Black-and-white photos line the fireplace. Climbers in old-fashioned gear strike jaunty poses in front of familiar-shaped peaks. Mont Blanc, 1951, reads one. Dangerous enough at the best of times, let alone in crampons tied on with string.

Curtis leans in close to look at a different photo. “Grande Casse. One of my dad’s favorites. He was the first person to snowboard the north face, right after Saskia was born. Mum didn’t want him to do it.”

“I thought she did all that stuff, too,” I say.

“She eased off after she had us.”

Typical. My mum was the same, leaving a job she loved as manager of a nursing home to have my brother and me. She returned to work part-time once we were old enough but never got her old position back. Why is it always the women who have to give up their dreams? I don’t intend to give up anything for anyone.

Saskia joins us, lifting a pair of vintage glacier goggles from their pin and holding them to her face. “What do you think?”

“Careful,” Curtis says. “They’re an antique.”

She sulkily hooks them back, pausing in front of the stuffed stag’s head to stroke its nose before joining Brent at the table.

I’ve finally thawed out enough to unzip my jacket. My hair snags in the zip. “Damn.”

“Here, let me.” Curtis’s warm fingers descend over mine.

He’s so close I can hardly breathe. There’s a sweet and musky smell that might be his deodorant, or is it his skin? He wriggles the zip and I brace for him to rip hair out—that’s how I do it when this happens—but he’s really gentle. A lump forms in my throat.

“There you go.” Curtis slides my zip down.

I’m burning up, conscious of his sister and Brent watching us, yet Curtis seems in no hurry to move away. He tucks the rest of my hair carefully over my shoulder.

This guy does something to me. It’s not just how he looks—it’s how he is. His coolly confident exterior makes me want to crack him open and see what’s underneath. Deep down I sense he isn’t cold at all. There might even be fire.

Stop. I can’t go down that path. This winter is make or break. If I don’t reach the top three, I’ll have to quit and find a real job.

Saskia gives me a curious look as I sit down next to Brent. Every time I see her, I get mad all over again. I’m going to pretend she isn’t here.

Brent swigs from a bottle, long legs outstretched. “Can I get you a drink, Milla?”

I groan. “No, I never want to drink again.”

He shows me the bottle. It’s only Coke.