For long seconds his words don’t compute. “You want my number?” Z never gets a girl’s number. He usually meets her, takes her out, bags her, and then goes on his way. Or at least that’s what everyone says about him. And it’s certainly the vibe I got off him that first night.

“Yeah?” For the first time he sounds uncertain, like he’s totally unfamiliar with this routine. “That way I can call you. See if you want to go to dinner sometime, or maybe to see another movie.”

Another crack appears in my shell, and I know it’s the uncertainty I’m responding to instead of the request for a second date. There’s just something about seeing the totally self-assured Z look a little lost that gets to me in a big way. In a bad way.

“I, uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean—”

“You don’t want me to call you?” He sounds incredulous.

I don’t, no. For so many reasons that I don’t want to get into. “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure, it is. You give me your number. I call. We go hang out, have a good time. See where it goes.”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Why are you so determined to get my number? There are hundreds of girls at the resort who would lie down buck naked in the snow for a chance to go out with you. Why are you here trying to convince me?”

He looks uncomfortable, and suddenly I remember what Cam told me. The bet. Of course. This is all about the bet he made to sleep with me.

On one hand, the knowledge reassures me. On the other, it scares me to death. Because I’ve been around him one night—one night—and already he’s getting to me. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is.

What am I going to do if he keeps popping up, trying to endear himself to me? Even if it isn’t serious, even if it’s all about that stupid bet, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist him. Not the sex, because that’s the most unimportant part of the whole equation. But the vulnerability I see in him when he doesn’t think anyone is watching. The pain that connects so easily with my own.

“Maybe I like you,” he says.

Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of. Or, more accurately, I’m afraid that if I give him half a chance, he can make me like him. And I’m just not ready for that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Good night, Z.” I take another step into my room, start to close the door.

Once again, he catches it—this time by wedging his foot against it. “Fine. If you won’t give me your number, at least take mine. Or tell me what time you’re working tomorrow. I’ll show up. We’ll talk. I’ll even let you dump coffee on me again.”

“I don’t want to dump coffee on you again.”

“Maybe not now. But give me ten minutes. I’m sure I’ll say something that pisses you off again.”

The funny thing is, he probably will. But even that’s a problem, because if I’m angry, then I’m feeling something. And once I open that door, who knows what else will leak through. Look where I am already, just twenty-four hours after meeting Z.

I start to tell him to get lost, to leave me alone, but he gives me that charming grin again. The one he gave me yesterday, and the one he gave me over and over again today whenever I looked at him.

And that’s when it hits me. He’s not going to give up. Not Z, world-class athlete and Olympic contender extraordinaire. He hasn’t gotten where he is by being a quitter, by forgetting about what he wants. By giving up. If he’s got a bet going on, then he’s going to be all over me for the next week, trying to get me into bed. Trying to win that bet. Which, normally—with any other guy—I’d just ignore.

But Z isn’t an easy guy to ignore. Especially now when I know there’s a lot more to him than I first thought. The longer I’m around him, the bigger the risk I’m taking. Not that I’ll fall for him, because that won’t happen, but already I’m cracking. Already I’m letting him in when I swore I’d never do that again. Never let anyone close enough to hurt me the way Remi did.

But I can see traces of Z’s pain, know there’s so much more of it than what’s at the surface. And I’m afraid that somehow all the agony I sense in him will slip behind my last line of defense and then I’ll be right back where I was a year ago: totally screwed.

I don’t want to go back there. Not now. Not ever. When I came here, it was for a fresh start. I promised myself that I wouldn’t look back, wouldn’t think about the past. It’s a good plan, one I can’t let Z derail me from, not now that I can finally breathe a little.

Which is why, even as I tell myself to close the door, I end up doing the exact opposite. I step back and ask, “Why don’t you come in for a while, have something to drink?”

I’m not sure who’s more shocked by her invitation, Ophelia or me. Probably me, since she’s already turned around and walked deeper into her room while I’m still standing in the hall with my hands in my pockets and my mouth wide open. Talk about a total loser.

There’s a part of my brain that’s telling me to walk away, that any girl who makes this kind of 180-degree turn obviously has issues I am not equipped to deal with. And yet, even as I’m telling myself to get the hell out of here, I take a step into her small studio apartment. Then another and another, until I’m standing in the center of the room. Which is only about five feet from the main door, but still.

“So what do you want to drink?” she asks. “I’ve got Dr Pepper, hot chocolate, coffee, and water.”

I glance around, take in the single bed that doubles as a couch, the small bookshelf loaded with books, the tiny kitchenette. There’s not much else to see. No photos. No posters. Nothing but a few books to give me a clue about who Ophelia really is.

“I’ll take a Dr Pepper.”

“Good choice.” She walks over to the fridge and pulls out two of the old-fashioned glass bottles, then uses an opener to pop the caps off them.

“Did you really ask me in just for a drink?” I wonder as she hands me the soda.

She pauses, her hand still on the bottle, right next to mine. “Did you really come in just to get a drink?”

“What do you think?” I ask, watching her face carefully as I put the bottle on the counter next to me without taking a sip.

Ophelia follows the movement with her eyes. “I think you don’t like Dr Pepper.”

“You think right.” I’ve never been able to stand the stuff.

“So why’d you take it, then?”

I put my hands on her waist, pull her closer, until her lower body is pressed against mine. “Why do you think I took it?” I can’t help it. There’s a part of me that likes playing this cat-and-mouse game with her.

“I don’t know.” She keeps her eyes steady on mine. “You’re certainly full of questions tonight.”

“I am. How come you’re not full of answers?”

“Because answers are always harder than questions. Don’t you know that?”

I think of the million or so questions I have about April. About my mom. About everything that went down during that time in my life. A million questions and almost no answers. Except the really bad ones. “I guess I do.”

She takes a long sip from her bottle, and I can’t help but watch the way her mouth moves against the rim, the way her throat works as she swallows. I don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose this time, but Jesus, she’s making me hard.

I shift, try to adjust myself so my hard-on isn’t so fucking obvious. But it’s nearly impossible when she’s drinking half the damn bottle in one sip and all I can focus on are her shiny pink lips and what it would feel like to have them wrapped around my cock.

Finally—finally—she puts the damn drink down next to mine, then tilts her face up so she’s looking me in the eyes. “Still, I think I’ve got a pretty good answer for what you’re doing here,” she tells me.