Page 32 of Counting Down To You

“Presumably winter’s a quiet time, though?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Lucie agrees, “but from what I can gather he didn’t do much over summer, either.”

I lift a spoonful of soup to my mouth—creamy and delicious—as I think about this. He didn’t exactly scream customer friendly when I met him. And I’d be the perfect audience, wouldn’t I? If I were running a hiking business, I’d have given me a card or something.

“So where’s Brooks?” Nick asks me, scraping his bowl with his spoon.

“Ah…” I swallow more soup to play for time. I haven’t seen him since yesterday when he snapped at me. And I have no desire to see him today, if I can help it. I think again of what he said to me, after I offered help. Yes, you can leave me alone.

Rude. He was so bloody rude—unnecessarily so.

“Only, I need to ask him about orders,” Nick says, getting to his feet. “Will you tell him, when you see him?”

At that moment, Elodie appears at the table and cuffs Nick round the back of the head. It’s lightly done, but what with all her rings I wonder if it hurts. The way Nick rubs his head suggests so.

“She is not your answering machine,” Elodie says.

Nick raises his free hand, the other clutching the empty bowl, and backs away, toward the kitchen. “Okay, okay.”

“Thanks, Elodie,” I say with a smile. Elodie waves it off. “Your hair looks great today,” I press on. It does, curled to her shoulders in a way that must have taken her ages. But, then again, it always looks nice.

Elodie beams. Here, at least, is someone who easily takes a compliment. “Why, merci, ma chérie.”

—

That evening, curled up on the sofa underneath a blanket with a hot-water bottle, I stare at the comments underneath my Instagram post from the hike yesterday. Or, rather, one particular comment, from one particular person.

I can’t believe you’ve gone to the alps! Isn’t skiing the best?

Followed by a skiing emoji.

Adam. My stomach performs the same sort of twist it always does when I see his name. He hasn’t reacted to the photo of me and Leo, but surely he’s seen it, if he’s seen this one. Although maybe not, if he was just scrolling through. He never usually comments on my posts, so maybe he just saw this one by chance?

My fingers hover over the keyboard on my phone. Should I reply? Just “like” it? Ignore it?

There’s a knock at my door and I start, then check the time. It’s late—I really hope it’s not one of the guests needing me. Which is one of the downsides to living on-site, I suppose, not that I’ve had reason to test that theory yet.

I throw off my blanket and slip on my slippers before crossing to the front door. When I open it, I stare.

Leo is standing there. My fingers flex on the wood of the door. I have half a mind to shut it in his face—or to tell him to leave me alone.

“I come bearing gifts,” he says before I can. “Coffee and firewood.” He holds up the packet of coffee, nudges the bag of firewood on the doorstep with his toe—which I didn’t notice right away, too distracted by his face. “You keep using the hotel coffee,” he continues, “which is obviously fine, but I thought you might appreciate your own. And I know the cabins are a lot cozier with the fire on.”

I fold my arms. So, this is an apology, is it?

He clears his throat at my silence. “I couldn’t find you yesterday, and I’ve been on the slopes all day today.”

I purse my lips. “I take it this has something to do with your bad mood yesterday.”

He runs a hand through his dark chestnut hair. “Yes. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“No,” I agree. “You shouldn’t have.”

But he’s apologizing. And clearly something had upset him, though I don’t think I can ask what. I don’t want to be snapped at again.

I take the coffee, accepting it as a peace offering, and set it on the side table just inside the door, leaving my hands free for the firewood. Then I hesitate. Should I invite him in? But I’m very aware that I’m in my flannel pajamas—great for warmth, fewer points for style—and my face is clear of makeup, my hair tied messily on top of my head. I’m not sure I want him to come inside when I look like this.

It doesn’t matter what you look like, Ali. My own voice this time, rather than Robyn’s.