While I’m on the lift, an inch of snow gathers in the folds of my jacket. It’s really coming down! Blissfully, I carve fresh tracks through the powder, but when I reach the bottom, I can’t shake the eerie feeling any longer. The sky is an opaque wall of grey, and the snow is coming down so hard that it’s pretty much impossible to see a foot in front of my face.

  As much as I want to get on the lift again, I know it’s safer to head back toward the main ski area. I’ll go back to the first chair I rode up. The groomed runs weren’t as fun, but I know it’s the right decision.

  I skate-ski across a flat section, pushing hard with my poles to create forward momentum. My heart starts to beat fast, and I feel genuine fear for a few moments when I don’t recognize my surroundings.

  I thought I knew where I was.

  There should be a run here. Instead, I only see a wall of pine trees, their branches laden with heavy snow. I’m sweating with the exertion of propelling myself over the flat section, and my heart refuses to slow down.

  Where am I?

  I keep moving. Finally, I catch sight of the sign I was expecting ten feet back.

  It’s a run that I recognize, and immediately I can imagine where I am on the mountain. Whew!

  I force myself to ski with control as I start the descent, but it’s actually pretty hard. My body is shaky. When I reach the base area, I feel flooded with relief. Though I’d planned on maybe taking a few more runs down at this lower elevation, I decide against it. The feeling of being lost was too scary. It’s a blizzard out here, and all of my safety-senses are telling me to head inside.

  There’s always tomorrow.

  I cross the street and make my way toward the Roussillon, with my rental skis over my shoulder. At the grand entrance, I look around for the ski valet, but he’s nowhere in sight. Not quite sure what to do with my rentals, I prop them up against the vacant valet podium.

  Someone will find them and put them away, right?

  I sit on a little bench and remove my ski boots, and put them in the little locker that the valet issued to me earlier that morning. I grab my shoes, slip them on, and then head into the hotel. I’m looking forward to sitting on one of the lobby’s white couches for a moment, and warming my hands and feet by the fire. Maybe I’ll even treat myself to a hot chocolate, since it’s still too early for a glass of wine.

  When I enter the lobby, my skin starts to prickle with goosebumps. It feels strange in here. Eerie—just like the back bowl did just an hour earlier.

  The place is completely empty. Not only are there no guests, but the front desk is also empty! And the fire pits, which I’ve so been imagining so vividly, are extinguished. Not one toe-warming flame flickers in the lobby. The chandeliers are also out, and the room is filled with a pale, silvery light from the stormy skies outside.

  It’s quiet.

  Too quiet.

  But then, a sound pierces the silence. “No, that will not work for me!” A man’s voice yells. It’s slightly muffled, coming from somewhere beyond the lobby.

  Someone’s here! He might be able to explain to me what’s going on. Is it some Swiss tradition to sleep in on Thursday mornings? Is there some kind of Sabbath-like holiday that everyone, besides me, happens to be observing?

  The voice is still yelling, and I follow the sound of it across the lobby, and down a hallway. On my way, I pass a room filled with books. A library! I love to read, and only have a few pages left of the book that I packed for the trip. I’ll have to stop in later, after I figure out what the heck is going on here.

  I pick up more of the conversation. “The only damn road out of this village is closed,” he says. “I told you, I need to leave today.”

  My heart sinks as I listen closer. I know that voice. I recognize the subtle Irish accent. I’m sure of it before I even round the corner and see the red parka, and the handsome man wearing it. It’s the man who mistook me for a waitress the previous night. I wince as I listen to his familiar, condescending tone. At least this time, someone else is catching the brunt of his foul mood, not me.

  “I could sue, do you hear me? This is unacceptable. I have a twenty-million-dollar deal riding on my prompt departure. Do you understand that?”

  He’s standing in a cafe area with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer outstanding views over the slopes. White coffee mugs and wine glasses line the shelves on one wall. There’s no bartender present, but there’s a menu just above the countertops. I see the words “Swiss mocha” in curving script, and notice bottles of chocolate syrup next to an espresso machine and bottles of wine.

  This is where I could have gotten the hot chocolate I was craving. But there is no bartender or barista in sight. And from the sounds of the angry conversation I’ve been eavesdropping on, there won’t be for quite some time.

  The man is facing a wall, his hand on his hip. There are melting pockets of snow on his jacket. It’s dripping off of his shoulders, and piled up in the folds of his hood. He must have just gotten into the hotel from skiing, like me. He seems to see me out of the corner of his eye, because suddenly he spins around.

  He glares at me.

  I want to turn and walk away from him, but I grit my teeth and plant my feet. I need answers, and he’s got them.

  “Fine,” he says into the phone. “Yes. No, not tomorrow, today. Okay. I’ll be expecting it.”

  He hangs up, still glaring at me.

  “What’s going on?” I ask tentatively.

  “You didn’t hear either?” He cocks an eyebrow and his eyes burn into me like laser beams. He does look like a movie star. If he wasn’t such a jackass, I’m sure I’d swoon under his direct gaze.

  “Hear what?” I ask.

  “There was an avalanche. This morning. A big one, just outside of the resort. The whole place was evacuated.”

  “Evacuated? That’s impossible! I stayed here last night. I had room service delivered this morning. No one said anything about evacuating?”

  “Well, according to the representative I just spoke to, the staff evacuated all guests and workers at seven a.m. Thankfully, the avalanche missed the Roussillon, but it took out the road leading into—and out of—the resort.”

  I’m having trouble keeping up with him. “Wait a minute… I was already waiting in line for the lifts at seven. I wasn’t even here! That is such short notice!”

  “No kidding,” the man says. “Charlie and I left before seven too.”

  “This is crazy!” I say. “They can’t just leave us here! But you’re saying that the avalanche missed the hotel? So, it’s over now? We’re safe?”

  “Sure, we’re safe, but we’re stranded. We can’t leave. Do you get that?”

  I feel myself glare up at him. Do I get it? What does he think of me—that I’m too dull to understand the word “stranded”?

  I blow out a frustrated breath. “Yeah, I get it,” I say. “We’re stuck here. But I don’t see the problem.” I look around, eyeing the chocolate syrup. How hard could it be to make myself that cup of hot chocolate I’ve been dreaming about? The management would surely want me to help myself, given the circumstances.

  At least, it’s a better alternative than suing, which is what this pretentious guy might do.

  I sidestep toward the bar, wondering if I’ll be able to figure out how to steam a cup of milk.

  “You don’t see the problem?” he repeats. “Really.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. “It’s just wonderful to be trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no roads leading in or out.”

  “Well,” I say, “I’d rather the avalanche hadn’t happened, but we can’t change that now. And look on the bright side: we have a whole luxury hotel to ourselves.”

  He scowls. Apparently, looking at the bright side of things isn’t his strong suit.

  “Of course you wouldn’t understand. You probably have no idea what it’s like to have responsibilities waiting for you. A real job to do—an important meeting to attend. Of course, you wouldn’t —”

  “All right.” I say, stopping him right there. I don’t need to have my unemployment rubbed in my face, and I’m sick of his negativity. My hot cocoa experiment will have to wait.

  I turn away from the man, and the bar, and begin walking out of the room. “I’ll see you later,” I say, with my back to him.

  On second thoughts, I pivot again.

  He’s not going to stop me from getting myself some chocolatey goodness.

  “Have fun yelling at people who you think are beneath you,” I say. I sail around the countertop so that I’m behind the bar, my snow pants swish-swishing as I move. I spot a little fridge and look inside. As I expected, there’s a jug of milk. I grab it, and then help myself to a wine glass off of the shelf. “You seem to be pretty good at it,” I add.

  It’s too early for wine, and I don’t want to hang out in this cafe long enough to make a hot chocolate, so chocolate milk will have to do. I feel the guy watching me as I slosh milk into the glass and then squeeze in a blast of chocolate syrup. Not too much—I don’t like it when it’s too sweet. I don’t even bother stirring my concoction—I simply lift it and round the bar again, making my way toward the exit.

  The guy’s mouth is hanging open. Maybe he’s surprised that I matched his sarcasm with a remark of my own, or maybe he’s so flabbergasted because I just mixed myself a drink.

  Whatever.

  “What?” I say, as I pass by him. “You’ve never seen chocolate milk before?”

  “Not in a wine glass, no.”

  I keep walking.

  “Where are you going?” he demands.

  “Anywhere but here!” I call over my shoulder.

  I know where I’m going, but I don’t want to tell him. I make my way back toward the library I passed by a few moments ago.

  Books.

  Books and chocolate milk.

  Does it get any better than that?

  It feels good to be away from the rich guy’s negative attitude. What does he have to complain about, really? He’s loaded, by the sound of things. Some rich people are like that, I suppose. Only interested in getting their greedy paws on more money, never simply satisfied with what they’ve got.

  I walk into the middle of the cozy library, surveying the shelves all around me. As I sip my chocolate milk, I take in the layout, trying to figure out where books in English might be stored. Ideally, I’d like to get my hands on a mystery of some sort. If I can’t be out skiing powder, curling up with a good page-turner will be the next best thing.

  I spot a small sign that announces titles in English, and I walk toward it. The room is small, and the walls are lined with shelves. In addition, there are two rows of shelves that pass through the middle of the room, and a small seating area composed of two armchairs and a little table.

  The furnishings are a little dated, and the room has kind of a forgotten feel—it’s less polished and glitzy than the rest of the rooms I’ve been in.

  Well, in this day and age, the ritzy Roussillon guests probably all travel with electronic reading devices. Who reads books anymore, anyways? No wonder everything seems to be covered with a layer of dust, as though the cleaning staff regularly skips it over.

  I reach the section of wall with mysteries on it, and my eyes quickly land on one of my favorite authors. There’s even a few books of his that I haven’t read yet! Jackpot!

  I pull two off of the shelf and flip one of them over. Which one will I read first? My eyes hungrily scan the back cover, curious to see if I’ve found the winner.

  My foot hits something that feels solid at first, but slides a bit with my soft impact.

  It wasn’t the base of a bookshelf; it was much too free-moving for that.

  A ski boot? What’s a ski boot doing here, lying in the middle of the room? That’s odd. It’s a kid’s boot, I can see. A guest must have dropped it in the rush to evacuate earlier that morning. I place my glass of milk down on top of the shelf, and bend down to pick it up, out of a habitual desire to set it upright so it looks neat and tidy.

  As I bend down, I get a clear view between the two shelves in the middle of the room. There’s a boy in there! I recognize him. He’s the boy that my red-jacketed friend was signing to yesterday evening.

  He’s lying down, his head bent low over the pages of a book that he has spread over the floor. He clearly hasn’t noticed me, and I don’t want to startle him.

  Carefully, I walk around the shelves so that I can approach him from the front. I walk slowly, giving him plenty of time to see my feet before I crouch down low. He has his tongue sticking out as he reads, and his brow is furrowed with concentration. Slowly, he looks up at me, totally casually, as if he was expecting me.

  “Hi,” I sign.

  He grins. He’s happy that I can sign.

  “What does this say?” he asks me, pointing to the page. No small talk for this little guy. He wants to get right down to business.

  I look to where he’s pointing, and see that he’s reading a comic book.

  “Conviction,” I sign, after reading the sentence he pointed to, and locating the only big word in it. I teach second-graders, so I know the kinds of words that give kids trouble. This boy looks like more of a first-grader, and I’m surprised that he’s been able to make his way through the advanced comic-book dialogue at all.

  He screws up his eyebrows, and looks at me questioningly. His sandy brown bangs fall in disarray over his brows, and almost touch his lashes. “What does conviction mean?” he asks. He’s still wearing one of his ski boots, I see, and I note his jacket tossed on the ground, a few feet away from him.

  Does his dad know he’s in here?

  “It means standing up for what you believe in,” I sign.

  He still looks confused.

  I lay flat down on the ground, directly across from him, and lean over the book. Quickly, I take in the scene that he’s been reading. “See this guy?” I point to one of the superheroes. “He’s saying that the team has to stay really strong and hold onto their beliefs.”

  “Oh, like not go to the bad guy’s side?”

  “Right,” I sign.

  “He’s a really mean bad guy,” Charlie signs.

  “Yeah, he is,” I sign back, looking at the drawing of the villain on the page. Then I point to a close-up of the villain's face and mimic his expression. I turn my lips into a sneer and squint my eyes. Charlie sees what I’m doing and copies me, making the most adorable little mean-face I’ve ever seen.

  We grimace and glare at each other for a few seconds, pretending to be the evil villain on the page, but then neither of us can hold the expression any longer. First Charlie bursts out laughing, and then I do.

  “Why did he run away?” Charlie signs, before pointing to picture of the story’s hero, who seems to be running for cover. It’s hard to read the script upside down, and I think that Charlie picks up on that, because suddenly he’s moving over, making room for me on the floor beside him.

  I won’t be able to answer his question without flipping back a few pages to catch up on the storyline, so I go and settle down again at his side. It’s not like I have anywhere else to be at the moment, and someone should be keeping this poor kid company while his father throws a hissy fit in the other room.

  “Let’s see…” I sign. “Can I go back a little bit?”

  He nods.

  “My name is Harper. What’s your name?” I ask, as I flip the pages backwards. “Are you here with your parents?”

  “My name is Charlie,” the boy signs. “I’m here with my dad. His name is Jason.”

  “Does he know where you are?” I ask.

  Charlie nods. “He told me to play in here while he was on the phone. We have to leave today.”

  “Oh,” I sign. I don’t think Charlie will be leaving today, but I’ll leave that up to Jason to explain. I reach the beginning of the story that Charlie’s been working on, and pause.

  “Will you read it to me?” Charlie asks.

  “Sure.”

  I start signing the pages, making faces to go along with the characters, since I can’t differentiate them with the sound of my voice. Charlie seems to like my acting abilities, because every time I make a face, he mirrors me.

  Soon, we’re cracking up every few sentences, especially when the dialogue comes from the bad guy. Our mean faces become more and more elaborate. We scrunch up our noses and bear our teeth with such ridiculousness that soon, we’ve forgotten entirely about the comic book. Charlie jumps up and starts play-acting the scene we’re in, pretending to shoot a lightning bolt at me.

  I take on the hero’s role, and dodge out of the way. I crouch behind a row of shelves as Charlie army crawls toward me. I cover my face, pretending to shield myself from his attack.

  The sound of a person clearing their throat makes me freeze.

  Crap.

  There’s only one other person in this hotel, and it’s a man that I don’t particularly feel like seeing. I turn around slowly, parting my hands just enough to peek through them.

  I see ski pants, cinched at the waist with a buckle. A black base layer is tucked into his pants, and I note his washboard abs. Damn, the jackass is fit. Slowly, I look up, my hands falling away from my face.

  “Hi,” I mumble, when my gaze finally reaches his eyes.

  For once, he’s not frowning—he actually looks slightly amused. His eyes have a soft twinkle to them, as he looks between Charlie and me. He has sandy hair, like Charlie’s, which is all mussed up from his helmet. His eyes are blue and sharp. There’s a layer of stubble over his chin, which gives him a rugged look. He presses his lips together, as if thinking hard, or trying to contain a smile. Must be the former, because from what I’ve seen of this guy, a real smile is unlikely.

  Suddenly, despite how much fun I’ve been having with Charlie, I can’t wait to get out of the library.

  I stand up slowly, and as I do, it feels like all of the oxygen leaves the room. I’m only a few feet from this man, and it feels like much less. He’s got a real energy field around him, and the room is now crackling with tension. He’s handsome as hell.