Page 4 of Love Worth Gold

“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll be available after the team briefing,” she said, her voice still bright, cutting off a question about the Olympics.

She turned and walked away, not toward the elevators or her room, but toward the far, quiet corner of the lounge. With her shoulders back and her head held high, she walked toward the soft glow of the fireplace and the promise of five minutes where no one wanted anything from her.

The lounge offered a quiet refuge with the warm air and the faint smell of burning wood from the large stone fireplace. Athletes from different nations were scattered across sofas, their restlessness contained by the room’s hushed decorum. Isaline saw her teammates clustered near the tall windows overlooking the valley, but her gaze swept right past them.

Blaire Hollis sat alone at a small, two-person table tucked into a corner, with a book open in front of her. It was a clear, elegant barrier, a polite inferred sign that read:leave me alone. Isaline understood the tactic perfectly.

Instead of retreating to the familiar comfort of her team, she walked to the small bar and poured herself a cup of steaming mint tea. The heat from the mug warmed her hands as she crossed the room. Every step was a choice.

She stopped at Blaire’s table. “Is this seat occupied?”

Blaire looked up from her book with eyes the same sharp blue as glacial ice. She took a slow inventory of Isaline’s face before her gaze dropped to the empty chair. A long moment passed. “No.”

Isaline sat, placing her tea on the small wooden surface. The momentary silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was charged with space for evaluation.

“A terrible day to have legs and skis,” Isaline said, her Swiss accent curling around the edges of her English.

“The wind has no respect for a schedule.” Blaire’s voice was soft and even. Clearly, she had a voice trained for post-race interviews.

“Wind is very rude. It is like a bad lover,” Isaline said, mouth curving. “Gets you all ready and then how you say…foreplay with the course, and then it tells us, no, go back to your room alone. If a woman did that to me, I would not forgive her easily.”

For the first time since Isaline had seen her, Blaire’s mouth curved into a smile that wasn’t for a camera. It was a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. It transformed her face from a beautiful billboard into a living, breathing woman.

“That’s a very specific complaint, Isaline,” Blaire said, sliding a finger between the pages as she closed her book. “I’ll make sure I’m never that woman.”

The air between them shifted. The tension eased into warmth and a heated connection. This wasn’t a meeting between rivals or an interview with a legend. It was just two women stuck in a hotel, bored out of their minds.

“They say the final pitch is faster this year,” Isaline offered, steering the conversation to the one language they both spoke fluently.

“It’s always faster in the course reports,” Blaire countered. “The reality is in the first training run.”

“If we ever get one.”

They talked like that for what felt like hours, in the efficient shorthand of their shared world. They talked about the impossibly long flight from the States to the Alps, the hunt for decent food, and the universal need for a good night’s sleep. The conversation never once touched on medals or legacy or what came next. It was simple and grounded. And underneath it all, a different conversation was happening. A current of attraction, clear and undeniable, flowed just beneath the surface of their words. Isaline let her gaze linger a second too long on Blaire’s mouth. Blaire didn’t look away.

Isaline wasn’t searching for love. She wasn’t looking for anything that would last beyond the night. She was looking for an escape. A moment of pure, selfish sensation that had nothing to do with Matthias Senn’s daughter or Switzerland’s Olympichope. Blaire Hollis, the one-night-stand legend with the iron-clad boundaries, was the perfect storm.

One by one, her teammates stood and headed for the elevators. One of them shot Isaline a questioning look. She ignored it. The lounge emptied until it was just them and the crackle of the fire.

Blaire finished the last of her water and placed the glass down. She stood, not with the hurried energy of someone in a rush to leave, but with the calm of someone who had made a decision. As she walked away, she didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. Her path led straight to the elevator.

Isaline watched her go. This was the moment. The unspoken invitation. She took a final sip of her now-lukewarm tea, pushed her chair back, and stood. She followed Blaire’s wake with steps bold and sure.

When Blaire pressed the call button, Isaline came to a stop beside her. Not too close, but near enough that the space between them was electric with intent. The elevator arrived with a soft chime. The doors slid open to reveal an empty space. Blaire stepped inside, turning to face the front. She didn’t look at Isaline. She simply waited.

Isaline stepped in behind her, the choice made. The heavy bronze doors slid shut, sealing them into a narrow cage ofnerves and desire.

Chapter Three

High in the Alps, multi-time Olympic medalist Blaire Hollis did what she did best—she took control over a woman’s body and never looked back.

Isaline’s back arched off the mattress as Blaire thrust her fingers in a hard, disciplined rhythm, pushing the Swiss skier harder than any training run ever had. Punishing, yes, but deliciously so.

The Olympian loved women almost as much as she loved the breathless rush of racing downhill with a gold medal on the line. Sex came as naturally to Blaire Hollis as waxing her skis before a run.

Every pump of her fingers in and out was calculated to burn off the restless energy that had coiled in her muscles since the wind delay announcement.

“Faster,” Isaline breathed, the Swiss lilt in her English roughened. Her hips lifted in demand of more. “Prove you’re worthy of a gold.”