Chapter 22
Carly
Eight Weeks
I am absolutely not letting him ruin this for me.
That becomes my private mission statement approximately thirty seconds after Grayson and I stop arguing and go dead silent in our very stupid, very luxurious, one-bed prison cell.
I am not letting him ruin this.
Not the resort. Not the mountains. Not the first real weekend I’ve had in what feels like forever that doesn’t revolve around deadlines or school pickup or trying not to have an emotional collapse in a bathroom stall somewhere.
I do my makeup at the bathroom counter slowly, giving myself something precise to focus on. Foundation, concealer, brows, mascara. A soft wash of brown at my lids. Blush, because the mountain air already has me halfway there anyway. Lip gloss.
Then I do my hair half up, half down, curling a few pieces just enough to look like I didn’t try all that hard even though I very much did.
And then I stare at the dress on the bed like it'll will me to gain confidence.
Last season’s black tennis dress. Technically athletic wear, functionally sinful.
I designed it last year for the women’s winter line, and I know exactly what it does.
The fitted bodice. The low scoop at the front.
The way the skirt skims out just enough over my hips and thighs to make the whole thing flirtier than any piece of performance fabric has a right to be.
The sleeves hug all the way down my arms, thumb loops hidden unless I want them.
It is not the sort of thing a woman should wear to a quiet dinner with her boss after fighting about a shared bed, which is part of the appeal.
I put it on.
Then sheer black tights, boots, small gold hoops, and my brown wool jacket over the top so I’m not striding into the dining room looking like I’ve lost my mind completely.
When I look in the mirror, I know exactly what I look like.
I look good. A little unfair, even. And petty. Definitely, unmistakably petty.
But if Grayson Sparkks is going to spend the next forty-eight hours acting like I’m the only difficult person in this room, then he can suffer a little.
I grab my clutch, check my phone, then slip out into the hallway and pull the door shut behind me.
Mandy and Dana are already there.
Mandy is leaning against the opposite wall in a pale blue dress that somehow manages to look slinky and effortless at the same time, while Dana stands beside her in dark green, polished and gorgeous. For a second, I feel underdressed in glorified athleisure, but that's not the point.
The second Mandy sees me, she straightens. “Hell yeah. You trying to kill Grayson?”
Dana smiles warmly. “You look amazing.”
Heat creeps into my face. “Thanks. And yeah, a little.”
“Thank god,” Mandy says. “I was worried tonight might be boring.”
Dana rolls her eyes. “I'm happy you were here regardless of whether you're trying to stress out Gray or not.”
“Me too,” Mandy says. “We needed another woman with taste.”
I laugh, but it comes out thin, the exhaustion and irritation still there under everything else from the argument with Grayson, buzzing just under my skin.
Mandy’s eyes sharpen immediately. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just—new place, long drive, you know.”
Mandy stares at me for one long second, studying me, and it feels like she can see every little thing I'm not saying without it even coming out of my mouth. Then, without a word, she reaches into her little purse and pulls out a silver flask.
“Oh my god,” I rasp, the words half breathy chuckle.
Dana starts laughing immediately. “What is that?”
“I bring solutions where I can.” Mandy unscrews the cap and holds it out to me. “Hallway shot. Doctor’s orders.”
“I'm ninety percent sure Jackson said you did interior design, not medicine,” I laugh.
“I’m great at reading people. Same difference.”
I snort and take the flask from her, tipping it back enough for a decent swig of the burning liquid, coughing as I lower it. “Christ, what is this? Fireball?”
“Guilty pleasure.”
“Fine,” Dana says, already reaching for the flask next. “If we’re doing this, we’re all doing it. Just don't tell my husband I'm pregaming or he'll get jealous.”
That, more than anything, loosens the knot in my chest.
I glance between them as Mandy tucks the flask away. “Wait, where’s Ray?”
Dana answers first. “Her mom’s visiting this weekend, so she stayed home with her.”
“Oh. That's sweet.”
Mandy snorts. “Give it two hours and Wade will be calling her like he’s lost without her here.”
* * *
We head into the bar and restaurant together, all warm light and dark wood and the low hum of conversation wrapping around us the second we step inside.
Grayson is already seated at the table with Cole, Jackson, and Wade, a whiskey glass in his hand and a look on his face that says his friends have been making his life difficult for at least ten minutes.
Then his gaze lifts, finds me, and he goes absolutely statue-still.
It is not subtle. Not even a little. He stares at me like he forgot how to do something basic. Breathe, maybe, or blink, or swallow.
God. I should not enjoy that as much as I do.
Dinner turns out to be mercifully easier than it has any right to be — partly because the food is incredible, and partly because Mandy and Cole both seem to thrive in quiet pauses and fill them with ease.
But mostly it's because once the first few minutes pass, I can feel myself settling into the exact same rhythm we found at Cole and Dana’s place.
I sit beside Grayson, close enough to be aware of him every second and determined not to let that matter.
I ask Wade about the resort and actually mean it because the place is stunning and I want to know everything.
I ask Dana how Lucy’s sleeping and get a long-suffering look in return that makes Cole laugh before pointing at his own eye bags.
Mandy tells a story about Jackson trying to assemble a TV unit with an Allen key and confidence alone because he was determined to do it without instructions, and I laugh hard enough that I have to put my drink down when she shows me pictures of the final result.
At one point, Cole asks me how the women’s line at Sparkks is doing, and when I answer, the conversation turns into design and expansion and the difficulty in making something people want to wear and simultaneously suit whatever activity they're doing.
I can feel Grayson beside me through all of it. He's quiet, but he's listening, only occasionally chiming in. It's infrequent enough that it feels strange, and I find myself glancing at him more than once just to make sure he hasn't just up and disappeared.
The third time, I catch him already looking at me.
There's something in his face, the way his head is tilted, that makes the hair on the back of my neck spring up. I lift my brows slightly, a silent What? without words.
He just shakes his head, takes a sip of his drink, and looks away. For once, Grayson Sparkks seems to be the one at a loss for words around me.
* * *
Wade leans back in his chair and glances toward the windows facing the back of the resort. Beyond the glass, the night is blue-black and silvered with snow, the outdoor deck lit golden under the heaters.
“We should hit the pool,” he says. “It’s warm as hell. Feels like a hot spring this time of night.”
Mandy perks up immediately. “Yes.”
“You say yes to literally everything when you’ve had two glasses of wine,” Dana laughs as she lifts her glass to her lips.
“Three,” Mandy corrects.
“That explains a lot.”
Wade grins. “I’m serious. The deck heaters are on and the water’s perfect.”
I glance down at myself, then around the table. “I didn't bring a swimsuit. In my defense, I didn't think I'd need one at a ski resort.”
“That’s fixable,” Cole says easily, glancing quickly at Gray before grinning at me. “The shop downstairs carries them. I’ll buy you one.”
It lands strangely enough that I blink at him in confusion.
“No, you absolutely will not,” I say, already laughing. “That is an insane thing to offer.”
Cole lifts one shoulder. “I’m a giver.”
Jackson coughs into his beer in a way that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
“I can buy my own swimsuit,” I tell him.
Before Cole can say anything else, Grayson grunts. “I’ll get it.” The words come out low and rough, and he doesn’t look at me — just tips back the rest of his drink like this whole conversation is inconveniencing him personally.
Wade, who seems to have more sense than the rest of them combined, claps his hands once and stands. “Great. Problem solved. Shop’s still open for another twenty.”
And that is how I end up being marched downstairs with Dana and Mandy while the men trail behind us, all of them acting varying degrees of normal except for Grayson, who is so quiet he may as well be grunting through clenched teeth.
The pool deck looks unreal at night.
Snowbanks glow under the soft amber lighting. Steam curls off the water in pale ribbons, the surface shimmering dark and gold. The deck itself is lined with heaters that throw pockets of warmth into the mountain air, enough that climbing out won’t feel like immediate death.
Dana is already easing herself into the water with a soft groan of relief. Mandy is less graceful, practically throwing herself in with a yelp about how good it feels. I step in more carefully and nearly moan.
“Oh my god.”
“It’s insane, right?” Dana says, smiling.
“It’s like being boiled alive in a really pleasant way.”
“Exactly,” Mandy says, sweeping wet hair off her face. “You get me.”
Cole stays up on the edge with his calves in, soda balanced near one hand. Dana drifts over to him, and Mandy immediately starts swimming lazy circles like she has all the time in the world.