. “Okay. Now—just who is this lucky guy?”
Harley pushes Luke’s hand away and shakes her head. “No comment.”
“Well, for god’s sake, women, help us find some resort-bored hotties for ourselves then,” Luke pleads.
“Really, Harley, that’s what a good host does, right?” Diggs says. Then he turns to Melissa. “What about you? Are you looking for love with a younger man?” Diggs’ comedy routine continues with an outstretched hand to Melissa.
“Don’t mess with me.” Melissa smiles back. “Haven’t you ever heard that? Don’t bother the person who cooks for you….”
“Dude, she could poison us or something,” Luke says, all drama as he pretends to choke. “But actually, can I make a request? Could you do a chocolate dessert tonight? I’m kind of addicted.”
“Chocolate. Sure.” Of course she had been planning to poach pears, to impress Matron who told her that poached fruit was an elegant ending to a meal, but chocolate is more fun. “I’ll come up with something.” Melissa wraps her gray fleece scarf around her neck, remembering when she’d bought it. Last year, at this time, I was only just falling for him. Him. For the first time in ages she conjures up his face and name—but doesn’t say it out loud; it’s too much to contend with. She sighs, smells her oniony hands again, and breezes past Harley, leaving her to deal with Diggs and Luke. “I’m off for my one hour of peace. During which time I have to come up with not one but two sweet recipes—one for you”—she points to Luke—“and one for the chalet. Those signature treats.”
“How about a tart?” Diggs suggests with a grin. “Not as the signature treat, but for me, I mean.” Melissa gives a sarcastic smile back. Diggs hands her a plastic doorknob sign. “Hang this around your neck. Do not disturb.”
“Ha hah. Very funny. I’m sure you have legions of women just waiting for your mastery of the well-timed prop.” She hands the sign back to him and he promptly tries to hang it from his belt loops.
“Don’t be late for decorating,” Harley reminds her. “Not that I’m one to talk about being late….”
“Right,” Melissa says, imagining herself alone under a sprig. With a shudder, she remembers seeing Gabe Schroeder last night—from a distance, but still—just hearing his name makes her queasy. “Mistletoe. I can’t wait.”
At the small café, Melissa sits at a round table, looking out the window. The café faces the bottom of one of the mountains where many ski runs pool into a large flat area where people can leave their gear on racks outside before going to the Hot House for coffee and hot chocolate or sit at the outdoor tables or just head back over to the lifts for another run.
Melissa fiddles with her pen and notebook, doodling swirls and angled shapes, trying to think of clever names for treats. A signature treat. But what kind? And a party, too. What should I plan? Past ideas included pita parties, where guests got to stuff their own fillings into wedges of pita bread—boring and messy. There’s always make-your-own-sundae, but that feels clichéd. Melissa doodles on her paper and stares out at the Hot House.
A cluster of people are gathered by the small Hot House building—snapping photos of Celia Sinclair and some other big-name guests. She can see Harley with two guys, all three of them skiing over to the lift line. She checks her watch—only forty minutes until decoration time. When she sees JMB walk by, Melissa sets down her notebook and goes to the door, quickly debating whether to call him over—to wave—or to do nothing. Without stepping outside, she holds open the door to the café, letting in a gush of cold air. “Hey! J—” She gets out only the first initial when he turns around.
“Mesilla!” He immediately comes over. “Want to come for a run?”
Melissa takes in JMB’s ruddy cheeks, his layers of clothing—long-sleeved green T-shirt, short-sleeved one on top, fleece vest—the essence of laid-back warmth. “I thought you had to practice,” she says, remembering their conversation. Was it only this morning she’d woken up next to him? She wants to kick herself now for not taking advantage of that situation. Not that she’d necessarily have done anything differently, but looking back, it seems to her as though she’s missed an opportunity. “I’d love to.” Melissa looks at the double chairlift and wishes she were on it—with him. “But I can’t—duty calls. Or, it will in about a half hour.”
“Oh, more gourmet meals?” He steps inside, following Melissa back to her table.
As soon as she sits down, Melissa breathes a sigh of relief that—owing to last season’s debacle—she hasn’t written anything incriminating in her notebook, which is splayed open on the tabletop. “We have to help decorate—you know, get the festive feelings started with all the tinsel, red, and green anyone can tolerate.”
“Sounds kind of fun, actually,” he says.
Maybe he wants to go with me, Melissa thinks. She sips her coffee to buy time and muster the confidence to ask him. If I put it out there, it’s not breaking the pact with myself not to chase anyone—it’s just being friendly. Then she looks at him again. There’s no way he’d be into me, anyway. We’re destined to just be friends. “You can come if you want,” Melissa says, chucking the proverbial ball in his court.
“What kind of invite is that?” JMB breaks off a piece of the cookie Melissa has in front of her and samples it. “I hope your baked goods are better than these.”
“It’s just a friendly invite—you know, feel free to stop by,” she explains. “And yes, my cookies will be better.” She pauses, then opens her notebook to show JMB her doodles. “Maybe. These swirls are all I have for ideas so far.”
“That’s right—today’s treat day.” JMB licks his lips. “Last year, I was here and I went from chalet to chalet collecting every single signature treat on offer.”
“Isn’t that a bit much?” Melissa asks, thinking how fun that sounds—parading from place to place, sucking up cookies, brownies, and laughs with him.
“Oh, man, I was hurting afterward—way too much sugar. But I guess you burn it off on the slopes.” He takes Melissa’s pen from her. “Okay—so, you have swirls—so start from there.”
Melissa smiles. “Good idea. I like swirls; I always draw them. I think they remind me of waves. Of surfing.”
“So you’re more of a beach person than a sloper?”
“Do I have to be one or the other?” Melissa watches the way JMB holds his pen, wondering if he’s ever written his thoughts down on paper, if he’s ever revealed himself too much. “Okay—so—back to business. Yes, swirls are good.”
“I like vanilla and caramel together.”
Melissa looks at the baked goods for sale and considers her words. “I just want guests to rave about them, you know? Not that I need to be hugely popular, but … the countess would like a yogurt bar. Luke and Diggs—the teenage boys who are girl-obsessed—like chocolate.” She pauses, thinking that brooding Max hasn’t mentioned a preference for anything. “And the earl has more interest in anything in tight pants than food.”
JMB laughs and the corners of his mouth crinkle. “Sounds like you have your hands full.”
“Kind of. I guess I do—it’s totally overwhelming in the kitchen, and frantic. But then, there’s this calm afterward, when the meal is done.”
“That’s pretty much how competing feels.” He looks out the window to the snow. “You’re all wound up, this crazy mass of emotions—nerves, excitement—and then the jolt of making the run or doing the trick … and when you’re done, standing there at the end….” He looks at her. “You know you’ve made it. Maybe you’ve won, maybe not. But you’re there, and it means something.”
Melissa swallows, wishing she didn’t find JMB attractive, or that she had those model looks that Harley has—something to grab his attention. “I’d like to see you in action,” she says, then puts her hand to her mouth and shakes her head. “That came out wrong.”
JMB laughs again and points to her paper. “How about this? Caramel and vanilla swirl bread.”
“Not bread, brownies—no. Individual brownie cakes.” She waits for him to say she can watch him sometime, but he doesn’t, so Melissa covers the slight by writing the ingredients down in her notebook. It’s like writing in code, she thinks. I’ll be able to look back on the recipe and know that it’s like a journal entry about JMB and this conversation—but only I’ll know about it.
“Sounds perfect. Save a couple.”
“A couple?” Melissa swats at his hand playfully. “Didn’t you learn your lesson last year?”
“Oh, I learned plenty last year,” he says.
Me too, Melissa thinks. More than you know. She wishes she could rewind last season and go over it. If I worked here, at Les Trois, I’d never have met Gabe Schroeder, never have written about him, never been exposed. And I would have met JMB a whole twelve months sooner. Not that that would mean anything, but still. “So I’ll just save you one brownie treat then. I have to think of a name, too.
JMB stands up just when Harley comes in. She doesn’t look left, so she misses Melissa’s wave. Melissa watches JMB, who looks at Harley. Who wouldn’t cheek her out, Melissa wonders, not really blaming JMB for looking, but wishing she had that kind of magnetism. She’s the kind of girl he’d go for, Melissa thinks. Legs, attitude, and brazenness. JMB puts both palms on Melissa’s table and looks at her. “Save three of your unnamed brownie things at least—a, I can easily down a couple and b, my best friend is a total sweet fiend, too.”
Melissa’s mouth twists into a small swirl. “Your best friend?” she asks.
“Yeah.” JMB smiles at her. “Last year we trained at different places but our coaches figured we’d do better together—competitive edge, that sort of thing. So we’re here at Les Trois. You’d like him,” JMB says. Melissa watches Harley at the café as she orders a cocoa and flirts with the guy behind the bar. “Gabe Schroeder. My oldest friend.”
Three syllables. Hearing Gabe Schroeder’s name aloud, and from JMB’s mouth, is all it takes for Melissa’s queasy feeling to return. “I should go,” she says.
JMB nods. “I think I’ll do a couple more runs and then swing by. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
Maybe. Guys are full of maybes, Melissa thinks. That is, if they’re not that into you, which obviously JMB isn’t. As Melissa stands up to vacate her spot, Harley saunters over, registering JMB and Melissa together.
“Hey.” Harley plops down in a chair despite the fact that Melissa and JMB are zipping their jackets and heading out. “What’s up?”
“Lights, holly, mistletoe—that’s what’s up,” Melissa says. “Or what will be—after we hang them.”
Harley nods and sips her drink as though she has all the time in the world. “Right. The infamous decorations. Rumor has it there’s a drinking game involved….”
JMB butts in. “I can confirm the verity of that hearsay.” He looks at Harley. Melissa twists her fleece scarf around her neck, nerves tightening as she watches how easily Harley converses with JMB. JMB waves out the window as he explains. “Some people do shots each time they hang holly; then there’s some complicated rule about sugar shots—which are so sweet you don’t know you’ve done too many—and you have to swig those while you string lights.”
Melissa looks to where JMB has waved and to her horror sees none other than Gabe Schroeder making his way toward the café. “I can’t be late—Matron already has it out for me.” She pauses, not wanting to miss any conversation, but also can’t deal with the thoughts of slamming face-on into Gabe. “Harley—you coming?” Melissa taps her foot by the door.
JMB pauses and nods and looks out again at Gabe. “We’re headed for the gondola run. Want to join us, Harley?”
Melissa feels her chest dip. He asked her to ski with him. Isn’t that the truest test of his feelings? If his passion is on the slopes and he wants Harley to experience it, I really have no romantic future with him. Determined not to let this brush with rejection get her down, she shrugs and smiles. “Have fun.”
Harley nods. “I think I have time for one quick run.”
“Cool.” JMB nods. And to Melissa, he gives a head tilt. “Make sure to save one for me now, right?”
Melissa heads out the door, wondering if she’ll ever have time to ski this season. This makes her long for her day off, hoping the weather is decent enough for a long day of swishing down the slopes, trying the intermediate trails, and—at all costs—avoiding Gabe Schroeder. As he approaches she wraps her scarf in front of her face as though protecting herself from the cold when the reality is she’s protecting against more embarrassment.
With Melissa gone, Harley plays it cool, snapping into her skis next to Gabe and James. She can see staff people walking to the Main House for the required decorating session, but she’s not about to give up the opportunity to ski with James.
“Here we have him, folks,” Gabe says, sports-announcing his friend as the three of them head to the lift line. “Master of the Slope, James Benton.”
Harley realizes she hasn’t said his full name out loud yet. It’s like if I do, he’ll evaporate, she thinks.
“And here we have Master of the Slop, Gabe Schroeder.”
“That’s Gabriel P. Schroeder to you—or better yet, just call me Lord,” Gabe says, threatening his friend with a pole.
“Your initials are GPS?” Harley laughs. “As in Global Positioning …”
“As in many kinds of positioning,” Gabe jokes. He stares at Harley the way he did at the bar—full-on attentive. “Anyway, it’s better than his initials.”
“Why?” Harley moves up in the line, keeping both guys close. “What’s so wrong with JB?”
“Well, those aren’t my real initials,” James says. “But I won’t bore you with that story.”
Gabe seconds his opinion. “Yeah, wise choice. It is boring.”
“You’re boring,” James shoots back. Then to Harley he adds, “Okay—the deal is that I have one of those silly hyphenated last names. My parents are British. Anyway, I was born James Benton-Marks, which then was shortened to JBM, which then—as you can probably guess, if you’ve spent any time around prepubescent boys—got chopped to BM.”
Gabe laughs. “Those were the days. Ah, Mister BM.”
James rolls his eyes and continues to Harley, “So then, before I went pro, my coach signed some form JMB, which I see now was a fortunate typo. But most people call me James.”
“I call him JMB,” Gabe says.
“I think I’ll stick with James,” Harley says, thinking again how amazing it is she can call him anything. For a second, she imagines herself on the cover of a magazine with James—that she’s the girl next to him under some Olympic banner.
“Just as well,” James says. “Only a few close buddies call me JMB—it’s more of an old friend thing—you know, just buddies.”
“Fine,” Harley says. She wishes she had a history with him that made her part of the inner circle, able to call him JMB. But then again, she doesn’t want to be his buddy—she wants much more than that. “Okay, James—let’s hit the slopes.”