Misbooked for Love

Chapter 2

2

TOM

The resort lobby is warm, decorated with heart-shaped garlands and red and pink ribbons everywhere, the kind of festive cheer that usually makes people smile. But I’m not smiling. I stand at the check-in desk, tapping my fingers impatiently on the counter as the receptionist, a cheerful woman with a light-up heart necklace, fumbles with my reservation.

“Thomas Hall, right?” she says, her tone bright, like she’s determined to spread her Valentine’s Day cheer no matter what. “Thomas Edward Hall, III?”

“That’s me,” I reply, trying to force what I think could pass as a smile. Inside, though, I’m fuming. This skiing trip was supposed to be a chance to reconnect with Ellie, to make up for all the missed weeks that I’ve been traveling for work. But she’s stuck on the other side of the continent, snowed in at her mother’s house in New York, and I’m here alone, surrounded by happy families and couples holding hands.

The receptionist slides my key card across the desk. “You’re in villa fourteen, just down this hall.” She makes a gesture with her hand, indicating the right way to go. “You’ll have a great view of the slopes, and the ski lift is just a short walk away. But your villa has ski-in, ski-out privileges, so you can opt for that if it’s your preference.” She smiles. “We have a bonfire tonight on the terrace—hot cocoa, marshmallows, the works. Valet will take your remaining luggage to your room, and your ski gear will be stored downstairs in our rental shop. If you’d like for it to be brought up in the morning, just give us a call.”

“Okay, thanks,” I mutter, picking up the key. I grab my carry-on bag and make my way down the hallway, trying not to let the love songs playing softly through the speakers get under my skin. One side of the hall is lined with black-and-white photos of skiers and snowboarders, a vintage feel to the space. There are a few young children photographed, probably in the sixties or seventies, sliding down one of the tall runs, the ski lift running parallel to them. All I can think about is how Ellie was supposed to be here, right beside me, her first real ski trip.

I feel the vibration of my cellphone in my pocket, so I stop for a moment to grab it. I don’t have to look at the screen to know it’s Erin, my ex, calling so I can talk to my daughter.

“Hey, honey,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. She’s going to be bummed, but the least I can do is show her that there’s nothing we can do about things out of our control, so we have to take them in stride. I’ll definitely make it up to her once we’re on the same coast. Maybe I’ll get her a puppy, since she’s been asking for months.

“Hey, Dad.” Ellie’s voice is bright, despite the circumstances, and it tugs at something right in my chest. “We’re snowed in.”

“I know,” I say, and not a second later something bumps against me, making me stop in the middle of the hallway. Ellie is babbling about something or other, but I can only look at the stunning woman in front of me, blushing furiously, the color of her cheeks matching her bright red coat.

“Sorry,” she says, and I’m startled, blinking repeatedly because I can’t really understand what is happening. Her long, blond hair pokes out of her pink Fair Isle hat, and her blue eyes are huge, wide open and observing me.

“I need to be more careful,” I say to get away, and give her a small nod, quickly walking past her in the direction of my room, just a few doors ahead, right where the building turns a corner .

The villa is big, a little bigger than we needed, but as soon as I saw the pictures I knew Ellie would have loved it. The kind of place that makes you want to curl up and watch a movie and forget about the world outside. There is a stone fireplace in the middle of the living room, and the view from the large window is exactly as promised: sweeping, snow-covered slopes, the sun just beginning to set behind the mountains. I leave my bag by the entry bench and glance around; there is a door to a half bath under the stairs and nothing else here except the giant open-concept space. The full kitchen is to my right, with an oversized island that I’ve only seen in magazines and a live-edge dining table that accommodates at least twelve people.

“Did you make it to the grocery store before everything shut down?” I ask, hoping to keep her on the phone just a little longer, partially selfish of me because I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. The fridge is stocked with everything I requested: eggs, milk, cold cuts and Ellie’s favorite fruits and veggies.

“We did,” she says enthusiastically. “Mom bought us so much hot chocolate, it’s ridiculous. We’ve been drinking it all day.” She pauses, and I can hear the faint sound of her mom calling in the background, asking if she wants more marshmallows.

I make my way up the stairs, phone in one hand and bag in the other, looking for the bedroom and bathroom so I can wash the travel away. “It’s really snowy, Dad. The plows can’t even get down our street yet.”

Once in the bedroom, I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. This wasn’t how I pictured things, but I’ll make the best of it. I stare out at the mountain, my jaw tightening. “Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry, honey. I really wanted us to have this time together.”

“I know,” she replies. Her voice is small, and I can tell she’s trying to sound grown-up, trying not to let on how disappointed she is. “It’s okay, though. We’ll do it another time, right?”

“Absolutely.”

These are the moments when I hate my profession. After retiring from playing polo, I partnered with a former player to start breeding horses. The season ended a few months ago and this is when my work picks up, right after the holidays. It’s not rare for me to travel for weeks at a time, but the older Ellie gets, the more she notices my absence and the more it weighs on me. Erin has been wonderful about it, but it’s getting difficult for all of us. Because the more I get into this, the more competitive I realize this business is. There are high standards in polo ponies, and I don’t think this is for me—both the time it needs, and the work and effort we need to put into it.

“As soon as I’m back from this trip, we’ll find another weekend. Just you and me, I promise.” I rub the back of my neck, guilt weighing heavy. I’ve promised her so many things this year, and most of them have fallen through, and maybe this is the straw that breaks the horse’s back, pun intended. “I miss you, honey,” I say, the words coming out quieter than I want them to.

“I miss you too, Dad,” she replies softly. “You better not get too good at skiing without me.”

I laugh, but it’s forced, empty. “Don’t worry, I’ll be terrible. No fun without you here to keep me on my toes.”

My nine-year-old giggles, and it’s the kind of sound that makes everything feel lighter, even if just for a moment. But when she says goodbye and hangs up, the room feels emptier than before. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone in my hand, the screen already dark.

This trip was supposed to be my shot at making up for lost time and figuring out what I want to do with my time moving forward. Now it’s just another reminder of how much I’ve missed and will continue to miss if things stay like this, if I don’t make the necessary changes to untangle my messy life. All the traveling is taking a toll on my relationships, and I can’t seem to find joy in the work that I do. I loved the sport, the rush of adrenaline it gave me, being outside the larger part of the year, spending time with those wonderful beasts. But the transition to being behind the scenes has been rough, and I’m looking for a change.

I stand up and open my bag, rummaging through its contents until I find what I want. The set of Valentine’s Day pajamas I bought for Ellie are still on top, no longer folded neatly waiting for her. My own clothes get tossed onto the corner chair, landing somewhere I can’t see in the dark. The sun has dipped behind the mountain and the sky is quickly darkening, the town coming alive under twinkling lights.

In the bathroom, I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and turn on the shower. The steam fills the oversized space quickly, fogging up the mirror, and I step under the spray, letting the hot water hit my back. I stand there for a long time, trying to let the heat wash away my frustration, but it clings to me, stubborn and unyielding.

I scrub a hand over my face and sigh. After a while, I shut off the water, grab a towel, and dry off. My thoughts are still tangled and frayed and wrapped in a guilt that doesn’t seem to want to leave, instead clinging tightly like a toddler would to a parent on the first day of school.

I wrap the towel around my waist, water dripping from my hair, and step out of the bathroom, ready to flop down on the bed and figure out what the hell I’m going to do with myself for the rest of this trip. I could always fly back once the storm on the East Coast passes, but?—

But I freeze.

There’s a woman standing in the middle of my room. Tall, blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, and she’s halfway through shrugging off a thick white sweater that makes her look like a bundled-up marshmallow. For a split second, I think I’m hallucinating. Then she turns, and her blue eyes go wide, her face flushing a deep crimson.

“Oh my god!” She gasps, clutching the sweater against her chest, like it’ll somehow shield her from this absurd situation. “I’m so sorry—I thought this was my villa! Why would the door open if this wasn’t my villa? Oh, god.” Her accent is thick, and her voice rises in a panicked jumble of English and what I’m almost certain is Spanish as she fumbles backward, nearly tripping over my shoes by the door.

“What the hell?” I manage to say, my brain finally catching up to the scene unfolding in front of me. I yank the towel tighter around my waist, still dripping wet, and glance around, trying to piece together how exactly this random woman ended up in my room.

“I—I just… I thought it was my room,” she repeats, her eyes darting everywhere but at me. “I was in fourteen but… oh, god, is this fourteen? I can’t believe— ?Qué vergüenza!” She claps a hand over her mouth, clearly mortified.

But I can’t speak. Instead, I’m staring at her, opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water, trying to catch its breath and figure out how to live. This whole situation is surreal, like something out of a bad sitcom.

The woman starts moving but then stops abruptly.

“Wait a second,” she says, looking around. She reaches the dresser and yanks it open, the forceful movement making the television on top move precariously. I run a hand through my hair, water droplets scattering onto the floor. And she starts to laugh, a high, nervous sound that only makes the moment more awkward. ”It seems you are the intruder.”

She gestures with her hand to the drawer, filled with colorful clothing that definitely does not belong to me.

“Huh?” I finally say, like the idiot I’m sure I am. I try to understand what she’s inferring, but I can’t. Maybe it’s the long travel day catching up to me. Maybe it’s her—her energy and her spunk and her laughter in this moment, so disarming that I can’t focus.

She raises an eyebrow, and the corner of my mouth twitches, despite the confusion and my half naked state. I should be appalled, really. But now I’m intrigued.

“Is this how you introduce yourself to all your neighbors?” she asks, one hand on her hip in the most cocky way. “Most people start with a friendly wave, maybe a plate of cookies. Not a strip show.”

I groan and bury my face in one of my hands. “Why is this happening to me?” I mumble behind the palm of my hand. Clearly things have to start getting better. Can’t be worse than this.

“You know what?” she says, and her eyes finally find mine. There’s a slight blush on her cheeks still, but her expression shifts and her gaze turns deadly. “Oh no, oh no. No, no. It’s you.”

“Me?”

“Oh, the rude jerk that bumped against me in the hallway and didn’t even apologize. Nope. You know what?”

I blink, unable to come up with a response. Is this a rhetorical question? Am I supposed to answer her now?

She turns on her heel and runs down the stairs. I hear the slam of the door below, and I stand there for a moment, still dripping, the towel slipping slightly at my waist. My heart’s pounding—not just from the surprise, but from the absurdity of it all.

“What the fuck,” I mutter, walking into the closet and seeing at least five outfits hanging from the rod, stacks of neatly folded shirts and sweaters on the shelves on one side of the closet. “Fuck.”