“First of all, I offered you a towel. You’re the one who decided to take your shirt off. Second, I’m being generous and not charging you for the spilled drink. And third, I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.” Again, I flick my fingers at him like he’s a particularly annoying gnat. “So move along before someone from management sees you and has you removed from the building.”

He snorts, like even the chance of that is too far-fetched to contemplate. Which it probably is. My aunt and uncle love the fact that he comes here to practice with his friends. At dinner the other night they were talking about how to convince him to sign on with them like his friends had. So far they’ve offered him everything but part ownership in the lodge, and he’s turned it all down.

Must be nice to have so much money from endorsements and sponsorships and family that you can just walk away from a shitload of it for no reason at all.

“Management is going to remove me from the building?” he asks incredulously. “You’re the one who just dumped a drink down my pants.”

I feel the need to clarify. “On your pants, not down them.”

“I didn’t realize there was that big a difference.”

“Yeah, I bet you tell that to all the girls.”

“Only the cute ones,” he says with a smirk that somehow makes him look even sexier, a fact that annoys the crap out of me. “And for the record, the next time you want me naked, all you have to do is ask. No coffee spillage necessary.”

My blood starts to boil. Does his arrogance know no bounds? Who cares if he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen if every time he opens his mouth he sounds like a total douche?

“Dude, if I wanted you naked, I wouldn’t get you that way by dumping something cold on your crotch.” Determined to put him in his place, I shoot a glance at the area in question, making sure the look on my face is less than impressed. “It kind of defeats the purpose.”

“It’ll take more than a cold drink to defeat that purpose. But if you don’t believe me—” He lifts a brow in obvious challenge while his hands drop to the waistband of his pants.

He starts to unfasten them, but I know he’s bluffing, that he’s just trying to get a reaction out of me. So I stand there, eyes narrowed and arms crossed over my chest while I wait for him to back down. Because there’s no way he’ll actually strip in the middle of this coffee bar. Not now, not in front of all these people.

Except—

“Hey, stop that!” I all but leap across the counter at him, and this time I’m the one grabbing his waistband. Except I’m tugging his pants back up as I try my best to ignore where my hands are.

The smirk has evolved into a full-blown, cocky grin. “So, what do you say we take this somewhere more private?” he teases. He rests his hands lightly over mine, and even though he’s a conceited ass, I still have to resist the urge to fan myself. Z with the wattage turned up is a force to be reckoned with.

Not that I’m going to let him see that.

“Like a holding cell? Public nudity is against the rules and the law.”

“I was thinking more like your room, but if you have a thing for public exhibitionism, who am I to argue?”

“That’s it. You need to leave.” I pull my hands away and reach for the hand sanitizer sitting on the counter next to the register. God only knows what I could catch from having my fingers anywhere near this guy’s pants.

“You still haven’t gotten me my drink. Plus I need three Power O’s.”

I sigh. “Do I really have to go over the whole no-shirt thing again?” I glance around the room, praying for someone—anyone—to come up to the counter so I can switch my attention off Z and to an actual customer. But either no one’s thirsty or they’re having too good a time watching the show to want to interrupt it.

“You’re not actually serious about that, are you?”

“I’m always serious.”

He looks like he’s got something to say to that, but before he can get the words out of his mouth, he gets rushed by the girl from earlier and two other guys. They look vaguely familiar, and after a minute of staring at them like a moron, I realize it’s because my aunt introduced me to them on my first day here. They’re part of the group of snowboarders and skiers Lost Canyon partially sponsors.

It’s no surprise that it takes me a minute to place them. I’d felt like I’d fallen into an alternate universe that day, one where my whole life had gone topsy-turvy batshit crazy. How could I not when things had changed so fast? When what I wanted—needed—most had ceased to exist in the blink of an eye?

“Dude, what are you doing?” the tall blond guy demands, interrupting my pity party. “Put your clothes back on before you scare the new girl away.”

“Yeah, man,” the dark-haired one chimes in. “Walk around like that long enough and some of the snow cougars are going to start shoving dollar bills in your pants.”

Z flips them off, but when one of them hands him a T-shirt, he takes it and shrugs it on. I feel an instant of regret. Though I hassled him about being shirtless, it’s almost a shame to see all that beautiful skin get covered up again. Almost.

“Hey. I’m Cam.” The girl waves a hand in my face, and I immediately jerk my gaze over to hers. I’m embarrassed to be caught gawking at Z, but she doesn’t seem mad. In fact, she looks amused as she thrusts a hand out to me.

I shake it automatically. “I’m Ophelia.”

“Cool name.”

Not really. “Thanks.”

“This is Ash.” She points to the tall blond guy with the floppy hair. “And this is Lucas. And you’ve already met Z. We all ride together.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too. It’s hard not to like a girl who doesn’t take Z’s shit.”

“Hey! Whose side are you on?” Z demands.

She ignores him, looks at me curiously. “So, where are you from?”

“New Orleans.”

“No way! I love that city!” Lucas tells me. “How come you don’t have an accent?”

“Who says I don’t?” I lay the southern girl on thick.

“That’s better,” he says with a nod. “I’ve always wanted to go for Mardi Gras, but it’s always in the middle of competition season.”

“How ’bout you?” Z speaks up for the first time since his friends came over. I turn to look at him, then glance quickly away. I don’t like the way he’s staring at me, all intense and predatory, like a jungle cat playing with his food before he devours it. “You’ve probably been doing Mardi Gras for years.”

“Nope. It’s not really my thing.” The lie almost sticks in my throat, because for years no one loved the two weeks before Fat Tuesday more than I. The parades, the crowds, the music, the beads, the booze. What’s not to like? Everything, it turns out.

“What?” Now they’re all looking at me like I’m crazy. “Who lives in freaking New Orleans and doesn’t go out for Mardi Gras?” Z demands.

By this time, memories are swamping me and my muscles are so taut that any sudden movement on my part might snap them right off the bone. I try to keep calm, though. Nothing good will come from dredging up the past. Or from letting them see how much this subject stresses me out. Annoyed with myself, with him, with the whole damn situation, I tilt my head up and give him my best I’m-sorry-annoying-little-gnat-did-you-have-something-to-say-to-me look. “Me. Is that okay with you?”

“No.” He looks bemused. “Not really.”

I have no answer for that, so I don’t say anything, and neither does anyone else. An awkward silence descends. Once again I look desperately around for customers, but there’s still no one. So I just wait it out, pretending I don’t hate awkward silences. Pretending I know why Z and his friends are standing around watching me.

Finally Lucas says, “We’re going to a party tonight. You want to come?”

I’m not sure who’s more surprised by the invite, me or Z. I guess it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going. I have to work. Plus, I have no interest in sitting around in a room of strangers all night, watching while every girl in the vicinity hits on Z like he’s some kind of sex god on parade. I’d rather eat a bug—or twelve.