Chapter 2
Holly said it was a luxury resort.
Holly said ski slopes and Christmas theme and upscale.
Holly did not adequately prepare me for this.
I blame Holly for being fully unprepared. She should have sent me a video, pictures… something.
The Evergreen unfolds across the mountain like somebody whispered a very expensive wish into the snow and the mountain grew it exactly to their specifications.
Stone, timber and glass, all of it enormous and somehow still feels intimate, framed against peaks so white and perfect they look borrowed from a film set.
The entrance archway alone is cathedral height, strung with thousands of warm white lights and fresh pine boughs wound with gold ribbon and oversized crimson ornaments that catch the fading afternoon sun.
I always loved the way gold and crimson looked together.
There is real snow on the ground. Mountain snow, not the decorative kind. As I get closer, I smell woodsmoke from the fireplaces, mingling in with the pine from the thick woods and something baking with hints of cinnamon.
A valet appears before I've fully registered that valets are a thing that happens here. I startle briefly before I get my bearings.
"Ms. Daniels? Holly's been expecting you." My bags are in his hands before I've agreed to any of this. "She asked me to bring you directly to the atrium."
"Of — yes, of course, thank you." I look up at the archway. "Is it always lit like this?"
"Exterior lighting runs four PM through midnight, ma'am. A different theme each week through December."
I need to live here.
I take seventeen photos before I make it through the front doors. I’m not being excessive, I tell myself. I’m doing my job.
The interior is worse. Better. Worse-better.
The atrium is three stories of glass and timber, and the Christmas tree in the center has to be thirty feet tall.
It’s a real tree, I think, or extremely committed to the bit of looking real, and decorated in deep green and antique gold and ivory, with ornaments that look individually handmade.
There are fireplaces. Plural. Real wood burning fireplaces, not the gas kind.
Neatly stacked wood sits to the side, somehow giving the room a bit of a rustic appeal.
There's soft orchestral Christmas music coming from somewhere I can't locate, and the air has that specific expensive-hotel smell that I have always privately wanted to bottle and take home with me.
And then Holly hits me like a very small, very enthusiastic freight train.
"You're here!" She's hugging me before I've finished seeing her. "You're actually here and you're alive and you're not dead on a mountain road —"
"I was never going to die on a mountain road."
"You rear-ended a wildlife vet!"
"He rear-ended me, technically." I hug her back hard because it's been two months and I have missed her face. "Okay, this place, Holly. This place."
She pulls back, and her expression does the thing it does when she's proud of something she built and is trying not to look too proud of it. She’s trying to look humble and fails completely. "I know," she says.
"It's extraordinary."
"I know."
"How many rooms?"
"Eighty-two suites in the main lodge, sixteen private mountain cabins, and the ski-in chalets open in two weeks.
Come on, I'll give you the full tour before Justin finds you and makes you taste-test the tasting menu.
He's been at it for three days. I think he's developed a whole thing with the pastry chef. "
"Justin is engaged to you."
"I know. That's what makes it complicated." She links her arm through mine and steers me toward the corridor. "She made him a homemade chocolate croissant and I think he actually teared up."
The tour takes ninety minutes and I have my phone out for all ninety of them. It’s a good thing I have unlimited Cloud storage because the number of photos I’ve taken would have frozen my phone without it.
The ski slopes are immaculate; three levels, a gondola with glass floors that doubles as a sightseeing experience, views that make me understand viscerally why people move to Colorado and never leave.
The spa occupies the entire east wing because, sunset of course.
It has thermal pools, treatment rooms, and a meditation suite with a mountain view that feels almost aggressive in its beauty.
The boutiques stop me completely.
The biggest one is not a gift shop. Not a resort gift shop with keychains and logo mugs.
An actual curated retail experience containing fine jewelry, a Colorado artisan collective, high-end outerwear that I am absolutely trying on later, a wine and spirits room where a sommelier is currently arranging bottles with the focus of someone performing brain surgery.
"I'm buying things in there," I tell Holly.
"I know. I factored it in; you’ll get the employee discount."
The restaurants are three in concept, completely different from each other: a casual ski lodge bar, a mid-level restaurant I'm already mentally writing a review for, and a twelve-table fine dining room that Holly says has secured two pre-opening reservations from a publication my travel-blogger brain immediately recognizes as a very significant get.
There are of course a few bars and coffee shops easily accessible throughout the entire resort.
And then we reach the petting zoo.
It's in a covered area off the east garden. It’s spacious, clearly designed around the animals' comfort first and aesthetics second, which somehow makes it more beautiful. I love animals. Sometimes, my little comes out and I can’t help but squeal in delight.
This is one of those moments. When I see the animals, I squeal in pure happiness.
Miniature horses. Alpine goats with impractical levels of charm.
A pair of llamas who are regarding all of this with the air of people who have seen it all and remain unimpressed.
I swear the female was judging me and my outfit choice.
A rabbit enclosure that Holly physically has to redirect me away from.
They are so fluffy and cute, and I feel what can only be described as cuteness aggression looking at them.
I want to snuggle every single one of their furry bodies to me.
"Maya. We're almost done."
"They're so small, Holly —"
"The reindeer are literally right there."
That gets me moving.
There are six of them in the back enclosure.
Real reindeer. I’ve never seen reindeer before in real life, only the cartoon version.
Actual Rangifer tarandus, which I know because I once planned an Arctic Circle trip for a family and spent a week deep in reindeer research.
They're smaller than I expected, compact and weirdly graceful, a couple of them still in partial antler growth.
One lifts its head when I approach the fence and gives me a look of complete philosophical indifference.
I love this animal so much.
I start photographing immediately and don't stop for approximately four minutes.
"Anthony handles all of this," Holly says, in the careful voice she uses when she's trying to sound like she's making casual conversation.
"The petting zoo, the vet contracts, hiring of staff, the reindeer.
He and Justin have been friends since college.
He's here most days. He’s incredible with the animals.
Patient, kind and just the right amount of firm. "
"You’ve mentioned him a few times now."
"Did I? Hm."
"Holly."
"What?"
"You are not subtle."
"I'm extremely subtle." She pauses. "Does it matter? He's going to be around. I'm providing context."
I'm saved from responding to the context by Justin emerging from the main lodge in a chef's coat with the energy of a man who has developed strong feelings about braised short ribs and intends to share them. Not for the first time, I think about how lucky Holly is. Justin is not only the best partner for her, with just the right amount of Daddy Dom, but he’s also the definition of Golden Retriever, green flag waving man.
Dinner is the four of us, and although part of me wishes it was Anthony joining us, it’s not.
It’s me, Holly, Justin and his business partner Marco, who is immediately my favorite person in Colorado because he refills wine glasses before you notice they're low and laughs at his own stories before the punchline. He’s easy to talk to and makes me feel at home.
The mushroom risotto arrives and I'm in the middle of having a moment with it when the door opens.
My stomach does something immediate and involuntary.
I know it's him before I finish turning around. I'm not examining that.
He's changed from the canvas work jacket into dark wool, a collar visible above it, jeans that fit in the specific way of someone who isn't thinking about them. Hair still a little overgrown but he’s tamed it neatly.
Still carrying that same unhurried, presence, like ‘he arrived at the destination before he started the journey’ quality to him.
He stops when he sees me.
Not for long. Half a second, maybe. But I catch it. Our eyes meet before he looks away.
"Anthony." Justin's already on his feet, clasping his hand. "Wasn't sure you'd make it tonight."
"Got the calf settled and came straight over. Had paperwork on the reindeer transport anyway." He glances at me, and there's that unclassifiable look again. "Small mountain."
"Very small," I agree.
Justin looks between us. Holly is looking at her risotto with the focused attention of someone who has been waiting for this exact moment and is now pretending she hasn't. I see her small smirk and will definitely rib her about it later. Much later. When it’s just the two of us.
"You've met?" Justin says. Interesting. Didn’t Holly mention the accident to him? Maybe she hasn’t had the chance yet.
"On the road." Anthony pulls out the chair across from me. "She stopped for the elk."
"Those roads can be tricky without an injured elk on it," Justin says.