One Last Shot: Chapter 6

“Twice in one week,” Emily smiles as she slips into the seat next to me. “I haven’t seen this much of you since I visited you in Park City, what was it, three years ago?”

“That sounds right,” I say, taking a sip of my sangria.

“Are you drinking wine?” Emily laughs. “With fruit in it?”

I tend to like my alcohol neat, the way I grew up seeing my Russian family and friends drink it. Beer and wine are a last resort, and don’t even get me started on fruity cocktails.

I roll my eyes. “I know. This is such a Sierra drink.” This tapas bar Emily recommended only serves beer, wine, and sangria, so I went with the house specialty since they’re supposedly known for it. My best friend Sierra loves drinks like this, and I constantly give her shit about it.

“How’s Sierra doing?” Emily asks, fondness softening her voice. She and Sierra have very similar personalities—extremely sweet and constantly wanting to think the best of everyone. Emily likes Jackson and Lauren too, but I think Sierra is her favorite.

“She’s off traveling the world with her boyfriend.”

“Wait, what? I thought Sierra was engaged?”

“Long story. But her fiancé cheated on her and now she is dating Jackson’s younger brother.” I tell her a bit about how that all happened.

“Wow, that sounds so unlike Sierra,” Emily says, and she could not be more right.

“Yes, and I’ve honestly never known her to be happier. It’s like once she accepted that not everything goes according to plan, she was able to really start living her life, and she’s loving it.”

“And Jackson is back in New Hampshire now?” Emily asks. Jackson is my oldest and best friend. We met when we were twenty and both competing on the World Cup alpine skiing circuit. She raced for the US and I raced for Austria, and despite being each other’s competition, we became fast friends. In fact, she’s the only one from my ski days that I still keep in touch with. The only one from any previous part of my life, except Emily, actually.

“Yep, back in New Hampshire, married, and running her own ski resort. Well, her and her husband’s.”

“Oh yes, I remember that delicious hottie from the photos you posted from their wedding. You were a stunning bridesmaid, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“So Jackson moved back to New Hampshire and got married, Lauren’s married with twins, right?” she asks and I nod. “And Sierra’s traveling the world with her boyfriend. Are you all alone in Park City?”

“Of course I’m not all alone,” I scoff, even though it does sometimes feel like that. “I mean, Lauren’s still there, but yeah, the twins keep her kind of busy. But work keeps me plenty busy too.”

Besides, Jackson and Nate will be in Park City this weekend for a ski getaway now that their resort is closed for the season. And she was just out for Sierra’s birthday a few months ago, so it’s not like I don’t see her.

“Petra, work is not life,” she slowly repeats the mantra she’s always held dear.

“You know me.” I shrug, lifting the wine glass toward my lips.

There’s nothing I want more in life than to let my successes prove all the naysayers wrong. All those times I finished in the top three and stood on a World Cup podium holding my skis up—that was a big screw you to all the annoying boys who said I’d never be fast enough. And the years I modeled, every magazine I was in and every runway I walked down—that was for the girls in my high school who told me my lips were too big and eyes were too wide for my face, and called me a gazelle because of my skinny legs, and made fun of my chest because I was already a D cup by freshman year. When I left New York to start my own event planning company, that was to prove to my mentor Patrice—who said I would never make it without her company’s name backing my work—that I could not only survive, but thrive. This TV show I’m set to start filming next month, this is for the scared teenager I once was, who couldn’t imagine surviving without her mom, much less envision herself thriving the way I am now.

I. Don’t. Rest.

“I worry about you, you know,” she says as she takes her glass of sangria from the bartender.

“Worry if you want”—I shrug—“but you’re wasting your time and energy. I’m doing something I love and I’m wildly successful at it. I’m happy, Emily. You don’t need to worry.”

She tilts her head slightly, appraising me. I don’t crack under her gaze. Am I really happy? Sure, I’m happy enough. Am I satisfied with my life? Yes, absolutely. Is something missing? That’s a question I refuse to consider.

“If you say so,” she says. “So, how much longer are you in town?”

“A couple more days, max. I was supposed to leave today, actually. But that supersecret client I was telling you about hired me to plan a party for him and I needed to stay a few more days to find a venue.”

“Can you tell me who he is?” Emily asks, one eyebrow raised slightly.

“I don’t think it’s so top secret anymore,” I say cautiously. Is there any reason to hide this from her? “How well do you know hockey?”

“Oh my God, please tell me it’s Alex Ivanov. Please!”

Her request catches me so off guard I can’t be responsible for what my face does in response. “Why?”

“Because he’s unbelievably hot and entirely single. If you’re planning a party for him, I want to be on that guest list.” Her brown eyes darken with longing, her lips part slightly as she sighs.

My mind is at war with itself, reviewing all the reasons I should tell her I’m married to him, and then countering with all the reasons that it’s better if no one knows. In the end, discretion wins out.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, sipping my sangria. I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would, not that I’d ever admit it.

“So it is him?” Her voice is a girlish squeal, something distinctly like what would come out of Stella’s mouth. “Petra, every woman in this city is after him, and he keeps himself hidden away. I don’t know why he’s so reclusive, but it only adds to his appeal.”

“He’s just a really private person,” I say, and by the way her eyes flare, I know I’ve said too much.

“You know him? Like you already knew him before he hired you to plan this event?”

“He’s a friend from childhood.”

Her eyebrows knit together, and I’m reminded how much Emily converses with her face. “How? Isn’t he from Russia?”

“No. His family is originally from Russia, but like mine, they lived in Austria. Growing up, my family lived on his family’s estate.” I don’t mention that since my dad didn’t speak German, he couldn’t find a job as an engineer, which is what he’d been back in Russia, and instead found work as the caretaker for Sasha’s family’s estate.

“If you’ve known him your whole life, why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I didn’t know he was here, honestly. We had a falling out when we were teenagers and I haven’t spoken to him since. Last I knew, he was playing in the KHL, the Russian and European hockey league.”

“But you had to have heard his name,” she says. “How did you not put two and two together?”

“I haven’t followed hockey since I was a teenager.” Quite intentionally avoided it, is more like it. “And his name isn’t Alex. It’s Aleksandr, or Sasha. Ivanov is literally the most common Russian last name. Like a huge percentage of the population is named Ivanov, so if I ever heard the name ‘Alex Ivanov’ it didn’t register that he was the same Sasha Ivanov I grew up with.”

Emily spears a garlic-coated shrimp from one of the plates of tapas the waiter slides on the table between us, then eyes me skeptically. “You haven’t ever looked him up since you were kids?”

“Nope,” I say, taking a few different tapas and adding them to my plate.

“There’s obviously a story there, and you’re obviously not going to tell me.” She pauses, before adding, “That must have taken superhuman willpower.”

“Not really,” I say as I pick up a garlic-coated shrimp with my fork. “I like to leave the past in the past.”

“No doubt,” Emily says. “Kind of like how you left New York behind.”

Her honesty catches me off guard for the second time in the same conversation. Clearly I’m off my game.

“Em . . .I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You left and you haven’t been great about keeping in touch,” she tells me. “If it weren’t for my trip out to visit you a few years ago, I wouldn’t have seen you since you moved.”

“I’ll be better about keeping in touch,” I promise. “And I’ll be back out for this event in a few weeks, so we’ll make sure to see each other then.”

“When people find out Alex Ivanov is hosting this, they are going to be banging down your door for an invitation.”

“I’ll warn Morgan,” I say, making a mental note to do just that.

“Well, even if you’re clearly hiding things from me, I’m glad that you’re here and even happier that you’ll be back again soon.”

“I’m not hiding things from you, Em,” I tell her, but it’s a lie and we both know it. What I really mean is, I’m only hiding the things I hide from everyone—it’s not personal. “I’m just a private person. You know that about me.”

“And I love you anyway.”

“So tell me what’s going on with you.” The redirection works and as she launches into more of an update than I got the other day at lunch, I’m relieved to not have to talk about Aleksandr, to not explain our connection, and most importantly, to not admit how much his niece Stella has already stolen my cold, frozen heart.

“You wouldn’t believe the gossip going around in the office,” Morgan says. Over the video call, I can see she’s in my private office and I’m sure she’s got my soundproof door shut, so no one else in the very open loft-style office space we rent in downtown Park City will hear her. I only have three employees, but we’re a tight-knit group.

“Really? What about?”

“You.” Morgan pushes her blue light filtering glasses up her cute turned up nose. Her blond hair is in a ponytail with a three braids running from the front of her head to the elastic, and I’m reminded there’s almost nothing cute like that I can do with my curly hair.

“And why are people gossiping about me?” I ask in that voice I’ve perfected, the I couldn’t care less, but you might as well tell me anyway one that hides how desperately I always want to know what people are saying about me. Not because I like being the subject of gossip, but because knowledge is power and without it, you can’t control the narrative. And if there’s anything I want, it’s to be in control of my own life—make my own damn decisions, influence the way people think and talk about me, define success on my own terms. I need complete autonomy over my triumphs and failures.

“Because you were supposed to be on a plane back here yesterday and instead, you called a virtual meeting to tell us about a new event we’re planning for arguably the hottest and most successful hockey player in the NHL. How’d you pull that one off?”

“You think Alex is hot?” I ask, trying not to stumble over the Americanized name.

“Duh,” Morgan says, rolling her eyes, and I’m reminded how our six-year age gap feels like more sometimes. She’s my friend Lauren’s cousin who needed a job out of college, right as I was looking for an assistant. She was organized and flexible and willing to relocate, so I hired her. And she’s been a great assistant. But she’s so much younger at twenty-four than I was then, and sometimes it makes me wish I’d been that carefree. You were never carefree, I remind myself, not even before the accident, before everything else that happened to you.

“But . . .” I say, and realize I have nothing, no argument to invoke. Sasha’s not hot in the traditional sense. He’s too big, too raw. His flat, smooth forehead is just the right size between his black hair and thick, nearly straight eyebrows. The bridge of his nose is wide and flat, except for the small bump where he broke it when he was fifteen. He has a perfectly square jaw with a cleft in his chin that you can’t see through the short beard he sports now, and a neck wrapped in thick, corded muscle that leads to the rest of his powerful body. “I guess I just don’t see him that way,” I tell Morgan. Lies. “I’ve known him since we were kids. Grew up with him, actually.”

“Are you serious?” she squeals. “That’s so cool.”

“Not really. Anyway, I was already here, so extending the trip a few days to try to nail down a location for the party just makes sense.” I glance up at the coffee shop I’ve made into my office today. I stopped here for breakfast, stayed for a midmorning coffee, and just finished lunch before my call with Morgan. “Were you able to make those calls I asked about yesterday?”

“Yes,” she says, and shares her screen with me so she can walk me through her detailed notes on the various location possibilities for each type of space I’m looking into: rooftop patios where we can bring in real furniture, empty lofts that can be totally redecorated, or outdoor garden spaces. Anyone can throw a party at a hotel, restaurant, or bar, but I’m looking to do something unique—something worthy of my name being attached to it. People don’t pay me obscene amounts of money to throw lame events that any event planner could arrange.

We decide on four locations that make sense for me to try to see while I’m here. “I’ve got until 6 p.m. tonight, any time tomorrow, or I could even do Saturday morning before I leave.”

My phone vibrates as a text comes in, and I glance down on the table to see Aleksandr’s name. I snatch it up so quickly I almost drop it.

“What is that look?” Morgan asks, her voice taking on a singsong quality like she’s caught me in the act of something I shouldn’t be doing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, casually glancing back at my computer screen.

“Sure you do. Your face just got all dreamy, and you never look like that at work.”

Dreamy—pfft. It’s Aleksandr, not some guy I’m going to sleep with.

“Give me a sec, I need to respond to this.”

“Sure,” she says, and sits back in my office chair while I read Aleksandr’s message.

“So you’re definitely coming home Saturday?” Morgan asks when I set my phone down and glance back up at the video call on my laptop.

“Sunday is closing day. No way I’m missing the last day of skiing this year.” In fact, this trip really put a damper on my end of season spring skiing. Normally I hit the mountain every weekday, when it’s least crowded, for at least a few runs. Not to mention that now I’ll only get one day with Jackson before she and Nate leave Park City to head home.

“You booked your own flight?” Morgan sounds hurt, like I’ve taken away some of her job responsibilities for no reason.

“When I canceled my last one, yes.”

“Okay, I’m going to start making these calls,” she tells me. “I’ll put any appointments on your calendar, and I’ll get you transportation for each one. All details will be in the calendar invites.”

“Thanks, Morgan. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only assistant you’ve ever had.”

“Same difference. Talk soon.” I disconnect the video call and take my earbuds out.

“So, you’re a skier?” I hear from the table next to me. I glance over at the blond guy sitting there with his laptop in front of him. He’s in a lightweight, tailored blue wool suit, his hair styled and his face clean shaven. That face exudes charm, and his Patek Philippe watch exudes wealth.

“So, you’re an eavesdropper?” I rest my elbows on the table as I turn my head fully toward him.

“Touché. But you have the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. I couldn’t exactly tune you out.”

“Fair.” Honestly, I’d much rather him comment on my voice—which is low and raspy for no reason other than that’s how it developed—than on my face or body, which is what everyone seems to notice about me first. “Yes, I’m a skier. You?”

“I have a place in Vermont, I try to get away as often as I can during the winter. Where do you ski?”

“Park City.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“No,” I give him a smile, but don’t offer any more details.

“Are you going to make me guess?” he asks, leaning toward me and resting his elbow on his table, mimicking my position.

“You’ll never guess, and I don’t have all day to wait while you try.” I reach up and shut my laptop without taking my eyes off him.

“Because you have plans?”

I give him the smile I reserve for guys I’m flirting with. “Because I have a life.”

“Does that life include having a drink with me tonight?” His voice is smooth and deep, like a caress. This is exactly my type of guy—persistent without being pushy. I can tell he’s looking for one thing, the same thing I’m looking for when I hit on a guy: intense, short-term attraction.

“I have dinner plans tonight.”

“So do I,” he says. “Drinks after dinner would be the perfect way to end the day, don’t you think?”

Oh, I do. But I don’t know how long tonight’s dinner will last or if Sasha will need me once his sister-in-law is gone. “That does sound lovely, but I’m not sure how long my dinner will last.”

“Why don’t I give you my number and if you’re free after dinner, send me a text.”

“Okay,” I agree.

“Where are you staying?” he asks as he types his name and number into my phone.

“Upper East Side.”

“Perfect, that’s where I live. I have a great bar in mind.” He hands me back my phone. “Are you going to at least tell me your name, so I know who you are when you call?”

“You won’t recognize me by my voice?” I tease.

“I will,” he says, “but I’d still like to know your name.”

“Petra,” I say, holding my hand out to him.

“Sam,” he says in return as he shakes my hand.

“Maybe I’ll be seeing you tonight, Sam.” I take my laptop and slide it into my bag.

“I certainly hope so,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips as he watches me pack my stuff into my leather shoulder bag.

I strut out of that coffee shop high on the notion that even if tonight’s dinner is a shit show, I can retreat right into Sam’s willing arms when it’s over.