Transcontinental Overload

Après trois jours, les deux poissons et vous pourrez commencer à odeur.

It was an old proverb her mother used to say all the time, but it’d never rang truer than now for Noémie: After three days, both fish and guests begin to smell.

She had no idea what she’d gotten herself into. Playing host to nine strangers was difficult enough, but sharing living quarters with One Direction was something else entirely. Because she spent most of her time studying, she didn’t recognize them when they showed up at the villa, all million-euro outfits and luggage and an even more expensive camera crew. However, after she invited them in and excused herself to do a quick internet search, she just about dropped dead. They were polite enough and seemed just as cautious as she felt, so she decided to postmark her judgments for a later day.

France had been her home for all twenty years of her life; how was she supposed to give these strangers an insider’s view in only seven days? She figured a bar would be the safest place to start. Everyone would be able to consume a few drinks to take the edge off, and if they were anything like her friends, a few drinks would be all they needed.

It was a good plan. For the first day, at least. But since she couldn’t spend the next six days drunk in a bar, she decided to play it safe again and show off her city’s strong suit.

Growing up at the foot of the French Alps, Noémie had spent most of her childhood in the mountains. She spent many weekends at Chamrousse with her father and brother, and she didn’t need to think twice to conclude it was the perfect place to take her guests.

“Where are you taking us?” one of the boys asked her as they boarded the coach. Everyone looked ridiculous, all bundled up like France was a stone’s throw away from the arctic.

Noémie pulled on a pair of knitted gloves and sat closest to the driver so she could give him directions. “Skiing,” she replied, thankful the word was the same in both languages.

The boys, who all sat together in the middle of the coach, began snickering and punching each other in the shoulders. “Oh, I can’ wait,” one of them said, and Noémie faintly remembered him introducing himself as Zayn. “I don’ think Niall’s ever seen a ski slope.”

“I have so,” the blond one replied, removing his knitted cap to whack Zayn with it.

Noémie looked past the boys to the four girls sitting behind them, hoping to find a few allies. They all looked just as wary as she did. She smiled at that.

Chamrousse was a very short drive from Grenoble, one Noémie had taken so many times she had it committed to memory. There was the occasional “ooh” or “ah” as someone took in the scenery, and Noémie was thankful she’d been chosen as the first host. As much as she loved her home, it was at its finest in the winter.

As the coach pulled into the parking lot of the resort, one of the show’s producers hopped on with a clipboard. “All right, if everyone could just listen up!” he called. “It’ll be easier to film if everyone breaks into pairs, so before you head off to the slopes, make sure to grab a partner. Try to meet back here by six-o’clock.”

Noémie rolled her eyes. She’d never been a big fan of television to begin with, but now that they were telling her what to do all the time, she really hated it. A moment of panic went through her as she realized she’d have to do what the producer had said and find a partner. An afternoon full of skiing had sounded so appealing; now she’d have to help someone master the baby slopes.

She hopped off the coach first, knowing she’d have to get everyone’s gear. She took a tally of how many people wanted a pair of skis and how many wanted snowboards and took off. The producers had already purchased lift passes for everyone and, to Noémie’s surprise, had the resort closed to everyone but them. Seeing an empty Chamrousse was an eerie sight.

As she took off for the rental building, she noticed someone falling into step beside her. “Hello,” a deep voice said. All Noémie could see out of her peripheral vision was a large mop of dark curls.

“Allô,” she replied. “Can I ‘elp you with something?”

He shrugged. “I figured we could partner up. You seem like quite the skier and I don’ wanna look like an arse in front of the lads.”

Truth be told, Noémie had been hoping to buddy-up with one of the girls, but she figured that if he’d been kind enough to ask her first, it’d be in bad taste to refuse. She looked behind her to where the rest of the group was. Everyone seemed to be laughing and having a great time, so she decided to let them be. “Okay,” she conceded.

A grin broke out on the boy’s face. “Great! I’m Harry, by the way. Just in case you’ve forgotten.”

Noémie offered him a tight-lipped smile before she resumed her trip to the rental building. With the help of the television crew, she brought everyone their gear and tried to explain the signs as best she could. Almost everything was in both English and French so she figured no one would have a problem, but she pointed to the beginner’s slopes, explaining that’s where she would be if anyone had any questions or needed anything.

“What do I do with these?” Harry asked, holding up his ski poles.

Noémie couldn’t help but snort. “They’re for pushing.”

Harry’s mouth snapped shut, and it took all his will power not to glare at his new instructor. He was able to figure out on his own how to get his boots snapped into his skis, and his ability to push himself around in small circles left him with a bit too much confidence. By the time he and Noémie reached the beginner’s slopes, he went straight to the first hill and boasted out loud how easy it was going to be.

And then he promptly face-planted into the powdery snow.

The camera crew was barely able to stifle their laughter. Harry picked himself up and brushed the snow off his goggles. He was thankful that most of his face was hidden behind his various snow gear, because everything from his neck up had grown warm.

“Do you need ‘elp?” Noémie asked. Figuring it’d be good for ratings, Harry nodded. “Put your feet like this,” she instructed, moving Harry’s feet so they were shoulder-width apart.

Harry couldn’t help but smile at her thick accent, though it was also hidden behind his large scarf. “Is this good?” he asked.

“Oui,” Noémie replied. “Now, watch me,” she said, bending her knees slightly and opening her arms as if she was about to hug him. Harry mocked her actions. “Très bien! Do you feel even?”

Harry assumed she meant balanced, and he nodded. “Go down again,” she told him.

“Wha’?”

She pointed at the slope. “Try again.”

“Did you see wha’ happened the first time I did that?”

Noémie’s expression was blank. “Now you know ‘ow to do it correctly.”

“Why don’ you go down it, then?”

“I don’t go down beginner slopes, ‘arry.”

Harry scoffed, figuring she was trying to make insinuations about how terrible a skier he was. If she wanted to turn this into a competition, he was stupid enough to take the bait. Now that he’d figured out how to balance himself, he felt ready to take on something bigger than a beginner slope.

“Bring it on, then. Let’s do it your way.”

Noémie grinned. Harry instantly regretted his words as soon as they boarded the lift. Although he couldn’t understand a thing she was saying, Noémie babbled on the whole time, pointing to places in the distance that he assumed meant something to her. He had to admit, everything he’d seen had been gorgeous. The most he’d ever gotten to see of France was Paris, and while it was a beautiful city in its own rite, Grenoble was something straight out of a painting.

While Noémie exited the lift with perfect grace and execution, Harry fell on his face again. No one could contain their laughter the second time around, and Harry ignored Noémie’s outstretched hand and once again picked himself up.

Noémie skied a good distance ahead of him until she reached the start of a slope. Though he knew the color of the pistes meant something, he didn’t know what each color meant. However, he figured black could only mean one thing: certain death.

“I don’ think this is a good idea for you,” Noémie said, nothing but genuine concern gracing her features.

Harry scoffed again, peering over the brunette’s shoulder to survey the slope. He’d always been a bit of a showoff in his younger years, and just because he was worth a few million and had grown up a bit didn’t mean much had changed. He’d already embarrassed himself twice in front of a pretty girl; lightning couldn’t possibly strike him three times. “How hard can it be?”

“Very,” Noémie deadpanned.

Waving her off, Harry positioned himself at the start of the trail. He remembered to bend his knees and make sure his feet were spread far enough apart before using his poles to push himself forward. Before he knew it, he was picking up speed and heading downward at what felt like a ninety-degree angle.

As he reached his peak speed, he remembered he never learned how to turn.

Panic took over as all self-control left Harry’s body. Muted voices shouted after him in the background, but all Harry could focus on was the sound of the tree branches breaking as he headed straight for a rather large evergreen.

Then there was nothing, only black.

“Mon dieu!” That voice was unmistakable. “Are you okay?” Noémie asked him.

As Harry came to, he realized he was partly wrapped around the trunk of the tree and that his poles were missing. There was no immediate pain, but he remembered being told once that sometimes adrenaline took over and he wouldn’t feel the extent of his injuries right away. He held his right arm in front of him — nothing. He repeated the action with his left, only a searing pain shot through his shoulder.

“Oh my god,” he moaned. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”

The camera crew rushed over, asking him over and over what was wrong. A sense of dizziness came over him, and Harry could barely explain that he felt like someone had ripped his left arm out of its socket.

“Give ‘im some room!” Noémie yelled, and everyone seemed to break out of their tizzy and move backwards. She knelt to the ground, checking Harry’s eyes and running the back of her hand across his forehead. While Harry moaned and groaned beneath her, clutching his shoulder as if it was going to get up and walk away if he let go, Noémie went about disengaging his boots from his skis.

“Can you stand?” she asked. Harry nodded, grabbing onto her with his free hand so he didn’t go tumbling down the mountain for a second time. “We can walk the rest of the way down. There is a medical tent near the entrance.”

They stopped now and then to make sure Harry hadn’t suffered any further injuries, and Noémie once again babbled on about not much of anything to distract Harry from the pain.

“How’d you know what to do?” he asked, peering over at her with his large eyes.

“My brother did the same thing as you,” Noémie explained. “Fell and broke ‘is wrist trying to impress a girl.”

A furious blush crept up Harry’s face for the second time. God, he thought to himself, could this day get any worse?