Chapter 3
Atticus
The memory of her standing so close, her fingers in my hair, has been replaying in my head all night. The way her hazel eyes had darkened when they met mine, the soft part of her lips, the electricity that had sparked between us.
What the hell was that?
This is Sloane Parker. My best friend. The woman who's seen me at my worst and somehow still chooses to stick around. The one person in my life who isn't intimidated by me or interested in what I can do for her career. Crossing that line would be foolish, reckless, potentially catastrophic.
And yet, I can't stop thinking about it.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. "Enter," I call, grateful for the interruption.
Marcus steps inside, tablet in hand. "The slope-groomers are ready for inspection, sir. And Ms. Parker has finalized the snow-plow schedules for your approval."
"Thank you, Marcus." I take the tablet, scanning the meticulously organized documents. Sloane's attention to detail rivals my own, one of the many reasons we work so well together. "Where is Ms. Parker now?"
"Coordinating with Spencer's team on the eastern terrace. They're preparing for the incoming storm." He hesitates, then adds, "Also, your mother called again. Twice."
I suppress a sigh. "Did she mention why?"
"Only that it was 'vital to discuss the holiday arrangements.’” Marcus's expression remains neutral, but there's a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "She seemed particularly interested in confirming Ms. Parker's attendance at the gala."
That gets my attention. "Sloane? Why would my mother ask about Sloane?"
"I couldn't say, sir." But the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth suggests otherwise.
"Marcus."
"She may have inquired whether you and Ms. Parker were... involved."
I nearly drop the tablet. "Involved? Where would she get that idea?"
"Perhaps from your extended history of friendship, sir. Or the fact that Ms. Parker is the only person you've ever allowed to adjust your tie in public." His voice remains perfectly professional, but there's no mistaking the amusement lurking beneath.
"That's absurd," I say, more sharply than intended. "Sloane and I are colleagues. Friends."
"Of course, sir." Marcus takes back the tablet. "Will there be anything else?"
"No." I pause, then add, "Actually, yes. Call Jensen's and have them deliver my gray cashmere to Ms. Parker's office. The one from the Milan collection."
"The one you said would never leave your closet unless the board voted unanimously to require casual Fridays?" His eyebrow raises fractionally.
"The very same." I turn back to the window, dismissing him. "And Marcus? Not a word about this to anyone."
"As you wish, sir."
When the door closes behind him, I run a hand through my hair, still slightly mussed the way Sloane arranged it yesterday. The thought of my mother matchmaking again makes my stomach knot, but for entirely different reasons than usual.
My phone buzzes with a text from Callum Reyes: Media briefing notes ready for review. Warning: Reporters asking about ‘holiday romance’ angle for story.
I frown at the screen. Holiday romance? Where are they getting that from?
Before I can respond, another text comes through, this one from Sloane: Don't panic, but Brynn says the Rockies Reporter is running a ‘CEO Finds Mountain Love’ teaser. I swear I didn't plant it.
Heat creeps up my neck. I type back: I assume you're already handling this.
Her response comes instantly: Obviously. Told them you're married to your job, but having a torrid affair with community integration. They seemed disappointed.
Despite everything, I smile. This is what I've always appreciated about Sloane, her ability to diffuse tension, to make the unbearable somehow manageable.
I text back: My mother asked Marcus if we're involved.
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Finally: Yikes. What did you tell him?
The truth. That we're friends and colleagues.
Another pause, then: Right. Of course. The truth.
Something in her response makes me hesitate, a weight settling in my chest that I can't quite identify.
I'm still staring at my phone when Brynn Ellison knocks and enters without waiting for permission, something only Sloane usually dares to do.
"Sorry to barge in," she says, not looking sorry at all. "But I need immediate approval on these campaign mock-ups if we're going to hit the printing deadline."
She spreads several large prints across my desk. ‘Winter in Hope Peak’ dominates each design, with variations on the tagline beneath. The most prominent features a shot of the main street, fairy lights twinkling in the snow, with the Blackwood logo subtly integrated into the storefront banners.
"These are good," I admit, studying the careful balance she's struck between corporate branding and local charm. "Very good, actually."
"Thanks." She points to a version with red accents against the traditional Blackwood navy and silver. "Sloane thought you'd prefer this one. Something about red being your color."
I feel my eyebrows rise. "Did she now?"
"Her exact words were 'Atticus looks better in red.'" Brynn watches me with barely concealed interest. "She notices things like that, you know."
"Ms. Parker has an excellent eye for design," I say neutrally, though something warm unfurls in my chest at the thought of Sloane paying such close attention.
"Mmm-hmm." Brynn doesn't sound convinced by my professional deflection. "She also said to remind you about the snowmobile testing this afternoon. Something about proving you're not just a 'tailored suit with a fancy title’".
The challenge in Sloane's message is clear, and despite myself, I feel a smile tug at my lips. "Tell Ms. Parker I'll meet her at the north ridge at two. And that she should prepare to lose gracefully."
Brynn grins. "I'll pass that along. Though between us, she's been racing those trails since she was sixteen."
"I appreciate the warning, but I rarely lose, Ms. Ellison."
"There's a first time for everything, Mr. Morgan." She gathers her mock-ups, leaving the red-accented one on my desk. "Especially in Hope Peak."
After she leaves, I find myself studying the campaign image with new eyes. It's not just good marketing, it's a vision of what Blackwood's presence in Hope Peak could be: harmonious, beneficial, enhancing rather than overwhelming the town's existing character.
It's Sloane's vision, I realize. The one she's believed in strongly enough to leave her beloved coffee shop and join a corporate giant she's spent years teasing me about.
The weight of her faith in me settles on my shoulders, not as a burden, but as a responsibility I suddenly find myself desperate to live up to.
My phone buzzes with a calendar notification: Mother arriving Dec. 20. Prepare a guest suite.
I grimace. Vivienne's visit is the last complication I need right now, especially with her apparent interest in my relationship with Sloane. The thought of her well-meaning but relentless matchmaking makes me uncomfortable in ways I can't fully articulate.
Because whatever is happening between Sloane and me, this new awareness, this shift, it's ours. Private. Fragile. The last thing it needs is my mother's scrutiny.
If there even is an ‘it’ to protect.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to work.
The storm prep reports need review, the media strategy needs refinement, and the board still wants reassurance that our community integration won't impact the bottom line.
I don't have time for distractions, even ones with honey-blonde waves and a smile that makes my chest tight.
By two o'clock, I'm striding across the northern field toward the snowmobile staging area, having changed into the high-end ski gear I keep in my office.
The navy parka and thermal pants are practical while still maintaining a certain standard.
I may be embracing mountain culture, but I draw the line at the garish neon monstrosities most winter sportswear companies seem to favor.
Sloane is already there, perched on a sleek black snowmobile, her hair tucked beneath a burgundy beanie that matches her snow pants. She's laughing at something Spencer Sullivan is saying, her cheeks pink from the cold, breath forming little clouds in the frigid air.
Something possessive flares in my chest at the sight of them together, a feeling so foreign and unexpected that I nearly stop in my tracks. I have no claim on Sloane's time or attention outside of work. She's free to laugh with rugged construction managers all she wants.
Even if the thought makes my jaw clench.
"There he is," Spencer calls, spotting me. "The man himself, suited up and ready to race."
Sloane turns, her smile widening as she takes me in. "Well, well. Look who's almost dressed like a normal human being."
"Don't get used to it," I reply, approaching the snowmobiles. "This is strictly for practical purposes."
"Of course." She hops off her machine, circling me with exaggerated assessment. "Though I have to say, the look works for you. Very James Bond goes to Aspen."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should." She stops in front of me, reaching up to adjust my scarf, a casual touch that somehow feels more intimate than it should. "Though you're still missing something."
"If you try to make me wear a pom-pom hat, our friendship is over."
She laughs, the sound warming me despite the biting cold. "No pom-poms, I promise. Just this." She pulls a small pin from her pocket, a miniature pine tree, and fastens it to my collar. "Now you're officially part of Team Hope Peak."
The gesture is small but meaningful, and I'm surprised by how much it affects me. "Thank you."
Spencer clears his throat. "Right, well, I'll leave you two to your race. Remember, the trail loops back around to the eastern ridge. Stay on the marked paths, storm's coming in faster than predicted."
As he walks away, Sloane turns to me with challenge in her eyes. "Ready to eat my snow, Morgan?"