Page 69 of Head Over Skis

‘Up to your standards?’ he asks, his chin dipping so our foreheads touch.

I decide against telling him the truth, which is that I’m worried he’s ruined me for sex with anyone else. Instead, I roll so that I’m sitting on top of him again, my lips pulled to one side. ‘Hard to be sure, I think I might need more evidence.’

He chuckles, pulling me down so I can feel him growing hard again beneath me as he smirks. ‘I hope you weren’t planning on getting any sleep then, because I can go all night.’

He reaches down to pull the covers around us, and until the sun appears over the snow-covered mountains, he keeps to his word.

22

I blink through bleary eyes at the light that’s flooding into the room, and when I roll over, my hands pat the empty space.

Once I come to my senses, a wave of disappointment hits when I find the place next to me is indeed unoccupied, the flipped-over sheets confirming that Rory’s left. I guess it’s only fair, I left him the morning after we’d last shared a night together, and I wonder if this is what Rory felt then. Like something’s missing.

I search the bedside table for my phone, clicking on the screen to check the time as well as getting a flash of the latest string of messages from Tilly, including many winky faces. I’m about to text her back when I hear someone clearing their throat from the doorway.

Rory is dressed in a new pair of dark green trackies. He throws something towards me, and it lands in my lap on the bed. ‘Put that on and come meet me in the kitchen.’

He disappears and I look down at the hoodie that’s sitting in my lap. I’m about to put it on when he reappears, this time venturing into the room itself.

‘Oh and…’ he starts, taking long strides to clear the space to the bed. He leans down to plant a kiss on my forehead. ‘Good morning, Lottie.’

With that, he turns and leaves again, and I’m left lifting my hand to trace the place his lips touched. The giddiness that bubbles inside me isn’t appropriate or sensible, but it only grows as I stand in front of the mirror and throw on his hoodie. Like everything of his, it’s miles too big, but the material envelops me like a hug and it smells like him and I instantly want to keep it forever.

Before leaving, I pull out the hair bands at the bottom of my braids, that can’t really be called braids any more given how much hair has fallen out. Or been pulled out, as memories of last night flood my brain and I blush as my fingers work through the tangled curls left behind.

My hair is in dire need of re-dying, with my natural brunette roots contrasting the blonde highlights dramatically. But something about the messy waves, and the freckles on my nose that have been brought out by the successive days under a winter sun, come together to make me feel quite pretty as I look over my reflection. Or maybe it’s because I have Rory’s voice immortalised in my head, taking each thing I thought was a flaw and praising it while he held me like a priceless painting only hours ago.

I tiptoe out of the room towards the kitchen, and even if I couldn’t remember the way I’d be able to find it now because of the gorgeous smell that’s coming from its direction. I round the corner, wondering if my nose is tricking me, only to find out I was right when I look towards the crowded kitchen counter.

‘You made pancakes?’

Rory shakes the pan, and I watch as he flips a pancake perfectly before smiling at me. ‘Yep, but I have to give Harry credit for the rest.’

By the rest he means the array of fillings that cover the countertop, from berries, to chocolate, to rashers of bacon.

‘I wasn’t sure what you liked,’ he says with a shrug, sliding another pancake onto the stacked plate in the middle.

I’m too stunned to thank him as he passes me a plate and I deliberate where to start. He doesn’t realise how perfect this is, because I always agonise at brunch over whether to go sweet or savoury, so knowing I can have both this morning is making me much too excited.

I decide on bacon first, saying a silent thank you to the hotel cook. I remember something as I roll the pancake up and carry my plate over to the window seat.

‘I thought you were a vegetarian?’

‘I am,’ he says, gesturing down to the chocolate and raspberry pancake he’s assembling. ‘But you’re not, and I remember you and your friends talking about bacon sandwiches one morning in class.’

‘You really don’t miss a thing, do you?’

‘Not when it comes to you,’ he admits, like that isn’t the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said.

I wait for him to finish making his, turning instead towards the view that’s misted from the condensation on the inside of the window. I reach out to press my finger to the cold surface, dragging it down once, then adding a collection of other lines until I’m left with a little drawing of a hot chocolate mug with steam drifting above it. It’s funny, but everywhere I go at the moment I see opportunities to draw something, and that urge makes me feel more like my childhood self than I have in years.

Rory brings his own plate over and settles opposite me, smiling when he spots my creation on the window.

‘Well, thank you,’ I say, raising my pancake off the plate. ‘And give my thanks to Harry, too.’

I take a bite, and I don’t know what Harry’s getting paid but whatever it is he needs a raise because this bacon is probably the best I’ve ever tasted, although I’d never admit that to Lucas. I moan as I lick the grease from my lips, and Rory’s expression darkens.

‘Careful, we’ve not got long until class and if you do that again I’ll have to think of a new excuse to miss teaching it again.’