“I was a misfit, too,” Christy said. “In seventh grade, I was already five-eight, skinny, like a baby giraffe. In fact, that became my nickname in high school, and it stuck, do you remember?”
“Of course,” Michael said. “I was in the Montjuic Stadium in ninety-two. We were all yelling ‘B-G, B-G, B-G.’”
Christy chuckled. “Right. Baby Giraffe. That’s why I named the company Baby G. But trust me, it was no fun being such a gangly kid. I would have liked to disappear, but that’s hard when you tower over everyone.” As Christy spoke, she watched Michael listen. His face betrayed a mixture of amusement and sympathy.
“Well, I’m gonna call you Beegee from now on,” Michael declared. “I like to think of you in the glory days.”
“That was a long time ago,” Christy said as she started to get out of the water.
Michael watched Christy emerge in the wet T-shirt that clung to her body. She realized this might not have been the best idea.
A few minutes later, she came back onto the terrace wearing one of the hotel’s plush robes. Her wet hair was brushed back, and she was carrying a bottle of lotion. Christy filled her champagne flute and his before settling into the chaise longue. She watched Michael drink the bubbly with obvious pleasure.
“I was at the Olympic marathon trials. I saw you qualify,” he said.
Christy was startled. “You were? I guess you really are a serious fan. Do you remember how sick I was?”
“No, what was wrong?”
“I thought you might remember because there were all these rumors that I might drop out.”
“Wait. You had diarrhea while you were running but you still won.”
“Right.” Christy was embarrassed. It was her moment of glory but humiliating as well. It was the day she realized how important winning was to her, not just her dad.
“Gutsy of you to run.”
“My dad called it. No Trials, no shot at the Olympic team. But it wasn’t only him. The Olympics were my only way out of Glenbrook.”
“So why’d you stop running after Barcelona? You could have competed for at least four more years.”
“Maybe,” Christy said, smoothing her hair with her fingers. “But I got all those commercial deals after I won and they took a lot of energy. Two gold medals were plenty. I decided to go out on top.”
“Hard to imagine you could give up all that glamour.” Michael stepped out of the Jacuzzi and wrapped a towel around his waist. He sat down next to Christy, watching her.
“Running marathons is not glamorous. You must know that. I trained three, four hours a day—endurance work, speed work, drills, weights. When you compete at that level, you become completely one-dimensional. In the end, I wanted more. I thought I could build something lasting for myself. Something no one could take away from me. So I started the company. The funny thing is,” Christy said, trying to seem oblivious to Michael’s obvious attention, “when you become a CEO, there’s no room for anything else, either. Only the most obsessed succeed. Don’t you agree?”
“I do. That’s partly why my marriage fell apart. But look at it this way—your athletic training prepared you to lead a company,” he said.
“It did. It was my MBA,” Christy said, smiling.
“You know, you’re amazing, Christy. You’re beautiful, charming, accomplished. Why do you push so hard?”
“Why do you?” she said, delighted that he thought she was amazing.
“I asked you first.”
“I don’t know. Ever since I started winning medals, I’ve had this terrible fear that someday I’ll wake up and discover I’m ordinary. So I can’t exactly stop and smell the roses, at least not yet. You?”
“I like making decisions, being the guy everyone can count on, especially when it’s all on the line. Which is good, because I’ve never taken orders very well.” Michael smiled in a sort of half-embarrassed, half-proud way.
Christy returned the smile. She couldn’t reconcile Michael’s hard-core reputation with the guy she was sitting with. Maybe it was those dimples. They were so disarming. Silently, she fumbled with the top to the lotion she had picked up in his bathroom.
“Let me help you with that,” Michael said, taking the bottle, squeezing the cream into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm it up. He positioned himself behind Christy, gently pulling her robe about halfway down her back. Oh my God, she thought, not quite sure what to do. Michael couldn’t see how flushed her face had become.
Moving his hands in a circular motion, he applied the lotion, massaging the kinks out of her neck, working the knots above her shoulder blades. Slowly, gently, with just the right pressure, he moved his hands in parallel lines down Christy’s spine, then up and out across her shoulders. He repeated the motion several times, his fingers conforming to the contours of Christy’s muscles. She closed her eyes as he stroked her, wishing he would reach in front and caress her breasts. She felt his breath against her neck and waited for him to kiss her or lick her or bite her or suck her or anything he wanted to do. She suppressed a moan while his hands moved rhythmically against her skin. Then he spread his fingers, running them down her back like a rake. A shudder went down her spine, and she let out a helpless cry.
“You’re ticklish,” he said quietly. When she turned to face him, he had the look of a guy beating a hasty retreat. She wasn’t sure what had happened.
Christy looked over and took in the gentle light. “Oh God,” she said, “the sun’s rising. We’ve been up all night.” She pulled the back of her robe up.
“Do you want to take the gondola to the top of the mountain and watch it?” Michael whispered.
“No, I…I can’t. I only have stiletto heels and a
