He pulls the sweater over his head, and I turn back to find him adjusting the sleeves. The navy blue transforms him, softening his corporate edge without diminishing his natural authority. He looks more approachable, more human.
More dangerously attractive.
"Well?" he asks, holding his arms out. "Do I pass as a mountain local yet?"
"Not quite." I step closer, reaching up to mess with his too-perfect hair, letting a few strands fall across his forehead. "There. Now you look less like you'll foreclose on the coffee shop and more like you might actually drink a flavored latte."
"Never going to happen."
"Never say never." My hand lingers near his face, and for a moment, we're standing too close, breathing the same air.
His eyes drop to my lips, and something electric passes between us, a current of awareness that's always been there, carefully ignored, but now surges to the surface with undeniable force.
"Sloane," he says, my name barely a whisper.
My phone chimes loudly from my pocket, shattering the moment. I step back, pulse racing, and pull it out to find a text from Levi:Meeting moved up. Starts in 20. Don't be late.
"We need to go," I say, my voice embarrassingly unsteady. "Meeting's been moved up."
Atticus clears his throat, putting distance between us. "Right. Of course."
As he turns to gather his discarded shirt and tie, I catch myself watching the way the sweater stretches across his back, highlighting the strength usually hidden beneath his suits. I force myself to look away, confusion swirling through me.
This is Atticus. My best friend. My ultra-controlled, emotionally guarded, married-to-his-job best friend. The man who's seen me ugly-cry over business school rejections and held my hair back after too many margaritas on my thirtieth birthday.
Wanting more is a complication neither of us needs right now, especially with the Winter Division launch hanging in the balance and the entire town watching our every move.
I zip up my parka with more force than necessary, already rebuilding the careful boundaries between us. "Ready?"
He nods, expression unreadable once more. "Lead the way."
As we leave the locker room, I steel myself for the evening ahead, determined to keep things professional and focus on what matters, showing Hope Peak that Blackwood Industries, and its formidable CEO, can be trusted with the town's future.
Even if that means ignoring the way my skin still tingles where his gaze touched it, and the dangerous question now lodged in my mind: what would have happened if that text hadn't come through?
Some questions are better left unanswered.
At least for now.
Chapter 3
Atticus
Istare out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, watching snowflakes drift toward the ground. The storm the weather service predicted is rolling in, blanketing Hope Peak in a fresh layer of white. I should be reviewing the Q1 projections Marcus prepared, but my mind keeps drifting back to yesterday evening; specifically, to that moment in the locker room with Sloane.
The memory of her standing so close, her fingers in my hair, has been replaying in my head all night. The way her hazel eyes had darkened when they met mine, the soft part of her lips, the electricity that had sparked between us.
What the hell was that?
This is Sloane Parker. My best friend. The woman who's seen me at my worst and somehow still chooses to stick around. The one person in my life who isn't intimidated by me or interested in what I can do for her career. Crossing that line would be foolish, reckless, potentially catastrophic.
And yet, I can't stop thinking about it.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. "Enter," I call, grateful for the interruption.
Marcus steps inside, tablet in hand. "The slope-groomers are ready for inspection, sir. And Ms. Parker has finalized the snow-plow schedules for your approval."
"Thank you, Marcus." I take the tablet, scanning the meticulously organized documents. Sloane's attention to detail rivals my own, one of the many reasons we work so well together. "Where is Ms. Parker now?"
