Chapter 6 Sloane #2
"A fascinating man," Vivienne confirms. "He's been telling me about the lodge's history. Did you know this was originally a waystation for gold miners in the 1850s?"
The conversation flows surprisingly easily as we're shown to our table in the lodge's intimate dining room. Vivienne seems genuinely interested in Hope Peak, asking questions about the town's history and character that reveal a sharper intelligence than her socialite appearance might suggest.
"So, Sloane," she says as our appetizers arrive, "Atticus tells me you were instrumental in convincing him to participate in the local holiday festivities."
I glance at Atticus, who shrugs slightly. "I wouldn't say 'convincing,'" I reply carefully. "More like... reminding him that there's value in community connection."
"A lesson he's historically resisted," Vivienne observes, sipping her wine. "Yet here he is, attending town meetings and children's pageants. Remarkable."
"Hope Peak is remarkable," I say, genuine affection for my hometown coloring my voice. "It has a way of drawing people in."
"Some people more than others, it seems." Her shrewd eyes move between Atticus and me, missing nothing. "How long have you two been sleeping together?"
I choke on my wine, caught completely off guard by her directness. Beside me, Atticus stiffens.
"Mother," he says, voice edged with warning.
"What? It's a perfectly reasonable question." She waves a dismissive hand. "I'm not judging, darling. In fact, I think it's about time."
"Time for what, exactly?" I ask, finding my voice despite the blush heating my cheeks.
"For my son to recognize what's been right in front of him for years." She fixes me with a surprisingly warm smile. "I knew the moment I met you at that charity gala last year that you were special, Sloane. The way he lights up around you, it's quite something to see."
"We're not discussing this," Atticus interjects, though I notice he doesn't actually deny her assumption.
"Fine, fine." Vivienne turns her attention to her plate. "Though I hope you realize this means Charlotte Whittington is firmly off the table."
"A tragedy I'll somehow endure," Atticus replies dryly.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of excellent food, surprisingly easy conversation, and the occasional knowing glance from Vivienne.
By the time dessert arrives, a decadent chocolate soufflé that even Atticus, with his typical restraint around sweets, enjoys, I find myself genuinely liking Vivienne Morgan beyond her connection to Atticus.
"You know," she says, setting down her spoon, "I was worried about this Winter Division project."
Atticus looks up sharply. "You never said anything."
"What would be the point? The board had approved it, you were determined to prove yourself, and my opinion wasn't solicited.
" She shrugs elegantly. "But I feared you were setting yourself up for failure, not because you lack ability, darling, but because community projects require a certain. .. touch."
"And you didn't think I had it," he concludes, voice neutral.
"I knew you didn't," she corrects gently. "You've always been brilliant with numbers, with strategy, with the ruthless efficiency that makes Blackwood Industries so successful. But people? Hearts and minds? That's never been your strong suit."
I wait for Atticus to bristle at the criticism, but he simply listens, his expression thoughtful.
"Then I arrived and discovered you'd somehow acquired exactly the partner you needed." Vivienne smiles at me. "Someone who understands both worlds and can help you navigate between them."
"Sloane's been invaluable," Atticus agrees, his hand finding mine beneath the table. "In more ways than I can count."
The warmth in his voice brings unexpected tears to my eyes, which I blink away quickly.
"Well," Vivienne says, raising her wine glass, "to successful partnerships, in all their forms."
We toast, the crystal glasses catching the firelight.
After dinner, Vivienne pleads fatigue from her travel day, retiring to her suite with a knowing smile and instructions for Atticus to ‘see Sloane home safely.’
The night air is crisp and cold when we step outside, snow still falling softly around us. Atticus wraps his suit jacket around my shoulders despite my protests that I'm fine.
"That wasn't as terrible as I expected," he admits as we walk to his car. "Though the direct questioning about our relationship was pure Vivienne."
"I like her," I say, surprising myself with the realization. "She cares about you. Really sees you."
"She likes you too." He opens the passenger door for me. "Which is something of a miracle. She's never approved of anyone I've dated."
"So we are dating?" I tease, settling into the leather seat. "I thought we were 'figuring it out.'"
He closes my door and rounds the car, sliding into the driver's seat before answering. "I believe the term my mother used was 'sleeping together.'"
"Subtle, she is not."
"Never has been." He starts the engine but doesn't immediately pull away. Instead, he turns to me, expression suddenly serious in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. "Would you like to go back to your place? Or..."
"Or?" I prompt, pulse quickening.
"Or mine?" His voice drops lower. "I have a suite at the lodge on the north side of town. More privacy than HQ."
The implication sends heat spiraling through me. "Your place," I decide instantly. "Definitely your place."
The drive to his lodge feels interminable despite the relatively short distance. Tension builds between us with every mile, the air in the SUV charged with anticipation. My body hums with awareness, with the memory of how his hands felt on my skin last night, with the promise of what awaits us.
His suite at North Ridge Lodge turns out to be more of a private cabin, a luxurious retreat with its own entrance, nestled among the pines at the edge of the property. Inside, a fire has already been laid in the stone hearth, waiting only for a match to bring it to life.
"Perks of being the CEO," Atticus explains as he ignites the kindling, the flames quickly catching and casting golden light across the open-plan living space. "Marcus arranged everything."
"Remind me to thank him," I murmur, taking in the rustic elegance of the cabin. Like The Evergreen, it manages to balance luxury with authentic mountain charm, timber beams overhead, plush furniture in rich earth tones, floor-to-ceiling windows that would showcase spectacular views in daylight.
Atticus shrugs out of his suit jacket, loosening his tie as he moves to a small bar area. "Drink?"
"Please." I slip off my heels, sighing with relief as my stockinged feet sink into the plush area rug. "Something warm?"
He selects a bottle, pouring amber liquid into crystal tumblers. "Single malt. Warms from the inside out."
Our fingers brush as he hands me the glass, the simple contact sending electricity up my arm. I take a sip, the whiskey burning pleasantly down my throat, warming my chest.
"Better than dinner conversation?" he asks, his own glass cradled in long fingers that I now know can work magic on my body.
"Much." I move closer to the fire, feeling its heat against my legs where the dress's slit reveals bare skin. "Though your mother was surprisingly... accepting."
"She sees what you mean to me." His voice is soft as he joins me by the hearth. "Always has, probably before I was willing to admit it to myself."
The confession sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with whiskey or firelight. "And what do I mean to you, Atticus?"
He sets his glass aside, taking mine and placing it next to his on the mantel. Then his hands are framing my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones as his eyes hold mine.
"Everything," he says simply. "You mean everything to me."
The sincerity in his voice steals my breath. This is Atticus Morgan, the man who calculates risk in his sleep, who guards his emotions behind boardroom strategies, laying his heart bare without reservation.
"Atticus," I breathe, overwhelmed.
"Too much?" he asks, echoing my earlier question.
"No," I assure him, rising on tiptoes to brush my lips against his. "Perfect."
The kiss deepens immediately, all the tension that's been building since he saw me in this dress finally finding release.
His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him as my hands slide up his chest to curl around his neck.
The silk of my dress whispers between us, a sensuous barrier I suddenly can't wait to remove.
As if reading my thoughts, his hands find the zipper at the back of my dress, slowly drawing it down as his lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, then down the sensitive curve of my neck. Each press of his lips against my skin sends shivers cascading through me, heat pooling low in my belly.
The dress loosens as the zipper descends, and Atticus steps back just enough to let the emerald silk slip from my shoulders, pooling at my feet in a whisper of fabric.
His sharp intake of breath as he takes in the sight of me in nothing but a strapless black lace bra, matching panties, and thigh-high stockings is immensely satisfying.
"You wore this... all through dinner with my mother?" he asks, voice rough with desire.
"I did." I reach for his tie, slowly loosening the knot. "Thinking about you seeing me in it afterward."
"Christ, Sloane." His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing the lace edge of my panties. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me," I challenge, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness.
His restraint visibly fractures. In one fluid motion, he lifts me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that's all heat and hunger, tongue stroking against mine in a rhythm that has me moaning into his mouth.