Tim knew he’d told one too many porkeys when he got to the top of the chairlift. She’d bought the story about the mission and hadn’t blinked when he’d said he’d sung in an underground rock band that had been big in Japan. He’d managed to pull off a decent soufflé after practicing for three days—said he’d mastered it working in an international hotel. That was all well and good, but he should never have claimed he could ski. He stared at the precipitous incline and considered altitude sickness as a last resort.

Claudia took one look at him. ‘I don’t know why you do it. All the bulldust, Tim. Forget it. I like you. OK?’ So they took the lift back down the mountain to the beginners slope with the wannabes and the kids and the weekend tourists. And they had a ball.

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