Willing myself not to flush, I nod at his Evian. “You must be the only person in here who isn’t drinking.”

“I don’t drink when I’m training. It messes with my recovery time.”

I catch sight of our table. Another round of vodka has arrived. Crap.

Curtis notices where I’m looking. “I reckon you’ve had enough.”

“Excuse me?” I say. “If I need your advice I’ll ask for it.”

Who does he think he is? It’s one thing for him to tell his little sister not to drink, but he doesn’t even know me. I wobble off to the bar. I can’t let Saskia pay for my drinks all night. She can clearly afford it, but I don’t want to take advantage. I have to get at least one round in.

Only I have no idea what brand of vodka we’ve been drinking and Saskia strikes me as someone who would be picky about such things.

“Same again?” says the girl at the bar before I can open my mouth.

“Yeah,” I say, relieved.

Dale and Brent sit farther along the bar. The barmaid chats to them as she fixes my drinks. She’s wearing a little black dress and spiky-heeled boots, and they’re eyeing up her legs. She’s petite and really pretty—long, dark hair; lots of eye makeup. I hear snatches of her accent, thicker than mine—Geordie, from the sounds of it—and warm to her. A fellow Northerner.

Dale says something that makes her roll her eyes. She says something back and he hangs his head, pretending to be shamefaced. Brent laughs and slaps Dale’s back.

The barmaid brings my drinks over. I feel sorry for her, having guys chat her up night in, night out—especially ones as imposing-looking as Dale, with his dreads and multiple piercings. She must get sick of it.

Yet as she loads shot glasses onto a tray, I catch her smiling a secret smile and realize my mistake. She’s the one playing them. And she knows exactly how to do it.

“Here you go,” she tells me. “That’s ten euros.”

I hesitate. Drinks in a ski resort cost a fortune and I was expecting it to be fifty at least. She’s made a mistake, distracted by Dale and Brent, but if I don’t say something, they’ll take the difference out of her wages. “That can’t be right.”

Irritation crosses her pretty features. “Well, it is.”

Okay. At least I tried. I hand her a ten-euro note.

As she rings it up on the till, she glances sideways at the boys and does that hair-tossing, I’m not interested thing. I watch in fascination as Dale leans across the bar, sleeves rolled back to reveal his heavily tattooed forearms, and calls out to her. She smiles to herself again and pretends not to hear.