I Know
By DEREK TAYLOR

"We can't hook up," she says, her brown eyes big and round and tilted toward her brow as her chin dips to her chest.

"I know," he answers, circling his fingers through her hair.

"I'll start liking you again," she says, "and you're not going to move back here. And I'm sure as hell not moving to California." He takes her discouraging comments as an invitation and tenderly kisses her lips.

Sylvain is staying at Alta's Rustler Lodge where Katherine waits tables and where he, too, once worked. They briefly dated before Sylvain landed his dream job—a ski industry gig that puts him on the hill 50 days a year, but that ironically moved him to Orange County.

Outside, the Utah sky is full of stars, and a full moon illuminates the textured slopes of a bumped-up North Rustler. He lifts her legs to the couch, slides her down until her head meets the arm rest, and he nestles a leg between hers.

Just three days ago the view was completely different. Snow blew sideways as a blizzard pushed through. It was the second such system Sylvain saw in a week, bringing 65 inches altogether, and he skied powder for 11 straight days, the first eight bell-to-bell. Tomorrow he flies home.

"Someday I'd like to retire here," he tells Katherine as he wraps a sore and bare leg around her naked thighs. Now on the bed, she wrestles the covers over them.

"I can't stay tonight," she responds halfheartedly. She's 22 and still in college—12 years his junior.

"I know," he says, helping her remove her flesh-toned tank top, and again they lock in a kiss.

She rolls over, turns out the light, and returns, curling her arm around his head as she clings to his warm, bare chest. "We can't do this," she says, pressing her lips to his skin.

"I know..."

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