Page 6 of One Last Gift

Well, great. Just great. She hissed out a breath as she tentatively moved her skis again. She managed to keep moving for a good few seconds this time, before she panicked and jerked to a stop. Behind her, she heard a soft laugh and spun to face the noise. Sam was there, his dark hair rumpled, his navy-blue ski suit putting hers to shame.

She narrowed her eyes at the laugh. “How did you end up behind me?” This wasn’t what she wanted—for him to see exactly how ungraceful she was.

“I was just taking a minute to admire the view,” he said easily. His lips twitched as she turned from him to scowl down at her skis, which made him laugh again. “Come on, Cass, it’s not that bad.”

“Easy for you to say. You can actually do it.”

“You can too,” he said easily. “We can go slowly, come on.” He pushed away, looking behind him to check she was following. Grimacing a little, she allowed her skis to slide into motion again, trying to follow exactly where he was going.

“Good,” he said as she caught up with him. “Now try to get parallel and keep turning to slow yourself down—you’ll end up really aching if you snowplow all the way down.”

“If I what?”

“Look, watch, shift your weight.” Sam went off again, and Cassie followed, trying to copy. They went through two full turns without stopping, and Cassie felt her lips pull into a smile. She was doing it!

She looked up, smiled at where Sam was waiting for her to catch up. He smiled back, eyes still hidden by his sunglasses. And her stomach lurched, the way it always did around him—the way it did around no one else, including the guy she’d dated for three months at university.

“All right,” Sam said calmly as he reached her. “We’ve got some moguls coming up so…”

Cassie frowned. “Some what?”

“They’re like bumps on the snow.” He gestured and Cassie saw—little mounds of snow positioned randomly, taking up the next section of the slope. “So try not to go straight over them, OK?” Cassie bit her lip—she wasn’t sure she’d have much say in the matter. Sam gave her a reassuring smile. “Just follow me.”

He set off and she did her best to follow. But after a few more turns, she messed something up. She turned too early, and felt herself facing straight down the slope, heading directly for one of those hill things. Turn, she tried to tell herself, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate, and the mound was coming too quickly. She squeezed her eyes shut, felt herself go straight over it. And she was fine! Her breath whooshed out with relief. She was fine and it was no big deal and…No. It was not fine. She was speeding up. She was definitely speeding up. Before she could do anything about it, she hit another one, sped up even more.

Don’t scream. Don’t scream, just think. Her heart was pounding, her legs felt weak as she tried to shift her weight. And then she felt herself fall, felt her shoulder slam, hard, into the snow, saw the flashes of someone else’s skis as they sped past her. She rolled twice before she came to a stop, breathing hard. She tried to move into a sitting position, found her hands were shaking, her breath coming in short gasps that were dangerously close to sobs.

Someone stopped near her and she looked up, blinking into the sunlight. Sam, holding one of her skis, looking like a bloody hero, framed by that backdrop. She hadn’t even noticed losing the damn thing. “Are you OK?” Sam asked.

She just nodded, swallowing. In truth, her eyes were stinging, and she felt that irrational urge to cry, like a child who has fallen over and scraped their knee. But she took a breath, controlled herself. She wasn’t hurt, was she? At least not as far as she could tell. A bit bruised, maybe, but that was all.

Sam bent down, attached her ski back onto her foot. His hand rested on her calf for a moment longer than was necessary, the pressure of his fingers registering even beneath her ridiculous skiing trousers. “Come on, we can make it to the pub halfway down, have a pitstop.”

She nodded again, and took his gloved hand when he offered it, letting him pull her to her feet. They went very, very slowly down the slope. Cassie felt like a complete idiot, and a far cry from that cool, sexy persona that she’d wanted to portray—unlike Sam, who looked like something out of an advert from bloody Skiing Weekly. Not exactly what she’d imagined for their “alone” scenario.

Sam was right—there was a pub, or restaurant or something, halfway down the slope. They took their skis off and stamped onto the outdoor patio in their ski boots. It was impossible to walk in ski boots, Cassie realized, and she was grateful when she saw an empty picnic bench, crossing to it and sinking down. Her feet were already sore. How did people do this all day?

“I’ll get us a drink, OK?” Sam said. Cassie looked up at him, but he was already weaving through the people and heading inside.

She slipped her phone out of her zipped pocket, grateful for the case she’d thought to put it in, being as how she’d undoubtedly rolled over it at some point. She had a message. She hoped it was from Hazel, apologizing for not waiting for her, or in full-blown panic about where she was. But it was Linda, checking in to see if she was having a nice time. Cassie smiled as she tapped out a response—even though she wasn’t sure that falling on your face and being so bad at skiing that it was beyond embarrassing qualified as “nice.” Still, sitting outside now in the pub was nice, Cassie reasoned, the sun warm on her face, the sprinkling of green tinsel outside the wooden building, along with the snow, creating a lovely festive atmosphere.

Linda messaged back.

Send a pic!

Cassie obliged, getting in what she could of the mountains. It really was beautiful, she admitted, against the bright blue sky.

Amazing! Linda replied.

Wish you could be here xxx

Cassie had invited her, but Linda had protested that she couldn’t come away with the “younguns,” as she wouldn’t be able to keep up. Cassie missed her, though, being away at university. She hadn’t seen her properly since the summer. She knew, too, that the real reason Linda wouldn’t come was because she was too worried about leaving her “baby,” the pub, in the hands of someone else.

Sam reappeared at the table holding two glasses of hot chocolate, with whipped cream and marshmallows on top and everything. He handed her one with a smile. “Christmas hot chocolate, apparently,” he said, swinging his leg over the bench to sit next to her.

She cupped the glass with her hands, letting the warmth seep into them, blew on it, then took a sip, tasting real chocolate—better than the instant cocoa you got at home—alongside a hint of cinnamon.

She gave a little contented sigh, and Sam grinned at her. “The best, right?”