"These are good," I admit, studying the careful balance she's struck between corporate branding and local charm. "Very good, actually."
"Thanks." She points to a version with red accents against the traditional Blackwood navy and silver. "Sloane thought you'd prefer this one. Something about red being your color."
I feel my eyebrows rise. "Did she now?"
"Her exact words were 'Atticus looks better in red.'" Brynn watches me with barely concealed interest. "She notices things like that, you know."
"Ms. Parker has an excellent eye for design," I say neutrally, though something warm unfurls in my chest at the thought of Sloane paying such close attention.
"Mmm-hmm." Brynn doesn't sound convinced by my professional deflection. "She also said to remind you about the snowmobile testing this afternoon. Something about proving you're not just a 'tailored suit with a fancy title’".
The challenge in Sloane's message is clear, and despite myself, I feel a smile tug at my lips. "Tell Ms. Parker I'll meet her at the north ridge at two. And that she should prepare to lose gracefully."
Brynn grins. "I'll pass that along. Though between us, she's been racing those trails since she was sixteen."
"I appreciate the warning, but I rarely lose, Ms. Ellison."
"There's a first time for everything, Mr. Morgan." She gathers her mock-ups, leaving the red-accented one on my desk. "Especially in Hope Peak."
After she leaves, I find myself studying the campaign image with new eyes. It's not just good marketing, it's a vision of what Blackwood's presence in Hope Peak could be: harmonious, beneficial, enhancing rather than overwhelming the town's existing character.
It's Sloane's vision, I realize. The one she's believed in strongly enough to leave her beloved coffee shop and join a corporate giant she's spent years teasing me about.
The weight of her faith in me settles on my shoulders, not as a burden, but as a responsibility I suddenly find myself desperate to live up to.
My phone buzzes with a calendar notification:Mother arriving Dec. 20. Prepare a guest suite.
I grimace. Vivienne's visit is the last complication I need right now, especially with her apparent interest in my relationship with Sloane. The thought of her well-meaning but relentless matchmaking makes me uncomfortable in ways I can't fully articulate.
Because whatever is happening between Sloane and me, this new awareness, this shift, it's ours. Private. Fragile. The last thing it needs is my mother's scrutiny.
If there even is an ‘it’ to protect.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to work. The storm prep reports need review, the media strategy needs refinement, and the board still wants reassurance that our community integration won't impact the bottom line. I don't have time for distractions, even ones with honey-blonde waves and a smile that makes my chest tight.
By two o'clock, I'm striding across the northern field toward the snowmobile staging area, having changed into the high-end ski gear I keep in my office. The navy parka and thermal pants are practical while still maintaining a certain standard. I may be embracing mountain culture, but I draw the line at the garish neon monstrosities most winter sportswear companies seem to favor.
Sloane is already there, perched on a sleek black snowmobile, her hair tucked beneath a burgundy beanie that matches her snow pants. She's laughing at something Spencer Sullivan is saying, her cheeks pink from the cold, breath forming little clouds in the frigid air.
Something possessive flares in my chest at the sight of them together, a feeling so foreign and unexpected that I nearly stop in my tracks. I have no claim on Sloane's time or attention outside of work. She's free to laugh with rugged construction managers all she wants.
Even if the thought makes my jaw clench.
"There he is," Spencer calls, spotting me. "The man himself, suited up and ready to race."
Sloane turns, her smile widening as she takes me in. "Well, well. Look who's almost dressed like a normal human being."
"Don't get used to it," I reply, approaching the snowmobiles. "This is strictly for practical purposes."
"Of course." She hops off her machine, circling me with exaggerated assessment. "Though I have to say, the look works for you. Very James Bond goes to Aspen."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should." She stops in front of me, reaching up to adjust my scarf, a casual touch that somehow feels more intimate than it should. "Though you're still missing something."
"If you try to make me wear a pom-pom hat, our friendship is over."
She laughs, the sound warming me despite the biting cold. "No pom-poms, I promise. Just this." She pulls a small pin from her pocket, a miniature pine tree, and fastens it to my collar. "Now you're officially part of Team Hope Peak."
