17. Tyler
TYLER
I've built my reputation—and fortune—on keeping a level head.
Business crises, relationship disasters, parenting emergencies—I'd mastered them all with what Julian calls my "robot mode.
" But watching Ginger's face as our helicopter launched skyward from the resort helipad changed everything.
Her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and exhilaration, her hand gripping mine so tightly my fingers tingled from lost circulation.
My carefully constructed composure crumbled.
My pulse quickens, my breath catches, and every rational thought vanishes at the curve of her smile and the warmth of her palm against mine.
Her teeth sink into her lower lip, leaving tiny indentations in the soft pink flesh.
When we hit our first air pocket, a nervous laugh burst from her throat, her shoulders tensing then relaxing as she exhaled.
With each passing minute, the white-knuckled grip on my hand loosens incrementally.
The furrow between her brows smoothes away, replaced by widening eyes that dart from window to window, not wanting to miss a single glimpse of the snow-capped peaks spreading beneath us.
I can't look away from her transformation—not even when the pilot points out a herd of elk traversing the valley below.
The helicopter's rotors thrum through the metal floor, up through my boots and into my bones.
I inhale deeply—aviation fuel with its sharp chemical bite, cold mountain air whistling through a hairline crack in the door seal, and underneath it all, the vanilla-citrus notes of Ginger's perfume from where her neck pulses inches away.
My stomach lurches as we bank steeply upward, the ground falling away in a dizzying rush.
My eyes stay locked on her face—her eyebrows rising from their worried furrow, lips parting as awe gradually replaced anxiety.
"OH MY GOD!" she shouts over the whir of the rotors, pointing at the panorama below. "IT'S BEAUTIFUL!"
I nod, not bothering to shout back, content to watch her experience this for the first time. The boys, of course, have no such restraint, their excited chatter coming through clearly on the headsets we all wore.
"WE'RE LIKE SUPERHEROES!" Karl exclaims, his face pressing against the window.
"CAN WE GO HIGHER?" Julian adds, though his question is directed at the pilot rather than me.
"This is our cruising altitude, buddy," the pilot answers good-naturedly. "But we'll be going even higher when we reach Mount Crystal."
The boys exchange thrilled glances, their excitement practically vibrating through the cabin—I can't remember the last time I'd seen Julian this animated about anything besides his video games.
"YOU OKAY?" I ask Ginger, squeezing her hand.
She turns to me, her smile so bright it rivaled the snow-reflected sunlight. "MORE THAN OKAY," she confirms. "THIS IS INCREDIBLE!"
Something warm blooms beneath my sternum, spreading outward until my fingertips tingle.
My throat tightens watching her wonder, my own smile growing until my cheeks ache.
I want to capture her expression, preserve it, replicate whatever had put that light in her eyes.
The CEO who negotiates billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat now sits speechless, undone by a woman's smile at ten thousand feet.
The helicopter tilts sideways with a soft metallic groan, revealing Crystal Peak's famous glacier—jagged ice spires thrusting upward like a crown.
Sunlight fractures against the blue-white surface, casting prisms across the formation.
Despite three previous tours, my stomach still drops at the sight of those ancient towers glowing electric blue against the stark snow.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," the pilot announces, "WELCOME TO THE ICE CASTLE. FORMED OVER TEN THOUSAND YEARS AGO, THIS GLACIER HAS CREATED ONE OF NORTH AMERICA'S MOST REMARKABLE ICE FORMATIONS."
"IT LOOKS LIKE ELSA'S PALACE!" Karl shouts, earning a laugh from Ginger.
"HE'S BEEN OBSESSED WITH FROZEN LATELY," she explains, leaning closer to me. "EVERYTHING IS EITHER ELSA'S CASTLE OR OLAF IN DISGUISE."
"WAIT UNTIL HE SEES WHERE WE'RE HAVING LUNCH," I reply with a wink. "DEFINITELY FROZEN-WORTHY."
The helicopter carves through cloud wisps, rotors slicing vapor trails as we glide over valleys untouched by human footprints.
Below, virgin snow blankets ancient pines, their branches sagging under winter's weight.
A frozen waterfall clings to a distant cliff face, suspended in time.
Ginger gasps, pressing her nose to the glass, her breath creating a small fog circle that she wipes away impatiently.
Sunlight streams through the window, setting fire to the copper highlights in her hair.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she turns to me, lips parted in wordless delight.
Her fingers, no longer tense with fear, interlace with mine, her thumb tracing small circles on my skin.
I commit each detail to memory—the exact shade of blue reflected in her eyes, the tiny freckle beneath her right eyebrow, the warmth of her shoulder pressing against mine.
Twenty minutes later, we approach a small plateau high on Mount Crystal, where a rustic cabin sits nestled against the mountainside, smoke curling from its chimney.
"PREPARE FOR LANDING," the pilot announces as we began our descent.
The boys bounce in their seats as the helicopter gently touches down on a small landing pad outside the cabin. As the rotors slow, a figure emerges from the building, bundled against the cold.
"THAT'S JEAN-LUC," I explain to Ginger. "HE MAINTAINS THE CABIN AND PREPARES THE MEALS FOR THESE EXCURSIONS."
"HE LIVES UP HERE?" she asks incredulously as we removed our headsets.
"Only during the season," I clarify. "He's a former chef from Montreal who decided mountain solitude was preferable to kitchen chaos."
"Smart man," she murmurs as we prepare to disembark.
The cabin door swings open, releasing a wall of frigid air that slaps against our faces.
My lungs seize, refusing to inhale for a moment as the temperature dropped thirty degrees in an instant.
Beside me, Ginger's breath escapes in a visible cloud, her cheeks immediately flushing crimson.
We stumble onto the plateau, boots crunching through the top layer of snow.
I turn slowly in place, each direction revealing a new mountain face—jagged peaks in one direction, gentle slopes in another, all blanketed in snow that sparkles like scattered diamonds under the clear blue sky.
The vastness stretches beyond comprehension, mountain after mountain until they dissolve into hazy blue silhouettes at the horizon.
My watering eyes and numbing earlobes seem insignificant against such majesty.
"Holy cow," Karl whispers, for once subdued by the majesty around him. "We're on top of the world."
"Almost," Jean-Luc calls out, approaching with a friendly wave. "Welcome to Crystal View Cabin. Elevation 10,500 feet."
The boys immediately pepper him with questions—how cold did it get here, had he seen any mountain lions, could they touch the snow—while Ginger and I stand taking in the view, her arm links through mine.
"This is magical," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the wind. Her eyes glistening, reflecting the endless white landscape. Her gloved hand squeezes mine. "Thank you for arranging it."
"Worth conquering your helicopter fears?" I ask. A gust of wind cut through us, and I tuck her against my side, her shivering form fitting perfectly under my arm. The scent of her mingling with the crisp mountain air.
"Completely," she nods, her teeth chattering slightly despite her smile.
She glanced back at the helicopter, its rotors now still, and visibly swallowed.
"Though I may need champagne before getting back in that thing.
" Her fingers mimed lifting a glass to her lips, then made a tipping motion suggesting a generous pour.
I laugh, pressing a kiss to her temple. "That's the second part of the experience. Lunch with a view and plenty of bubbly to ease the return journey."
"You've thought of everything," she observes, a teasing note entering her voice. "Planning to sweep me off my feet, Mr. Reed?"
"That was the helicopter's job," I quip. "My job is to make sure our last day here is memorable."
"Mission already accomplished," she assures me, squeezing my arm. "This is definitely going in the highlight reel."
Jean-Luc ushers us into the cabin, which was far more luxurious inside than its rustic exterior suggests.
A roaring fire dominates one wall, while the opposite side was almost entirely glass, showcasing the breathtaking mountain view.
A beautifully set table waited in the center of the room, complete with flickering candles despite the early hour.
"This is like a movie," Ginger whispers as Jean-Luc took our coats. Her fingers tracing the edge of a hand-carved wooden table, eyes widening as they travel from the stone fireplace to the antler chandelier to the panoramic windows.
The boys' boots squeak across the polished floor as they race to the glass wall, leaving small puddles of melting snow in their wake. Their breath fog twin circles on the window as they press their noses to the glass.
"See that mountain?" Julian points, his finger leaving a smudge. "That's where they filmed a yeti documentary."
"No way!" Karl's eyes bulge, his voice rising an octave. "Did they see one?"
"Obviously," Julian nod, straightening his shoulders with the importance of his insider knowledge. "But the government covered it up."
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Jean-Luc invites, gesturing to the seating area near the fire. "I will bring refreshments while your lunch completes its preparation."
"Hot chocolate?" Karl asks hopefully.
"But of course," Jean-Luc confirms with a wink. "With my special mountain marshmallows."