It all happens so fast.

An asshole on a snowboard bursts out of the woods in front of Chloe, sending her skidding off the trail. Before I can recover from the shock, or shout at the jerk to slow the hell down, she’s gone, careening away down an insanely steep run.

“Chloe!” My heart leaps into my throat and lodges there, making me feel like I’m being strangled by my panic.

And then I’m gone, pushing off the trail, heading after her. Because apparently, that’s what happens when you see a small person you care about in trouble. You race after them first and realize you’re in over your head after it’s too late to call the ski patrol and get a professional on the case.

The first five seconds of my plummet through time and space are enough to assure me that this run is indeed a black diamond. Or maybe a double black diamond or a blood and crossbones diamond or whatever symbol means a scary as fuck, nearly vertical, loaded with bumps and rocks death trap. Only Olympic athletes should set skis on this sucker, and I am dangerously out of my element.

Gritting my jaw, I wedge my skis hard as I bounce back and forth through the lumpy snow, trying to maintain a downhill speed of moderately-insane instead of certain-doom-dangerous. As I skid hard to the right, barely managing to avoid slamming into another skier swishing confidently down the trail in front of me, I desperately wish I’d spent more time on skis as a child and less on figure skates.

But it’s too late now. I’ll just have to pray that my advanced beginner skills will be enough to help me tail Chloe down this monster in one piece.

My only comfort is that she seems to be faring better than I am. Her body language—shoulders hunched and poles wobbling in the air behind her like tiny helicopter blades—makes it clear she isn’t enjoying our plunge any more than I am, but she’s holding her own against the big bad mountain.

Thank God. As long as she gets down okay, that’s all that matters.

The thought zips through my head, followed quickly by the realization that I truly love that little girl. This isn’t friendly affection. This is love, so powerful and real that I don’t care if I end up breaking bones between here and the base of the mountain, as long as my shattered body will somehow ensure Chloe doesn’t have to suffer.

My throat tightens, my eyes sting, and my ribs contract so swiftly that my chest feels bruised.

This isn’t the time for an emotional breakdown or breakthrough or whatever is happening to me, but I can’t help myself. All at once, I understand with a visceral certainty how terrifying it must be to be a mother. Or to be Brendan, with his heart walking around outside his body in French braids and unicorn ski pants, spouting sass and taking risks, all while having no clue how precious she is.

Precious and horrifyingly vulnerable.

All it takes is one bad call, one wrong move, one stupid mistake, one snowboarder who isn’t paying attention to the “trails merging, go slow” sign to put her in the kind of danger she might not be able to bounce back from.

“Please, please, please,” I chant as Chloe skids wildly around a turn in the trail, making my pulse spike as she narrowly avoids a collision with a boulder poking out of the snow.

Please let her be okay.

Please let her pull this off.

Please let her be waiting for me at the bottom of the run with a mouth full of the curse words she learned from spending too much time around professional hockey players. Please let her be whole and safe and in the mood to let me hug her tight, because, man, am I going to need a hug by the time this is over.

I make the same harrowing turn, getting even closer to the super scary boulder than Chloe did. Close enough that a vivid image of bloody brains splattered over obsidian rock flits through my mind, making every muscle in my body clench in fear.

And that’s what does me in.

I can feel it, the moment my tension contributes to my velocity and my velocity grows too great to allow my whip-tight, weary muscles to shift my skis in the opposite direction. As I shoot into the woods, I catch a glimpse of the end of the run, the lift churning in slow, steady circles, whisking conquering heroes back up the mountain, and Chloe skidding to a stop beside the other people shuffling into the lift line.

Thank God. She made it. She’s okay.

Relief courses through me, followed swiftly by a mental “oh shit!” as I narrowly avoid crashing into a tree with a trunk the size of a small car. I cut right, then left again, fighting to slow down, but the next big scary tree is already rushing toward me, and there’s no escape route that doesn’t send me on a fresh path to destruction.

There are trees fucking everywhere.

You would think it was a forest or something, a smartass voice in my head pipes up, only to be drowned out a moment later by a screamier internal voice howling, Stupid way to die! Stupid way to die! This is such a stupid way to die!

Using every bit of strength left in my trembling quad muscles, I wedge like my life depends on it, since it might—I left my helmet in my locker, as we were allegedly sticking to the easy runs—and hurl myself to the left, dropping my poles and reaching for the ground with arms outstretched, praying I’ll find something to hold onto beneath the snow.

The good news is that I slow down, skidding to a stop as one ski pops off my boot and the other thuds solidly into the trunk of the giant tree. The bad news is that pain flashes through my right knee, sending a sharp, stretching, burning, “not right” sensation shooting through the joint and up the inside of my thigh.

“Oh, ow.” My eyes squeeze shut. “Ow, ow, ow…”

It hurts like a son of a bitch. I’m pretty sure I did something to my knee that will make further frolicking in the snow impossible, but I’m alive. I’m alive, and Chloe is safe, and no brains have been splattered.

My heart beat is slowing, sending out “we’re all right, time to quit freaking out” signals to the rest of my traumatized organs, when something whumps onto the snow beside me. A puff of powder explodes into the air, and my pulse leaps into overdrive all over again.

I flinch as I glance over my shoulder, only to sag with relief when I see Brendan popping his skis off beside me.

I press a hand to my chest, where I swear I can feel my heart thudding through my ski jacket, sweater, and ribs. “Shit, you scared me.”

“That makes two of us,” he says, tossing his poles onto the snow before kneeling beside me. “Are you all right? No, don’t move, let me get you out of that ski first.”

“I’m okay, but I did something to my right knee.” He reaches for the latch connecting the boot on my injured leg to the ski, and I tense, but he’s so careful I barely feel a thing until I shift to sit up in the snow, putting pressure on the joint. “Ouch. Yeah. Something’s not right. I think I pulled a muscle or maybe a ligament or something.”

Brendan’s fingers prod the outside of my knee without causing any fresh pain, but when they move to the inside my shoulders shoot toward my ears and a whimper escapes through my clenched jaw.

He backs off fast. “I don’t think it’s your ACL. Could be the MCL, which is still bad, but it’ll be easier to recover without reinjuring it. And nothing feels broken.” His big hands circle my thigh, squeezing gently as his gaze meets mine, relief clear in his eyes. “You’re lucky it’s not worse. When I saw you shoot into the woods like that…”

He shakes his head as he brushes the snow from my jacket. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack. You shouldn’t have gone after her, Laura. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“I couldn’t help it,” I whisper. “I saw her go off the trail and I just…went after her. I didn’t even think. I was just so scared.”

“I know.” He tugs his glove off, skimming his hand over my hair, sending more snow falling to the ground and making me wonder at what point I lost my pom-pom hat. “Thank you.”

“For what?” I sniff. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You risked your life trying to help my daughter. That’s a pretty big deal in my book.”

I blink, my vision swimming. “Yeah, well, I love her, stupid.”

His eyes soften. “I am stupid. I’m sorry.”

I lift a shoulder and let it fall with a laugh even as my throat gets tighter. “It’s okay. We’re all stupid sometimes.”

“Some more than others.” He leans closer, until I’m pretty sure he’s about to kiss me again. But I decide I’m okay with that, since kisses, hugs, and all other forms of comfort are sounding good in the wake of my near-death experience—fuck it, I’ll worry about redrawing my line in the sand once I’m not on the verge of going into shock—when a siren whoops behind him.

Brendan glances over his shoulder, lifting a hand to someone I can’t see from my position flat on my butt in the snow. “Hey! We’re over here! She’s okay, but there’s no way she’s walking or skiing out. She tweaked something in her knee.”

“Got it,” a male voice says behind him. “We’ll be there with a stretcher in a minute. You two hold tight.”

Brendan turns back to me, relief and regret warring in his expression. “I should get down to the bottom and help Chloe. She made it to the lift line okay, but she’ll be scared if one of us doesn’t show up soon.”

I nod, making shooing motions with my gloved hands. “Go. Tell her I’m fine, and I’ll see you guys back at the chalet or wherever they take broken people.”

“I’ll call Angie and Steve, and we’ll all meet you in the infirmary.” He stands, but before he leaves, he bends low, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me swimming in a strange mixture of melancholy and exhaustion, proving my adrenaline rush has truly left the building. Thankfully, the two ski patrol officers who arrive a moment later are sweet, adorable, hippie boys, clearly devoted to easing the pain and suffering of the recently wiped out.

They crack jokes and praise my not-running-into-trees-skills as they load me onto the stretcher like precious cargo and carry me through the woods to their snowmobile. They strap the stretcher, with me still laid out on top, onto the back of their ride and fire up the engine. The cutie with the brown beard drives, while the cutie with the red beard rides backward, leaning over to assure me that everything is going to be fine.

He makes some more jokes about how gingers are the craziest people on the slopes, accounting for an unusually high percentage of ski patrol rescues, considering how few natural redheads there actually are in the world.

“But we heal fast,” he says, with a wink. “You’ll be back out here tearing up the double black diamond before the end of the season.”

“Highly doubtful.” I arch a wry brow. “I’m going back to figure skating. At least when I wipe out doing a turn, I don’t have that far to fall. And there are no trees the size of my Subaru lurking in the woods, waiting to crush my face.”

“Nah, don’t give up,” Ginger Beard says. “Get back on that horse and show it who’s boss.”

We chat some more—enough to convince me that Ginger Beard is trying to hit on me, which is cute considering he’s maybe nineteen years old, tops—and then we’re back at the chalet, where I’m once again ferried across the snow like a wounded warrior returning from the battlefield.

The bearded patrol boys get me settled in the infirmary, where Brendan’s torn MCL diagnosis is seconded by the medic on duty, a fresh-faced blonde with a freckled nose she wrinkles in sympathy as she puts my wounded knee through its limited paces.

“Okay, so it doesn’t seem to be that bad. Definitely not the worst sprain I’ve seen this week. But I think you should head to the emergency room at Memorial, over in Hood River, and get checked out. Just in case,” she says, her brow furrowing. “Do you have someone who can drive you? If not, I can ask the staff at the lodge if they have anyone free to shuttle you over. You shouldn’t be driving or putting weight on that knee until you get a brace.”

“We’ll drive her.” Angie bustles in, followed closely by Steve, and hurries over to envelop me in a big hug. “Oh honey, Brendan told us what you did. Thank you so much!”

I smile at Steve over her shoulder. “I didn’t do anything except get myself hurt and ruin the fun.”

“Ridiculous,” Steve says, his expression as serious as I’ve seen him so far. “You didn’t ruin anything, and we’re honored to drive you to the hospital. Brendan and Chloe are still about thirty minutes out. The lift let them off at the top of Sweetheart’s Mile, and Brendan said Chloe needed a few minutes to rest after all the excitement. But they’ll be here soon, and we’ll all head to the ER.”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Seriously, there’s no reason to wreck the day. I can ask about a shuttle at the lodge or—”

“Stop it. Right now,” Angie says, squeezing my hand. “We’re taking you and then treating you to lunch, and that’s that.”

I text Brendan—who is still at the hot chocolate hut at the top of the mountain with Chloe, waiting for her to finish her “I made it down my first double black diamond without breaking any bones” celebratory cocoa. I ask him to stay and enjoy the day with his daughter and Angie, while Steve takes me to get my knee checked out, assuring him that minimizing the impact of my accident on the group is what will make me feel better the fastest.

After half a dozen texts from Brendan insisting he wants to drive me to the doctor, and an equal number of texts from me arguing that he should stay and take care of Chloe because he’s the best skier in the group, not to mention large and scary-looking when he needs to be, the better to defend her from rampaging snowboarder assholes, he agrees.

But not before texting, Okay, but I’ll be counting down the minutes until I get to see you tonight. Chloe and I are both sending good vibes your way, beautiful. Text me as soon as you get the official diagnosis.

I text back, Will do, and slide my phone back into my coat pocket, ignoring the fluttering in my chest.

It’s a stupid flutter—Brendan is grateful that I put myself at risk for Chloe, and it’s making him text things he usually wouldn’t. That’s it.

Or maybe he’s aware that Angie and Steve are hovering as I text him back, and that “beautiful” was just fertilizer thrown onto the manure pile to shore up our fake relationship.

But even as I convince myself not to take the sweet words too seriously, I swear I can feel the good vibes Brendan and Chloe are sending down the mountain humming in the air around me, wrapping me up in a warm cloud.

As Steve guides his truck down the narrow, snow-covered road toward the main highway, I can’t help but turn and look back, wondering which of those dots swishing down the Sweetheart Run might be my dots.

Mine.

Neither of them will ever be mine.

My head knows that, but my heart keeps my gaze trained on the mountain until Steve turns the corner and the slopes disappear from view.