"Cocky," I admonish, though heat rises to my cheeks at the memories his words evoke.
"Accurate," he corrects, opening the passenger door for me with old-world courtesy that somehow never feels patronizing from him.
The drive to his cabin is quiet, a comfortable silence broken only by soft holiday music from the radio and the occasional comment about the gala's success. His hand rests on my thigh, a casual touch that still sends electricity through me.
When we arrive, the cabin is warm and welcoming, the fire already lit, Marcus's doing, no doubt, anticipating our return.
"Remind me to send Marcus an extra thank-you," I say, slipping off my heels with a sigh of relief. "He thinks of everything."
"He's thorough," Atticus agrees, removing his bow tie and unfastening his top button with practiced ease. "Though anticipating my needs is considerably easier than keeping up with my mother's constant schedule changes."
I laugh, imagining Marcus's challenge in coordinating Vivienne's whirlwind visit. "Speaking of your mother, I caught her deep in conversation with Levi and Mindy earlier. Should I be concerned?"
"Probably," he admits, moving to the small bar to pour us each a nightcap. "She's taken a surprising interest in Hope Peak's development plans. Something about 'untapped potential' and 'authentic character.'"
"God help us," I mutter, accepting the crystal tumbler he offers. "Hope Peak with Vivienne Morgan's influence could become the next Aspen."
"Would that be so terrible?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.
I consider the question, sinking onto the plush sofa before the fire. "Not terrible, exactly. But part of what makes Hope Peak special is its resistance to becoming too polished, too commercial." I take a sip of the amber liquid, letting it warm me from the inside. "There's authenticity here that money can't buy and shouldn't change."
He sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. "Like you."
The simple observation catches me off guard. "Me?"
"Authentic. Genuine. Resistant to corporate polishing." His smile is soft in the firelight. "It's what drew me to you from the beginning, you know. Even before I recognized it as attraction."
"And here I thought it was my exceptional coffee-making skills," I tease, deflecting slightly from the intensity of his gaze.
"Those didn't hurt," he admits. "But it was more than that. You've always seen me, Sloane. Not the CEO, not the Morgan heir, not the corporate shark. Just... me."
The vulnerability in his voice touches something deep inside me. I set my glass aside, turning to face him fully. "Because that's who I fell for. Just you, Atticus. The man who stress-eats cheesecake before board presentations and secretly loves trashy action movies and remembers how everyone takes their coffee even when he's juggling multi-million dollar deals."
His hand finds my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with gentle reverence. "When did you know? That this, us, was something real?"
"I think I've always known," I admit, leaning into his touch. "I just wasn't ready to admit it, even to myself. You were my best friend, my constant, the person I could always count on. Risking that for something more seemed... terrifying."
"And now?" His eyes search mine, gray darkening to slate in the dim light.
"Now I can't imagine not having this." I turn my face to press a kiss to his palm. "Not having you, like this."
Something shifts in his expression, decision crystallizing into action. He sets his own glass aside and takes both my hands in his.
"Sloane," he begins, voice unusually solemn. "There's something I need to say."
My pulse quickens, both anticipation and a flicker of anxiety rising within me. "Okay."
"These past weeks have been the happiest of my life," he says, his thumbs tracing circles on my wrists. "Not because of the Winter Division's success or the board's approval, but because of you. Because for the first time, I've experienced what it means to truly connect with someone, to share not just my thoughts but my heart."
Emotion wells up, threatening to overflow. "Atticus..."
"Let me finish," he requests gently. "I've been thinking about what happens after the holidays. About New York and Hope Peak and the miles between them."
Here it comes, I think. The practical discussion about long-distance relationships, about making it work despite the challenges. I steel myself, determined to be equally practical, to focus on solutions rather than fears.
What I don't expect is for Atticus Morgan, the most controlled, deliberate man I've ever known, to slide from the sofa to one knee before me.
"The solution isn't long-distance calls and weekend visits," he says, reaching into his tuxedo pocket. "It's this."
