L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

his teeth bright white against his sun-kissed face. “I thought you’d like to be in the
picture. My name is Theo.”
“Hi,” I said, cautiously oering a hand, the other one still holding my camera out of
his reach. He couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. But this was a face that
basked in sun and wind all day. The sexy wrinkles around brown eyes gave him a
patina of maturity despite his youth. “Cassie.”
“And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I work here. I’m a ski instructor.”
Hmm. I had been alone for two days, and I’d enjoyed those days a lot. But here was
this gorgeous man in front of me. In all likelihood he was one of Matilda’s. I decided to
cut to the chase.
“So you work here, in Whistler? Or are you one of the … you know …?”
He cocked his head at my question.
“One of the … you-know-whats? … One of the … men?”
He glanced around the crowded village square, a confused look on his face. “Well, I
am … a man,” he said, clearly drawing a blank.
It occurred to me then that he could be just a guy, a random guy, someone very cute
who happened to come up to talk to me, someone with no relation to S.E.C.R.E.T. at all.
This seemed less impossible to imagine, and I smiled at that thought.
“Okay,” I said. “Now I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean to assume you were a camera thief.”
I was participating in the Canadian pastime of apologizing to strangers, something
referred to in my guidebook.
“How about a free ski lesson to make it up to me?” the man oered. Yes, there
definitely was a slight French accent—or rather, Québécois.
“What if I don’t need a lesson?” I said, feeling a little confidence return.
“So you’re familiar with these slopes?” He smiled an irresistible smile. “You know the
conditions and can spot the black diamond runs, know which lifts take you where, and
which beginner runs turn treacherous if you’re not paying attention?” Who was I
kidding?
“No, actually,” I admitted. “I’ve been circling the base for a couple of days. I don’t
know if I have the nerve to go up.”
“I’ll be your nerve,” he said, giving me his arm.
Theo was a natural teacher, and though I resisted the scarier black diamond runs, after
an hour of easily carving up the Saddle, the cold glacial slope where the snow is as
sharp and crisp as I’d ever known snow to be, we took an express lift to the Symphony
Bowl. Theo promised me a mix of challenging drops with easy ridges to give my
quivering thigh muscles a bit of a break, then a leisurely ve-mile run to the village. I
was glad for my nightly running routine in New Orleans. Had I hit the slopes with no
prior conditioning, I’d have been paralytic in front of a fire for the rest of the weekend.
At the rim of the Bowl, I had to stop. Yes, the white rippled snow, which stretched to
meet a sky so blue it hurt to look at it, was utterly breathtaking. But I also marveled at
how my world had changed with a simple “yes.” Over the last several months, I had