Chapter 5
Five
The resort is a five-star hotel masquerading as a rustic mountain lodge, all the luxury amenities wrapped in carefully distressed wood and artfully placed antler chandeliers.
A wooden trellis draped with flowing vines frames the entrance.
Out back, panoramic mountain views stretch for miles, but I lead James to my favorite corner.
“This reminds me of the sunroom at the cabin,” James says, admiring the tucked-away alcove where two dark green velvet couches frame a gas fireplace.
“I think that’s why I love it. The sunroom’s my favorite. It’s where I go when I need a minute to myself.” I look away, ignoring the way his nod seems to mean he understands. “Okay, before we do our little book exchange, what’s the best novel you’ve read this year?”
James sinks into the couch across from me. Instead of manspreading, he leans thoughtfully forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Verity.”
“You read Verity?”
“All the women in my office were talking about it,” he says with an easy shrug, as if it’s not the most outlandish thing I’ve heard all week.
“So I wanted to see what the hype was about. Still not sure how I feel about it. It was dark as hell, but it seems like the point of writing a novel is to have it stick with a reader, and that book stayed with me.”
“I love psychological thrillers,” I say, relaxing onto my couch. “Something fascinates me about delving into the dark and twisty places most people hide. That book was truly disturbing. I still can’t believe someone could think that up.”
“What about something more charming? A Regency romance? I learned within five minutes of meeting Jules that she prefers a lighter read.” He smiles, but it’s soft. There’s no teasing in his tone.
“Jules is very vocal about her reading preferences, but I was never the fairy tale type. And I don’t need an English lord to give up his rakish ways and sweep me off to the countryside.
” I pause, but the rest spills out anyway.
“Give me a dark, twisty tale full of uncomfortable truths any day. I don’t believe in happily-ever-afters; just..
. doing your best with what life throws at you. ”
“Ah, but you know about rakish ways?” James teases.
I can’t believe I told him my fucked-up view of the world. What is wrong with me? I recover and, with my cheekiest smile, I say, “A well-read woman is a dangerous thing.”
After a beat, James smiles, looking… surprised. “So in one of your dark, twisty stories, would I be the first guy to get axed, or the mysterious stranger who causes all the trouble?”
“Can’t say yet. But definitely not a brooding English aristocrat.”
“Fair enough. Now, what do you have for me?” He leans forward, hand outstretched.
When he opens his and starts to laugh, I pull out his selection for me. The same two books I chose for him. A snort escapes before I can stop it—loud and completely unattractive. Heat floods my cheeks as I press my hand to my mouth.
What did my mother call that sound?
I was maybe six, playing in our backyard with my nanny while my mother worked under her umbrella, maintaining her careful distance from the sun.
The neighbor’s Labrador bounded into our perfectly manicured yard, tail wagging furiously as it ran straight for me.
The dog’s excitement was so pure that laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me.
That’s when the snort escaped for the first time.
My mother’s voice cut through the air. “Sydney, that is the ugliest sound I’ve ever heard. Ladies do not make that noise.”
The shame hit me, sharp and immediate. I learned it was best to swallow joy.
“I’m so sorry. That was…” I say, slowly dying from embarrassment.
Instead of looking horrified, his grin widens. “Now I know my goal for the week. To do something to make you laugh like that again.”
I bury my face in my hands. To recover from the embarrassment.
To hide the effect those words have on me.
To let the embers of hope and warmth filling my insides die before I can allow myself to believe this is real.
Once my mortification passes, I run my finger along the smooth hardcover, amazed at the coincidence in us choosing the same books for each other.
And I say, “These are two of my favorite authors. I can’t wait to dig into them.
Maybe we should start a little book club? ”
James smiles, nodding, but there’s something beneath it. A pause. A softness. And I can’t help but wonder if he feels it too. This quiet, impossible ease that shouldn’t exist between two people who just met.
We read for a while in comfortable silence, cocooned in lamplight while a light snow falls outside.
Even as I focus on the story, I’m keenly aware of him: the soft scent of his woodsy cologne mingling with our coffees, every page turn, every quiet huff when I imagine something delights him.
When I finally permit myself to glance up over the top of my book, he’s already looking at me. We quickly look away.
Guests hustle down the hall, chatting and laughing, carrying food back to their rooms. The smell of bacon hits me, greasy and overwhelming.
The room tilts sideways. My throat tightens, mouth salivating the wrong way.
Heat builds at the back of my neck. Shit.
I bolt for the nearest bathroom, desperate not to lose my breakfast right there. I gag and heave, but nothing comes up.
James is leaning against the wall, waiting. “You okay? What was that?”
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically. “My stomach feels off. I should head back. Don’t worry about me, I can get an Uber and leave the car for you.”
His jaw tightens, and he steps forward, raises his hand toward my cheek, but abruptly lowers it. “I’ll drive you. Don’t be ridiculous. Wait here, I’ll grab our things.”
I don’t know what to make of him. It’s like someone engineered him to be the anti-Mason. And now he’s walking back to me with my purse slung over his shoulder, bookstore totes in one hand, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on, let’s get you home.” His hand brushes the small of my back as he steers me outside, and I have to stop myself from leaning into him.
Once he’s finished clucking around me and we’re in the car, he blows a breath out of his cheeks and says, “You scared me. You went white as a sheet.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Has this been happening?”
“A few times…” I regret the confession the moment it leaves my mouth.
“Maybe you should see a doctor or talk to Jules.”
“It’s nothing. Probably anxiety or something I ate isn’t sitting well,” I say, though a part of me is beginning to wonder. But I push that thought aside. It can’t be that. “I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t argue but looks at me with weary eyes, not buying my explanation.
The cabin rests in hushed stillness. Beyond the glass, the mountains stand draped in white, breathtaking in their winter peace. My stomach churns, rough and unsettled, a turbulent force in this snow-globe world.
“I’m going to lie down.”
He follows me upstairs, placing my things inside the bedroom.
Before I can thank him, nausea sends me stumbling into the bathroom.
The toilet seat smacks against the tank as I shove it up, and my stomach heaves, emptying itself in violent waves.
After an eternity, I flush and rest my head against the wall, then look up to see James standing in the doorway wearing the most endearing expression of concern.
“Oh God, please go. You don’t need to see this.” I wave a weak hand, urging him away.
He disappears without a word, and I rest my head against the wall.
But minutes later, quiet footsteps return. James places a glass of water, a few crackers, and a bottle of Tylenol next to me. Grabbing a towel from the shelves, he spreads it on the floor, offering me somewhere warmer than the cold tiles. His eyes land on a scrunchie, lifting it in question.
My arms feel heavy, my head throbs. I nod, grateful.
Kneeling behind me, his fingers sift gently through my hair, untangling knots. He gathers it into a loose ponytail, his touch careful. I close my eyes and let myself absorb it. Forget this isn’t mine. It’s not something I can rely on.
“I’ll try to reach Mason for you, but I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“You don’t have to do that.” I can’t bring myself to say, ‘Don’t bother. Mason won’t hurry back.’ Even if that’s my reality.
After a while, I rinse my face and brush my teeth. My body still aches, but my stomach has settled. I pull on leggings, an oversized sweater, and Christmas socks. The kind of comfort I can rely on.
I open the door and gawk. James sits in the hallway, phone in hand, Bell’s head resting on his thigh.
He looks up. “You’re still pale. Do you think it’s a fever?”
The green of his eyes shifts with his concern, a kaleidoscope of sage and emerald that seems to hold entire landscapes.
“You’ve been sitting here the whole time?”
“This place is too fucking big. I wouldn’t have heard if you needed anything from downstairs. Why do they call it a cabin?”
I smile without meaning to. It’s such a sweet, silly thought. “I think it helps the family feel more salt of the earth, like this isn’t a 6,000-square-foot estate. Rather a little ski cabin.”
“I got in touch with Ivy. She said she’d let Mason know, but that was a while ago.”
“It’s fine. I can take care of myself.” I gesture vaguely toward my room. “Sorry you had to see that.”
He meets my eyes. “I know you can take care of yourself. But I’m here. Can I help?”
“I’m feeling better and going to throw on a movie.”
“Want tea or anything?”
I ignore the question and take the stairs two at a time. I queue up a quiet film I’ve seen before. Two strangers share a perfect day before returning to their real lives.
It feels too close, but I hit play anyway.