Half a dozen times, he’d opened her guest file on the resort computer and looked at her information: her full name (which was Luff, not Holden) and home address, her phone number and e-mail, that she wanted a room on a high floor with a good view and preferred down pillows to foam. That small detail had haunted him for days, and he’d found himself at Target, adding down pillows to his regular purchases of dish soap and softener sheets. Trying them for the first time in his life, he decided he mostly liked them, or at least, he could get used to them. He’d thought back on their twenty-four hours together over and over again—her clipped coolness when she’d rented the skis, and the relief on her face when he’d rescued her. How light she’d felt in his arms as he carried her, and how she smelled of rose water and fresh air. He grinned as he remembered the way her eyes would flash when he bossed her around, the way she stuck her nose up when she thought he was patronizing her.
