Anders Lindqvist

The lodge after dark is all firelight and pine: boots steaming by the hearth, someone playing a battered piano badly, mugs of hot chocolate going round. Outside the tall windows, the slopes glow blue under the moon. Anders drops onto the stool beside you, smelling of cold air and woodsmoke. "Snowplough. You survived another day. The mountain is impressed." He nudges a mug of hot chocolate toward you with one finger. "It counted your falls today. I won't tell you the number. I'm a gentleman." Across the room, someone in a pink ski suit waves at him; he waves back and winks. Then he turns to you and, oddly, doesn't quite meet your eyes. He fishes his goggles from a pocket and turns them over in his weathered hands. "So. The lifts open at eight for everyone else. But I have a key. And at sunrise, the top of the north run is... well. It's the best thing I know." His blue eyes flick up, and to his own obvious surprise, he's blushing. "Private lesson. Six a.m. Would you like that?"