Experiencing a season together for the first time when you’re in a new relationship is a rite of passage. For instance, my idea of a fun winter activity involves reading under a thick, fuzzy blanket, snuggling up to a roaring fire, and drinking hot chocolate.

Andrew, on the other hand, likes to race down a snow-covered mountain at speeds that would qualify him for the Indy 500.

Guess where we are now?

“I am not going down that double black diamond trail. No way,” I declare, staring at an incline of doom on this mountaintop in Vermont. As I stare down the slope, I wonder what kind of sick bastard planted thirty-foot giant pine trees in the middle of a ski trail.

The sun is shining on this fine Saturday in December. You can’t see my engagement ring, which is hidden by gloves so thick, I might as well box instead of ski. Warming packets tucked away in pockets near the wrists aren’t really helping, because in my terror, all the blood in my body has gone to my gut, which is currently screaming “Run away! Run away!” while leaving my hands and feet to turn into frozen concrete.

Andrew’s response?

A grin.

“Everyone’s afraid their first time. It’s like sex,” he cajoles. The creak of the ski lift, bringing an influx of excited skiers in batches of twos and threes, plays a steady drumbeat behind him. Andrew is the epitome of ski sophistication and slope prowess, his body encased in tight black ski pants, a form-fitting black jacket with red racing stripes, custom-made gloves and skis, and a helmet for safety.

A skier since he was three years old, he has nearly three decades of experience.

Me? I joined ski club back in middle school because the boy I had a crush on skied, too. Broke my ankle on the bunny slope. Everyone called me “Gimp” for the rest of seventh grade.

I point to the sheer cliff Andrew expects me to put my feet on, feet attached to skis that have the potential to stab me in the heart if the laws of physics decide to go rogue.

“That is nothing like the first time I had sex! First of all, there is no backseat of a 1996 Dodge Caravan. Second of all, Al isn’t here -- ”

His grin disappears. “Point made. You do not need to bring up your ex-boyfriend and -- ” His tongue rolls in his cheek, jaw clenched. “-- sex with him.”

“And third!” I crow. Hey, he started it. “In both cases, my mother told me only to act when I felt ready, and never let a guy push me beyond my comfort zone.” I poke him in the chest, right where his lift tag hangs from his jacket zipper. “You’re violating my mother’s rules of consent.”

Most guys would sigh at this point. Although I can’t see his eyes behind those tinted ski goggles, I know they’ve narrowed with determination. Andrew isn’t most guys. Aside from being my fiancé, he’s also the CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

Which means he never backs down from a challenge. This is the same guy who hired a drone-killing hawk, for goodness sake.

I’m fooling myself if I think I’m not skiing down this trail, huh?

“Your mother also believes that rational risk-taking is key to human development,” he counters. If I could see his eyebrows, they’d be raised.

Oh, ho ho! Using my own mother against me.

“That’s right.” I watch pointedly as some poor, scared woman in red ski pants starts down the slope, wiping out a hundred feet down, screaming a long, thin sound like a yodel. “Rational. Flinging my body down a sheet of ice is the definition of irrational.”

“So was jumping into a pool at Shannon and Declan’s wedding to rescue a drowning dog and cat while wearing a heavy wool dress.”

“Don’t use my acts of bravery against me in an argument!”

“I’m not using them against you, Amanda. I’m pointing out the holes in your logic. Calculate the risks and the rewards and act accordingly.”

“There are no holes in my logic. None.”

“The risk of dying on a ski slope is one in a million. The risk of serious injury is .001 percent. You drove here with me, right?”

“What does driving have to do with skiing?”

“The risk of death from a car accident is one in seven thousand. You put yourself in more danger every time you drive than when you ski down a double black diamond trail.”

“You sound like my mother. This is scary.”

“She welcomed me into your family after I proposed.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to turn into an actuary like her!”

“Besides, Pam is a wealth of information. Analytical minds are underrated.”

Wait a minute. “You got those statistics from my mother, didn’t you?”

“What? You know me. I use Gina for all my research.” Gina is Andrew’s executive assistant. Life manager. Cat wrangler.

“That’s not a ‘no,’ Andrew.” I look at him, unflinching. “Did you or did you not ask my mother for statistical ammunition against me?”

“Pam and I happened to have an interesting conversation about skiing and liability risks -- ”

“You did! You pumped my mother for information to prepare for this argument!”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“You can’t do that. We’re not in a court of law.”

“Feels like it.”

“I can’t believe you and Mom conspired against me.”

Pulling the goggles up over the edge of his helmet, Andrew gives me a half sympathetic, half impatient look with those long-lashed brown eyes. “We’re not on this ski slope for recreational purposes. We’re here to evaluate whether Anterdec should acquire this resort property. Consider this ski run a mystery shop. This is just like being on one of your assignments.”

“What? No, it’s not! This is nothing like a mystery shop.” But he’s right. It kind of is. Back in Boston last week, Andrew suggested we come to this northern Vermont resort as a hybrid trip. Half fun, half work. His company, Anterdec, is considering buying this ski resort, and I’m the assistant director of marketing.

Get paid to ski, spend a long weekend in snow-capped mountains, and make love with my fiancé? Don’t mind if I do.

Turning into an ice-coated victim out of the movie Frozen wasn’t part of the bargain, though.

He plants his hands on his hips and just stares at me. I stare back. And then it hits me.

Sex. I can get out of this with sex.

Men use logic and rational thought as a weapon against women because they underestimate us. He thinks that if he just mansplains enough, the cogent evidence will make it clear that I should take the reasonable, sensible path.

In a way, he’s right. It should work. But you know what trumps logic?

Hormones.

And men have hormones, too. Lots of them. Like good little foot soldiers, their hormones take orders, which mostly consist of “Ahoy, matey! Send blood to the ship!” and “Sheath your sword!”

If Andrew is going to use my mother against me, I can use his hormones against him.

Choose your weapon, buddy.

I step into his space, loosening my body, ignoring the fear pulsing through me at the thought of skiing down the trail. “How about we do more evaluations on this ‘mystery shop’ back at the room? Like we did yesterday. That hot tub is so lonely right now. In fact, I can hear it whispering our names, begging us to come back,” I rasp in his ear, which is covered by his helmet. Whispering like this is about as sexy as trying to kiss an ice cube tray, but I go for it.

The alternative involves turning myself into an icy bowling ball being rolled down Mount Everest.

The way he stands up straighter tells me his interest is piqued.

Let’s see what else I can get to stand taller.

Click.

Click.

Click!

“Hey, Amanda! Andrew! Here, babe. Look here!”

I freeze. Andrew drops one of his poles and wraps his arm protectively around me.

Paparazzi. More paparazzi. Yesterday was bad enough. Two days in a row? Ugh.

“Damn,” he mutters, body tense, his pose that of rapid-fire strategic thought. Lost him. If the press knows why we’re here, then Andrew’s hand will be tipped, and the sales price of this resort will increase. That’s my business mind talking. As assistant director of marketing for Anterdec, and as Andrew’s fiancée, I care about the bottom line.

As a woman in love, wanting privacy about our couplehood, I just want the photographers to go away. Having my picture splashed all over the internet and local Boston gossip magazines isn’t fun. Yesterday was bad enough. We thought we kept them off our trail today.

We were wrong.

“How did they find out we’re here?” I whisper.

He gives me a weird look. “From yesterday. Remember the drone?”

“I mean here. At this specific resort.”

“Dad,” he says angrily. “You know how he’s been lately.” Andrew’s father, James, is the former CEO of Anterdec, and still thinks he calls all the shots in the business and in the personal lives of his sons. Andrew’s older brother, Declan, got married last summer and the press covered the bride and groom’s escape from the wedding. Ever since, James has insisted that we carefully view all wedding plans through the lens of getting free media-driven PR.

And as they say in show business, bad press is better than no press.

Or, as James might rephrase it: Any attention is good attention.

Which is pretty much the toddler credo, too.

“Scouting out honeymoon locations? Getting married on the slopes?” shouts a guy with a fake-friendly cry, the lens on his camera glinting in the sun.

A sharp intake of air from Andrew makes me realize he has found an out. He throws the guy a thumbs up. “Yep! Exactly. Thinking about having the wedding here,” he shouts back, matching the guy’s fake tone. That’s a lie. A big one, but sometimes we lie to make people go away.

Click. Click. Click. Flash. Click.

Who uses a flash in full sun? Thank goodness I’m wearing tinted goggles. Fellow skiers are gathering in small groups. My stomach sinks. So far, Andrew has managed to shield me from the press, but we’ve been through this a few times, mostly when we’re out on the town in Boston. It’s rare, but it happens.

And it’s so predictable. The ambush comes first, followed by other people gawking, and then --

“Amanda, can you look over here?”

“Hey, Mandy!”

“Nice piece of ass you got there, Andrew!”

Their goal is to get us to turn and give them the strangest expressions so they can manipulate our pictures for click bait.

At that last one, Andrew makes a low growling sound, the vibration reaching my body. He’s pissed, but if he shows he’s pissed, he’s handed the paparazzi a story.

Rule #1 when dealing with them: don’t react. Like dealing with people with character disorders and time-share salespeople, any reaction feeds into their goals.

“Give us a little space? We just want to enjoy our run.” Andrew’s grip on me tightens. Panic blooms in me.

He’s about to get his way.

Because the only way to escape the press is to ski down this mountain.

“You set this up!” I hiss, furious.

“I swear I didn’t,” he says, but he’s trying not to laugh. “I couldn’t have planned this any better if I tried.”

“It’s not funny!”

“Not to you.”

“Asshole!”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“How? You already got me a giant animatronic teddy bear and dressed up like Mr. Darcy when you proposed. Hard to beat that!”

Click. Click. They’re coming closer, and now the people in the crowd are pulling out their phones, tapping and snapping.

“We’re about to go viral,” he whispers, nuzzling my neck like we’re being affectionate. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I can’t! I’ll wipe out!”

“No, you won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“That is so arrogant.”

“It’s arrogant that I have the utmost confidence in you?”

“Yes.”

“I do not understand women.”

“We’re not complicated. Just don’t make me ski down that trail. Simple.”

“It’s that or face non-stop paparazzi, and tomorrow unflattering pictures of your triple chins will be all over the internet.”

“I do not have three chins!”

“Of course not,” he soothes, backpedaling. “Those evil photogs will make you look like you have one.”

“And a penis.”

“And a what?”

“They’ll make me look like I have a penis. And coffee grounds under my eyes with a caption that says, ‘You’ll never believe which transgender celebrity Andrew McCormick is about to marry!’”

“You have a remarkable capacity for imagining the strangest worst-case scenarios.”

“I have to. I’m in love with you.”

“Hey!”

“Did I or did I not walk miles in an 1800s Regency-era costume after you lost your car keys AND a three-carat diamond ring in Walden Pond?”

“Yes, but -- ”

“Did you or did you not have to rescue me, half naked, from a pool at your brother’s wedding?”

“I am sensing a trend.”

“And did you, or did you not, wake up with me in a Vegas hotel room, thinking for a few hours that somehow we’d both married more than one man?”

Now he just sighs.

Ah.

Victory.

“Race you!” I shout, gliding toward the trail top.

“You’re going down?”

Fortunately, he didn’t shout that question. As his mouth tightens, I giggle.

“I will if you will,” I challenge.

“Deal.”

“But no guarantees if I break my leg.”

“If you break your leg, you’ll be trapped in bed for weeks,” he muses. From the way his jaw sets and he shifts his weight on his hips, I can tell he’s turned on by that idea. Not the broken bones.

The weeks-in-bed part.

“I cannot believe I’m letting you talk me into skiing this. What’s my reward for doing it?”

“Going down.” His hand moves to my ass.

I pull away and swat at him. “You know one of those paparazzi got that shot!”

“Good. I don’t want anyone to question whether you’re mine or not.”

“I work for your company. I live in your apartment. I’m wearing your engagement ring. I kissed Jessica Coffin in public to avoid a catfight. You think people question it?”

“I see how men look at you.”

“How do men look at me?” I squeak, intrigued. I pull out of ready-to-fall-down-the-mountain mode and into tell-me-about-all-these-secret-men-who-want-me mode.

Technically, I have neither mode, because I’ve never experienced either of these situations, but let’s ignore that.

“Like they want to sleep with you.”

“They do not!”

“All the men at work do.”

“Not Josh!”

“Well, I do.”

“You do. It’s a requirement.”

“I’m required to want to sleep with you?”

“You wouldn’t have put a ring on it if you didn’t want to sleep with me. Being engaged to someone is the equivalent of screaming ‘I want to dip my wick in her.’”

“Wick?” He’s offended.

My turn to sigh. “Fine. How about...yule log.”

His grin turns smug.

“Fair enough.” He looks away from me, sizing up the hill, ignoring the click click click and shouts from the photographers. I wish I could compartmentalize like Andrew can and pretend a wall stands between us and them. He’s mastered that art, but he’s also had his entire life to study and refine the skill. I’ve had less than a year.

“Ready?” he asks, giving me his full attention suddenly, brows turned down. A gust of wind whips between us, cold and unrelenting, so sharp, I have a moment of air hunger. As I look around in a mild panic, unable to get my lungs full and my body centered, I see the onlookers, the paps, the resort staff working the lift, and it’s all surreal.

Maybe skiing down to safety — to our quiet suite with heat and coffee and chocolate and a bed and most of all, privacy — isn’t so bad after all.

“I think so,” I say in a small voice. How do I fix this? I’m the fixer. I figure out problems and solve them, chunk by chunk, step by step, misunderstandings unwound and crises averted.

In this moment, though, I am the crisis. I am the center of attention. My association with Andrew makes me important, for a split second, in the lives of these people whose job it is to capture an image of me that can be used to achieve their ends.

I am a means.

Remove the means and thwart the end.

The wind dies down as fast as it swelled up and I’m moving, slowly tipping from flat to angled, my skis parallel, knees tight, thighs clenched, and hips ready for whatever comes as we pick up speed, racing away from that which tracks us.

Andrew breaks off, fast and skilled, his body pure perfection in motion. My eyes follow him until I can’t see him anymore. I’m on my own, careening toward safety, hurtling down a slope carefully groomed for maximum enjoyment.

I’m along for the ride.

And Andrew’s waiting for me at the bottom.

Waiting for me to go down.