Chapter 20
Carly
Eight Weeks
I don’t even tryto play it cool.
The second I step out of Grayson’s car, the cold hits me like a welcome slap of fresh air.
The mountains rise up on every side of us, all white peaks and dark trees and sunlight blazing so bright off the snow it makes everything look unreal, like somebody turned the contrast all the way up on the world. My boots crunch into snow as I turn in a slow circle, laughing under my breath because I genuinely cannot help it.
This place is insane.
Not just nice. Not just pretty.Insane.
The lodge looks like the sort of place rich people in movies go to have affairs and drink whiskey by enormous fireplaces, all timber and glass and dark stone tucked into the mountain like it grew there naturally.
For one stupid, blissful second, I forget everything complicated.
Work. Boundaries. Grayson. The fact that one deeply satisfying but idiotic night still occasionally flashes hot in the back of my brain at the worst possible times.
I just stand there breathing in cold air so clean it almost hurts and feel happy in a simple, childish way I haven't felt for far too long.
“Glad you like it.”
I turn to find Wade coming down the lodge steps toward us, hands in the pockets of a dark ski jacket.“Like it?” I say. “This place is absurd.”
“That’s the spirit.” He reaches Grayson first, claps him once on the shoulder, then looks at me. “Welcome to Colchester.”
Wade’s the same as he was at Cole’s party — handsome in that severely-rich asshole way, but weirdly normal to talk to.
He glances between us. “You made good time. Thought the roads might be worse.”
“Gray drives like he owns the roads,” I say as Grayson shuts the trunk with more force than necessary.
He looks at me, then, his brows creasing in the center. “Did you just…?” He says, then shakes his head. “Never mind. I drive fine.”
Wade grins. “Sure you do, man.”
Wade takes over immediately, giving us the kind of casual, efficient tour that makes it obvious he’s done this a thousand times. The main lodge is even more beautiful inside, all wood and stone floors and soaring ceilings with iron chandeliers thesize of small cars. Huge windows line the back wall, framing the slopes like living paintings.
I nearly walk into a decorative table because I’m too busy staring.
“Rentals are downstairs,” he says as we pass a set of stone steps. “Skis, boards, boots, helmets, whatever you need. They’ll get you fitted fast if you go early.”
He shows us a little general store with knit hats, gloves, sunscreen, postcards, expensive candles, and enough branded resort merch to bankrupt a weaker version of me. Then the coffee shop, which smells like espresso and cinnamon and fresh pastries, and instantly becomes my favorite place on earth.
“Oh, this is dangerous,” I murmur.
Wade hears me and points at the pastry case. “Those brown butter maple scones sell out by nine every morning, especially on weekends like this when we're fully booked out. Don’t hesitate.”
“Why would you tell me that?” I groan, already making the mental calculations of what time to set my alarm for to get down here early enough.
“Because everyone and their mother should have one. Believe me.”
Next comes the bar and restaurant, all low lighting and leather wingbacks and massive windows looking out over the mountain. A fire crackles in a stone hearth at one end of the room. It smells like cedar and expensive food.
“This is where we’re doing dinner,” Wade says. “Cole and Dana should be here soon. Jackson and Mandy are already checked in. You’ll probably hear Mandy before you see her.”
