Chapter 4
Iwake to silence.
Not the muffled quiet of snow falling, but the sharp silence that comes after a storm has spent itself.
Sunlight streams through the bedroom window, turning the world outside into something impossibly bright, a blinding white broken only by the dark spikes of pine trees.
I close my eyes quickly and reopen them slower.
Ouch. It’s like icicles to the eyeballs.
I stretch beneath the quilt, muscles pleasantly sore from yesterday's trek through the park. The lodge smells like coffee and wood smoke. And something else… cinnamon, maybe. Bacon.
Justin's cooking.
The thought sends a flutter through my chest that has nothing to do with hunger.
He continues to surprise me. I’d only met him a handful of times in the past, mostly just in passing.
Some of the employees, the older ones who’ve worked here for generations, like and respect him.
But, many others, speak poorly of him. The rich man who doesn’t care about the amusement park.
Spoiled, with a silver spoon in his mouth.
The last few days have demonstrated that he wasn’t that man.
If anything, I’ve seen how much he cares about the park.
The animals. Preserving the memories he made as a younger kid.
He continues to surprise me and this morning is no different. He knows how to cook? I wouldn’t imagine him as domestic. I guess I assumed he had a maid and a chef at his beck and call. Or something.
I find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. There's a skillet on the stove, eggs scrambling in butter, and toast already plated on the counter.
"Morning," I say, voice still rough with sleep.
He glances over, something flickering across his face before he schools it back to neutral. "Morning, sweetheart. Hot chocolate is ready for you."
I pour myself a cup of the hot cocoa he has in a small sauce pan on the stove and watch him work.
I take a sip and realize something is different.
This isn’t hot water and powdered mix. He’s made a deliciously thick hot chocolate for me.
I can taste the care. Yesterday, we’d run by the cafeteria kitchen and picked up supplies.
He must have grabbed the ingredients we use for our world-famous hot cocoa. Heavy cream. Vanilla. It’s delicious.
He plates the eggs, without flourish, sets them on the counter beside the toast. Reaching for the plate lined with paper towels and perfectly cooked bacon, he plops three slices next to the eggs and hands the plate to me.
He’s practiced and efficient. I want to see something more from him.
Something… less stiff. Less perfect. I want to see the crack in his armor and watch the light spill out.
"You didn't have to do this," I say.
"You need to eat something more than junk food and boxed macaroni."
It's matter-of-fact, not a question. I slide onto a stool, pulling the plate toward me. The eggs are perfectly scrambled; soft, buttery, with just enough salt.
"You're good at this," I murmur between bites.
"At what?"
"Taking care of things. People."
He pours himself a cup of coffee, leans against the counter across from me. "It's what I do. I hold things together."
"For work, yeah. But this is different."
His gaze sharpens. "Is it?"
I set down my fork, meeting his eyes. "You know it is."
The air shifts between us, that same charge from last night, but stronger now.
Daylight doesn't diminish it. If anything, it makes it more real. The chemistry and the tension are palpable. He’s the same age as my dad’s youngest brother.
The thought should terrify me. It doesn’t.
I’ve never been attracted to men my own age.
Even now, after graduating college, several still seem so very immature.
Last weekend, a group of my college friends got together for dinner.
The men ended up in the garage playing beer pong and getting wasted.
I don’t know why, but I thought once we graduated college, we’d mature.
I guess maturity doesn’t occur overnight.
"We should talk," he says quietly. "About the conversation we had last night."
My pulse kicks up. "Okay."
"I meant what I said. About honesty."
"So did I."
He nods slowly, takes a sip of coffee. "Then let's start with this: I don't do casual."
"Neither do I."
"And I don't play games. If we're going to explore this—" he gestures vaguely between us, "—I need to know you're serious about wanting to see what could happen between us. It’s not a game. Not a weekend thing. Not a temporary fling. I don’t do one-night stands, Holly. I don’t play mind games or get involved in drama. I don’t normally date women who are two decades younger than me, but my gut… it’s telling me to take the chance. I need to know you are serious.”
"I am." My voice is steadier than I feel. "But I need to know you're not going to run when it gets complicated. At the first sign of trouble. If it’s not always easy…"
Something flashes in his eyes, recognition, maybe. Or respect? I can’t identify the emotion I see there. "Fair."
We finish breakfast in comfortable silence.
Each bite is delicious, better than any diner I’ve ever eaten at.
It’s as if I can taste the care he put into it.
After we finish, I help him wash dishes, our shoulders brushing as we move around the small kitchen.
Every touch feels deliberate, weighted with meaning.
"There's something I want to show you," he says finally, drying his hands. "In the park."
"What is it?"
"You'll see."
The park is transformed. Yesterday's storm left everything draped in white. It’s fairytale perfect, like a snow globe come to life.
The path has been partially cleared by wind, revealing patches of cobblestone beneath.
Without the people, and the noise they bring, it truly feels like I’m in the North Pole on my way to visit Santa.
Justin leads me past the carousel, the gingerbread house, the shuttered gift shops.
When we reach the old chapel, a small building used for Christmas themed weddings, he stops.
I’ve never been inside of it. People pay a lot to have a fairytale wedding here.
They rent out the entire park for the event and the special event teams make sure every detail is perfect.
They get married in the chapel but then have the entire park as a reception venue.
I’m not on the team that does special events, and I’ve never had a reason to go inside.
"I haven't been in here for years," he says.
"Why are we here?"
"Because the chapel is honest." He pulls open the door. "There’s no glitter. No performances. What you see is what you get."
Inside, the chapel is simple. Wooden pews, stained glass windows throwing colored light across the floor, a small altar decorated with pine boughs. It smells like old wood and fresh, cold air.
I walk down the aisle slowly, trailing my fingers along the pew backs. "It's beautiful." Each pew has Christmas designs carved tastefully into the wood. I trace my finger along a beautiful snowflake.
"My grandfather built this." Justin's voice echoes slightly, I can hear the pride. "Before the park became what it is now. He wanted one place that wasn't about spectacle. Each and every detail he designed, planned and built by hand. He even designed the pattern for the stained-glass windows."
I turn to face him. "Why are you showing me this?" I don’t buy his earlier excuse. He’s chosen this location for a reason, and it has nothing to do with the lack of glitter. There’s something deeper.
He moves closer, stops less than an arm's length away.
"Because you asked what I'm like when I stop controlling everything. This is it. This place reminds me that not everything needs to be managed or fixed. Some things just... are. And they are beautiful in simply existing. They don’t need to be changed, handled or topped with glitter. They can exist in peace. I like to control everything but sometimes, I need a reminder that I can’t control every detail of every second of every day.
Sometimes, I have to let go and let things exist."
"That must be hard for you." My chest tightens. “To let go.”
"It is." He looks around, then back at me. "But with you, it's easier."
"Why?"
"Because you haven’t expected me to be perfect.
Some people demand a level of professionalism from me that is almost super human.
You just expect me to be real. The last two days have felt like a year and a second at once.
Our conversations have been refreshing and spending these hours getting to know each other has been remarkable.
There’s been no pretense. No acting. You aren’t trying to get a promotion or ask me for a favor.
You’ve acted like you’ve genuinely wanted to know me. "
I take a step forward, closing the distance between us.
"I have genuinely wanted to get to know you. The real you. Not the CEO that other people get to know, but the person you are beyond the suits and ties. I only do real, Justin." That’s why I haven’t dated men my own age, I think but don’t say.
The drama and the immaturity. I need a leader in the relationship.
Someone I can trust to make the right decisions for us.
I’d never found that in any man I’d talked to before.
His hand comes up, cups my cheek. I lean into his gentle touch. "Even if it gets messy?"
"Especially then."
He exhales slowly, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I need you to understand something. The dynamic you read about—what you want—it's not about control for control's sake."
"I know."
"It's about trust and communication. About creating a space where you can let go because you know someone's holding the reins. Where you don't have to be 'on' all the time. Where we can be our authentic selves with no fear of judgement."
My breath catches. "And you can do that?"