4. Ginger
GINGER
The afternoon sun slants through the resort windows as I meander back to the suite after hours of resort exploration, my cheeks burning with each recalled event that should have clued me in to my roommate’s status.
Like when the bellhop practically bowed as Tyler passed.
Or the bartender who'd abandoned other customers mid-order when Tyler approached.
The casual mentions of 'Mr. Reed's yacht' and 'Mr. Reed's development in Singapore' that peppered lunch conversations like exotic spices I couldn't pronounce.
All flashing neon signs I'd somehow missed, pointing to a man whose bank account probably made my forty-million-dollar lottery win look like the quarters you'd fish out from between sofa cushions.
My key card beeps. I push open the door to our suite.
Then stop dead in my tracks. There in the kitchen area stands Tyler Reed.
Sweatpants hanging low on his hips. A faded Harvard t-shirt clinging to still-damp shoulders.
Droplets of water glistening in his tousled hair.
The polished executive nowhere to be found.
Instead, this man's hips swivel with alarming enthusiasm, bare feet sliding across the hardwood floor.
He is wielding a butter knife like a microphone, his head thrown back as he belts, “Woah, we're halfway there!
Woah-oh! Livin' on a prayer!”—channeling Jon Bon Jovi with the confidence of someone who knew he was alone.
His voice cracks on the high note, completely mangling the melody that pumps from his phone on the counter. Bon Jovi would have wept.
My fingers remain frozen on the doorknob, unable to decide whether to slip back out or announce my presence.
The seconds tick by as the resort's rumored owner—the man whose name graced half the buildings in Denver according to Olivia's breathless gossip—passionately serenades his half-assembled sandwich as if it were a sold-out stadium.
"It doesn't make a difference if we're NAKED or NOT!
" His eyes squeeze shut as he butchers the chorus, oblivious to his audience of one.
A snort escapes before I could clamp my hand over my mouth.
Tyler whirls around mid-hip-thrust. The knife-microphone hangs suspended inches from his parted lips, frozen in a moment of musical mortification.
His blue eyes bulge, pupils dilating as his arms freeze in mid-air.
The confident CEO who commanded boardrooms and could probably trigger stock market fluctuations with a single eyebrow raise vanished, replaced by a sixteen-year-old caught dancing in his underwear—complete with a flush that crept up his neck and blooms across his cheeks like a time-lapse video of embarrassment.
"Oh—” The word strangles in his throat. The knife slips from his fingers.
It clatters against the granite countertop, splattering peanut butter in a Jackson Pollock pattern across the pristine surface.
He clears his throat. One hand rakes through his damp hair while the other fumbles to silence his phone.
"I didn't hear you come in," he mumbles, his gaze darting everywhere but my face.
His shoulders hunch inward like a turtle seeking its shell.
"Clearly," I say, pressing my lips together until they quivered with the effort of containment.
My eyebrows rose of their own accord as I step into the room, dropping my bag on the nearest chair.
"Don't stop on my account." I gesture toward his abandoned sandwich stage.
"You were just getting to the good part.
The guitar solo, right?" I mimick an air guitar, my fingers strumming invisible strings.
The flush deepen across his cheekbones, but his spine straightens inch by inch.
He snatches the knife from the counter, twirling it between his fingers before pointing it at me like a conductor's baton.
His lips quirk upward at one corner, eyes crinkling at the edges.
"Don't critique my performance unless you're prepared to offer a better one.
" He extends the makeshift microphone in my direction, challenge glinting in his eyes.
"I don't think the suite could handle another rendition of Bon Jovi." I back away, palms raised in surrender, bumping into the coffee table. "The windows might shatter. We'd get frostbite. Management would evict us." I press a hand to my heart dramatically. "Think of the children."
"Is that a challenge, Ms. Lawson?" One eyebrow arches high on his forehead as he leans forward, bracing his weight on his palms against the counter.
The smile spreading across his face wasn't the polished corporate one I'd seen before—this one was crooked, revealing a dimple in his left cheek, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a man who'd just discovered ammunition.
"Absolutely not." I unzip my jacket with deliberate movements, avoiding his gaze. "I've embarrassed myself enough for one lifetime." I tug at my sweater, suddenly aware of the coffee stain I'd acquired at lunch—a brown splotch positioned over my left breast.
"Impossible." He spins back to his culinary masterpiece, knife scraping across bread with swift, practiced strokes.
No hesitation, no glancing around for the peanut butter lid or fumbling with the twist-tie on the bread bag—movements too fluid for a man who relied on personal chefs.
"Want one?" He gestures with the knife, a glob of grape jelly wobbling precariously on its edge.
"I make a mean PB&J." His chest puffs, as if presenting his Michelin-star credentials.
"A billionaire who makes his own sandwiches?
" I perch on the barstool, resting my chin on my palm with exaggerated fascination.
I keep my tone light despite the unease settling in my stomach.
Rich men had been circling me like sharks since my lottery win hit the news.
I'd learned that humor was the best defense.
"I'm shocked. No white-gloved butler? No personal chef waiting in the wings?
Next you'll tell me you drive your own car sometimes.
" I mime a monocle over one eye, affecting an exaggerated aristocratic accent.
"Surely one doesn't prepare one's own sustenance when one owns half of Colorado. "
His hand jerks to a halt mid-spread, peanut butter knife hovering over the bread like a helicopter that had suddenly lost power.
A glob of Jif dripped onto the counter in slow motion.
His shoulders stiffen, the muscles in his forearm visibly tensing.
"Who said I was a billionaire?" His voice drops half an octave, casual tone evaporating like morning mist.
"The entire resort. I can't go five feet without someone mentioning you own the place, or part of it, or half the world's real estate."
He sighs, resuming his sandwich construction with a hint of resignation I recognize from my own lottery-winner experiences. "People exaggerate."
"So you're not a billionaire?"
"Would it matter if I was?" He looks at me then, something guarded in his expression. His fingers tighten around the knife handle, knuckles whitening as he waited for my response.
I think about all the calls from Mark and about the old friends remembering my existence now that I had money. "Yeah," I say honestly. "It kind of would."
"Because you'd be impressed?" There was a challenge in his voice.
"Because I'd be wary," I correct him. "Money changes how people see you. How they treat you."
Something shifts in his expression then—recognition, maybe. "You'd know about that now, wouldn't you? Word is you hit the lottery."
It was my turn to freeze. "Does everyone know everything about everyone here?"
He hands me half of his sandwich. "Welcome to Crystal Peak. Where the gossip is hotter than the saunas."
I accept the offering, taking a bite of what was admittedly a perfectly constructed PB&J. "Not bad for a billionaire."
"Not a billionaire," he correct, though his smile suggested otherwise. "Just a guy who makes a decent sandwich and does his best Bon Jovi impression when he thinks no one's looking. My shower performances are even better."
"Decent is generous," I say, though I was already halfway through my portion.
"Julian raved about your sandwiches—said you made him a whole plate."
"It's nothing," I shrug. "He's a good kid, your son."
"So is yours," Tyler offers, leaning against the counter. "They've been inseparable since they met."
I smile, thinking of how animated Karl had been when talking about Julian. It had been a long time since I'd seen him bond so quickly with another child.
"They're at the arcade now," Tyler continues. "I gave them each twenty dollars, which should keep them occupied until dinner."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know. I wanted to. Besides, Julian rarely gets excited about making new friends. He's pretty shy."
I find that hard to believe, given how outgoing Julian seemed, but I keep that thought to myself. "Well, thank you. For looking out for Karl too."
"Of course." He finishes his sandwich and dusted off his hands. "So, you ventured out into the resort today. I noticed you were gone when I came back from my meeting."
"I met some people," I admit. "Turns out I'm not the only fish out of water in this aquarium of the elite."
"Let me guess—Olivia Rawlins got her hooks into you?"
My eyebrows shoot up. "How did you know?"
"She collects newcomers like some people collect snow globes." He smiles, but there was something careful in his expression. "She's nice enough, just..."
"Just what?"
"Thorough in her information gathering." He clears his throat. "Speaking of information, there's something I should tell you."
The way he says it made my stomach tighten. "Please don't tell me the suite has hidden cameras that caught my terrible singing in the shower this morning."
He laughs, the tension breaking. "No, nothing like that. It's just... there's an event tonight. A mixer for resort guests."
"Okay? And?"
"And everyone thinks we're a couple."
I nearly choke on the last bite of sandwich. "I'm sorry, what?"
"The fact that we're sharing a suite has sparked some rather creative rumors," he explains, looking both amused and apologetic. "That, combined with our sons being attached at the hip..."
"That's ridiculous," I sputter. "We can't even share a coffee maker schedule without arguing."
"I know." He runs a hand through his hair. "But it might be... useful."
"Useful?" I echo, completely lost now.
He glances toward the window, then back at me. "Look, I don't know about you, but ever since I arrived, I've been dodging phone calls, messages, and 'accidentally' running into single women who've somehow heard I'm here."
I think about the men who had approached me since word of my lottery win had leaked. "I might be familiar with the phenomenon."
"So what if we..." he trails off, seeming to consider his next words carefully.
"What if we what?"
"What if we ... don't correct people's assumptions? For the duration of our stay." He rushes the words out, like ripping off a Band-Aid. "A mutually beneficial arrangement."
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. When none came, I laugh—a short, incredulous sound. "You mean pretend to be a couple?"
"It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that."
"Because it is ridiculous!"
"Think about it, though," he persists. "No more awkward advances. No more explaining why you're not interested. Everyone would assume we're together and leave us alone."
"That's..." I start to reject the idea outright, then pause, considering. The constant attention since my win had been exhausting. "Actually kind of genius," I admit reluctantly.
Tyler's eyes widen in surprise. "Really? You think so?"
"Don't look so shocked. I can recognize a good strategy when I see one." I grab a water bottle from the fridge, buying myself time to think. "How would we make this work? There would have to be ground rules."
"Right," he agrees. "No public displays of affection beyond hand-holding."
"Limited backstory," I add. "Keep it simple, recent, nothing elaborate."
"Set end date—just for the duration of our holiday stay."
"And no telling the kids," I say firmly. "They're too young to understand this kind of... arrangement. They'd either be confused or get too attached to the idea."
Tyler nods. "Agreed on all points. So, we have a… deal?" He extends his hand, formal despite the absurdity of the situation.
I hesitate only briefly before shaking it. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."
"I think this calls for a toast," he declares, moving to the kitchenette's mini-fridge and pulling out a bottle of champagne I hadn't noticed before. "Courtesy of the resort, to apologize for the booking error."
"Well, at least something good came out of that disaster," I say, accepting the glass he offers after popping the cork with impressive efficiency.
"To mutually beneficial deception," he proposes, raising his glass.
I clink mine against his. "To peace and quiet."
As I sip the surprisingly good champagne, I couldn't help but wonder what I was getting myself into.
A fake relationship with a man I barely know, in a resort full of the rich and nosy?
It sounds like the plot of a bad romantic comedy—the kind where the audience yells advice at the screen while cramming popcorn into their mouths.
Then again, my life had already taken such an absurd turn with the lottery win—what was one more plot twist?
"So," Tyler says, interrupting my thoughts. "About that mixer tonight..."
"Let me guess—we should make our debut as Crystal Peak's newest power couple?"
"No pressure," he smirks, "but I did hear there will be chocolate fondue. Five kinds of chocolate. Fountains. Possibly cherubs carrying trays of strawberries for dipping."
"Well, why didn't you lead with that?" I raise my glass again. "In that case, darling, I'd be delighted to accompany you."
His laugh is warm and surprisingly genuine. For a brief moment, I allow myself to enjoy the easy camaraderie between us—the strange alliance of two people outsmarting the world that wants too much from them.
"One question, though," I say, remembering something. "If we're supposed to be a couple, are we still arguing about the coffee maker?"
Tyler winks. "Every great love story needs a source of tension, don't you think? Romeo and Juliet had warring families. We have coffee maker scheduling conflicts. Practically the same thing."
"Your incorrigible," I mutter, but I was smiling despite myself.
"Get used to it, sweetheart. You're dating me now, remember?" He says with theatrical swagger that didn't quite mask the genuine amusement in his eyes.
I roll my eyes, but a strange flutter in my stomach gave me pause. This was pretend—a convenient arrangement between two adults with similar problems. Nothing more. So why did it feel like I was stepping onto thin ice?