ONE
DEVLIN
Devlin Mitchell was an intimidating specimen to even the bravest of observers. Standing almost seven feet tall with a thick waist and neatly coiffed raven-black hair, he stood at the top of the slopes in his ski gear, waiting his turn to take the plunge.
Devlin was a billionaire, his wealth earned through meticulous investments and trading wars, but he always did his best to give back to the people around him. He had worked with local philanthropist Gerri Wilder to plan the charity ski slalom championship for the sake of building a senior center.
It wasn’t expected for him to participate, but he felt that it would bring about good karma, as well as positive reviews, if he showed his face. He also knew that because of his shifter panther abilities, he could easily win and knock any human out of the ranking in almost any sport.
But that wouldn’t make things fair or fun, so he intentionally held back on what would have been as easy as breathing for him.
It finally became his turn, and he took the slopes with ease, barely breaking a sweat as he rounded the curves with the cool wind blasting in his face. It was the last of the courses for the day, which he was thankful for. Socializing and acting as a celebrity figurehead was more exhausting than skiing.
He did his best impression of trying his best, rounding the corner with an intense look in his eye. Fortunately for Devlin, he didn’t have to try very hard to look serious.
He allowed two other human skiers to blast by him, earning themselves a spot in first and second place on the podium. Devlin made sure he didn’t end up there, even calculating the rest of the participants' points beforehand so he would miss it by the skin of his teeth.
He celebrated with the winners, thanking them for their participation and good fun. He felt his lips were going to fall off with all the smiling he had been doing that day.
Devlin was a woman’s definition of a tall, dark, and handsome stranger, but he would’ve rather keep to himself and work on his business alone. It didn’t take long for him to realize that if he wanted to give back to the people and receive support, he would have to pop his face out every now and then from his gothic mansion.
A woman he’d dated briefly had once called him aBruce Wayne wannabe. He had blown it off initially, but deep down, it stung because he knew it was the truth.
After the tournament, participants returned to their lodges to dress for the final party and presentation of the trophies that night. It would all take place in a decadent chalet within the ski village, the guests warmed by multiple roaring fires and an open bar.
As usual, Devlin mingled a bit, then found solace in the darkest corner of the expansive room. He sat in a lounge chair in a shadowy pocket away from the blaze of the firelight, sighing as he sipped at his Johnny Walker.
“Well, that was some display today.”A familiar voice emerged from the din of the crowd, and Devlin smiled as he absorbed the satiating beverage on his tongue.
“I should have been an actor,” he mused, opening his eyes to look at the person who was coming his way.
Gerri Wilder appeared as a small, sage woman who had helped him organize this event. He had grown closer to her over the years of planning occasions, most of which involved sporting events that he easily bowed out of winning.
She moved like she was floating to him, holding a stem of a wine glass between two delicate fingers. A presence of wisdom swirled in Gerri’s eyes that Devlin couldn’t ever quite put his finger on, but whatever it was, it often eased the edginess he would have been holding back.
Gerri sat opposite him, her lovely, aged face highlighted in the glow of the orange flames. “You could definitely win an Oscar,” she said, sipping at her red wine. “I bet one of my friends that you were going to win today, Devlin.”
Devlin chuckled darkly, the majority of his body still hidden by the cape of the shadows. “Why on earth would you do that?” Devlin scoffed. “Winning has never been my cup of tea. Plus, no one would attend these events if I won every time.”
Gerri smiled at him, a twinkle in her gray eyes. “You make a good point, but I think you need to make it up to me.”
Devlin ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous tic for when someone asked him something that made him uncomfortable. “Name a price,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.
Gerri shook her head, then leaned back in the seat to cross her legs. People around them chatted, walking around, fueled by the power of liquid courage. “You know that money isn’t a problem for me,” Gerri said finally. “I have one specific favor to ask of you.”
Her tone had diminished into something more serious, almost foreboding. Devlin shot back the rest of his scotch whiskey and placed the glass on the table beside him. He then held out his hands, bringing them slightly into the luminous gleam of the firelight.
“Ask away,” he said.
Apprehensive filled him, but he wasn’t going to show Gerri that. In fact, he would rarely show anyone this side of him because he saw it as a vulnerability, and when he was vulnerable, he was more likely to be blindsided. That had caused him to make some horrible decisions of trust in the past that he would never do again.
“There’s a table tennis tournament next week,” she began. “If you could help me out as a benefactor and a participant, we can call it even.”
Devlin held in his desire to groan, but a sigh emerged anyway. He nodded, stroking the bit of stubble that had grown over the active day.
“That sounds like a lot of work on my end for something so small,” he remarked. “What else is in it for me?”
Gerri had remained smirking the whole time, but in a way that wasn’t smug. It was that knowing sensation that made Devlin’s stomach churn, not in disgust but in intrigue.