Slippery Slopes by Emily Franklin

section. “Isn’t that Gabe Schroeder?” She looks impressed with the swarm of photographers around him.
    “Yeah.” Melissa feels possessive of him suddenly, and then wishes she had a carefree attitude about boys, one that would allow her to float around without worrying so much. “Actually, Gabe just did really well. I think Sporting World might put him on the cover.”
    Dove kicks Melissa’s shin and she shrugs, mouthing, What? It could be true. …
    Melissa is so busy watching Gabe navigate the throngs of fans and reporters that she misses the next announcement.
    “Oh—here he comes!” Charlie looks like a schoolgirl, eyes forward as she waits.
    “Monsieur James Marks-Benton …” the announcer says.
    Melissa feels herself entranced, watching first the small, distant version of James in his orange-and-black racing outfit start the course. As he gets closer, she can make out his muscled legs, the way his body curves into and then away from each turn, propelling himself down the mountain toward the finish line.
    With her heart slamming against her chest, Melissa can’t help but smile as she checks the clock, certain James will win the whole competition. And maybe, just maybe, see her at the end mark. In one quick flash of black and orange, he whizzes around the last gate, nearly falls over a small patch of ice, and then finishes to the roar of the crowds.
    “Oh, wow. Wow. That was incredible….” Melissa feels so connected to him it’s as though she raced, too. She’s about to pick up her arm and wave to him, abandon her inhibitions and go for it, when she’s shoved to the side. The crowd moves as a whole, swaying to the left and then back up again.
    In the midst of all the hustle and bustle, Dove is shoved to the back, where she gives up and retreats toward the chalet to bake, and Melissa is knocked over. Even though she’s on her butt on the ground in danger of being trampled, she laughs, feeling good about herself. I’ve got the ball planned, an invite to a secret party, and I’m finally going to just break out and jump for joy around James. And all while being in pain. She stands up, determined to shout and wave to him, to be the first person, aside from reporters, that he locks eyes with, but she’s too late. As soon as she’s upright, Melissa is hit head-on with a flash of bright pink and gloss—Charlie, not only near James, but hugging him full on. Tears sting her eyes and Melissa fights them off, suddenly feeling the cold air and the even colder feeling of having been usurped.
    “Excuse me,” says one of the tabloid photographers. “That girl—the gorgeous one with Mr. Marks-Benton. Do you know her?”
    Melissa looks at Charlie, who is now getting a champagne spray from James. She winces as Charlie slings her arm around James and they pose for more pictures. “Yes. I do. Her name’s Charlie.”
    “And she is?” The photographer jots notes onto a small pad.
    Melissa knows the magazines will have a field day with the story. I can see it now — Chalet Maid Wins Heart of Gold Medalist Skier…. I feel like I could throw up. Then she thinks about the weekly celebrity mags she’s read and what they always say. “She works at the resort—and they’re just … friends.”

10
    T RAYS OF HORS D’OEUVRES line every surface of the kitchen counters. Small silver serving dishes filled with Brie and cranberry puff pastries, trays of grilled asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, prawns in a curried ginger sauce and speared with rainbow peppers, and tea-sized smoked salmon sandwiches all wait to be served.
    “This should do it.” Dove takes the last selection from the oven.
    “And that is?” Max stands in the doorway, looking as though he tumbled out of bed—all rumpled T-shirt, sweatpants, and bare feet.
    Guess he didn’t go to the races, thinks Dove as she carefully plates the chicken satay skewers and mixes warm peanut sauce to drizzle on top. With a shudder she wonders if maybe Claire, too,