Shattered

Shattered

Tansy

“How can I help you?” Ash asks, leaning against the counter with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I swallow a little, try to talk, but my throat suddenly feels like a desert. But who can blame me? I’ve seen pictures of Ash Lewis—of course I have. He’s one of the most talented, and popular, snowboarders in the world and he’s been on a million magazine covers. Or at least he was, before he walked away from last year’s X Games, the 2014 Winter Olympics and everything in between. Since then, nobody seems to know what Ash is doing, or who he’s doing it with.

After the assignment came in, I spent an hour Googling him during the snowtrain ride up here. I’d wanted to read about him, to figure out what makes him tick so I could prepare myself for this meeting. Instead I found myself staring at picture after picture of him—some in full snowboarding gear, some in regular clothes, some with his shirt off. I even saw a few of him in the half-pipe wearing nothing but his underwear and snowboarding boots.
I might have spent a little too long staring at those pictures. But again, who can blame me? I’ve never seen anyone rock a pair of red boxers the way Ash Lewis can. Even when it’s twenty degrees out.

And still, all that research—all those pictures—haven’t prepared me for my first face-to-face meeting with the guy. How could they when they didn’t capture the deep, crazy blue of his eyes, a blue that reminds me of the water off Maui, where my parents took me for my sixteenth birthday.

And then there’s his jaw and cheekbones, both of which look like they could cut glass.

And his biceps, which look even bigger in real life.

And those jeans, with the strategically placed tears at the top of his right thigh and over his left knee.

And—

I cut myself off before I end up drowning in my own praises—or is that my drool?—for Ash Lewis. He’s hot enough that I totally could, but that’s not why I’m here. I have much more important business to deal with than trying to find the perfect color to describe his blond hair.

With that thought in mind, I clear my throat, try to remember the spiel I worked up on the train. But I’m so nervous that nothing’s coming. This is my first big assignment, the first time anyone’s trusted me to do this on my own. And while I know it has more to do with my proximity to Park City than it does faith in my abilities, I’m determined not to blow it. This is too important for me to make a mistake.

“Hey,” Ash says, laying a hand over mine where it rests, trembling, on the counter. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I squeak out. “Everything’s fine.” Except for the fact that Ash freaking Lewis is rubbing his thumb softly over the back of my hand. That is definitely something, but I don’t think fine is the right word.

“Good.” He reaches up and tugs on a lock of my messily cut hair. “You look good in pink.”

“Umm . . . thanks?”

He laughs. “You’re welcome.”

He stares at me expectantly , and there’s a part of my brain that is shouting at me to speak. To tell him why I came. But the rest of my brain is barely functioning. It’s too dazed by the fact that he touched me. That he complimented me. That he’s looking at me, even now, one brow raised inquisitively while those eyes of his—those crazy, beautiful eyes—rake over me from top to toe.

“So,” Ash says after a minute where I continue to gaze blankly at him. “Is there something I can help you with?”

About a million inappropriate answers float through my head, but—thank God—so does the right one. Just the thought of why I’m here, of Timmy, snaps me to attention and finally, finally, gets the blood flowing to my brain again.

“Actually, I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

That eyebrow of his goes even higher. “You want to . . . talk?”

“Umm, yeah. If this isn’t a good time, I can come back later . . . ”

“No, this is fine. This afternoon seems to be pretty slow around here.”

“Great.” I smile a little in relief. This is turning out to be easier than I thought it would be. I mean, as long as I remember to breathe. And not to look him in the eye for longer than a second or two. And don’t swallow my own tongue. If I do all that, then it should be easy-peasy. Or at least, that’s the story I’m sticking to.