Chapter 14
Lanter Bridge gifts us a half-day Friday reprieve since tonight marks their Anniversary party—an annual tradition of champagne-fueled networking that apparently no new hire should miss.
By evening, when Wendy’s car pulls into my driveway, I’ve managed three extra hours of sleep and have almost banished my hangover from existence. My body no longer feels like it’s been trampled by a herd of hippo, which counts as progress.
I smooth the wrinkles from my sleek black dress, a careful choice that skirts the line between professionally appropriate and quietly flirtatious. After one last glance in the mirror, I grab my clutch, head downstairs, and slip into Wendy’s waiting car.
“To the land of the rich and famous,” she announces, pulling away from the curb.
Our destination: The Alpenglow Grand—the crown jewel of Maplewood Springs’ hospitality scene.
I’ve never actually crossed its threshold, but I’ve drooled over enough travel magazines to recognize its reputation for opulence.
For locals like me, it’s always been the place where “other people” go—tourists with platinum credit cards, celebrities seeking mountain seclusion, and apparently, Lanter Bridge employees during anniversary celebrations.
The moment we step inside, my breath catches.
No glossy magazine spread could possibly capture the reality before me.
The Grand Veranda unfolds like a dream, masterfully blending old-world charm with modern luxury—hand-cut limestone walls frame a heated infinity pool designed to mirror the hot springs nestled in our mountains.
I whirl in place, neck craned back, utterly awestruck by The Aurora Glass Ballroom’s soaring magnificence.
Two-story glass walls, specifically engineered to showcase the Northern Lights during winter galas, now capture the fading sunset in panels of amber and gold.
Above us, vaulted ceilings reach forty feet high, supported by massive wooden beams that must have come from ancient forest oaks.
Wrought-iron chandeliers, twisted to mimic the branches of local maples, cast honeyed light across the sea of guests below.
But it’s the colossal floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace dominating the far wall that literally stops me mid-step.
Heat emanates from its crackling heart, drawing the crowd in to marvel at its beauty.
My mind boggles at what renting this entire space for a single night might cost. Clearly, Judy Hawthorn’s taste in venues matches the elegance of her designer wardrobe.
“Wow,” Wendy murmurs beside me, eyes wide as saucers. “This is next-level fancy.”
I nod, suddenly conscious of my dress among the crowd of impeccably styled attendees. While not exactly underdressed, there’s a clear difference in the quality of what I’m wearing. Some people look like they belong in The Great Gatsby.
A jazz quartet plays in the corner, their smooth notes floating beneath the hum of conversation. The mingled scents of expensive perfumes, aged whiskey, and cedar wood create an intoxicating atmosphere of privilege and comfort.
Wendy’s fingers circle my wrist as she drags me toward the bar.
I follow willingly, eyes scanning the crowd for Jake’s tall figure.
The mere thought of him sends an unwelcome jolt of dread through my system.
Since the pipe incident, I’ve been caught in an emotional no-man’s-land, wanting both closure and distance in equal, impossible measure.
At the bar, Wendy orders wine for us both. I accept my glass with a smile, holding it mostly for appearance’s sake. The memory of my last drinking adventure remains too fresh, making me sick to my stomach at the mere scent of fermented grapes.
As the dance floor fills with laughing, swaying couples, a tall man from accounting—Brandon, I think—approaches us, extending a hand toward Wendy with a hopeful smile.
“Care to dance?” he asks, his voice almost drowned by the swell of music.
Wendy glances at me, her expression torn between excitement and loyalty.
“Go,” I insist, shooing her with my free hand. “Have fun. I’ll be fine right here with my… grape juice.”
She squeezes my arm in thanks before melting into the crowd, leaving me alone with my barely touched wine. The music’s quickening tempo sends a dull throb through my temples.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice the shadow falling across the bar until a voice—deep, familiar, and entirely too close—breaks through my reverie.
“You look absolutely incredible.”
I spin around and see Jake, handsome in a navy suit that hugs his body like it was tailored only for him.
The dim ballroom lights catch the angles of his face, highlighting the jawline that seems to have gotten sharper with age.
He looks so good, I have to fight the urge to bite my lower lip and give him the wrong impression.
“Thanks,” I manage, taking a strategic sip of wine to hide whatever expression might be betraying me. “You clean up nicely, too.” I turn away from him as I wait for the gag reflex to subside. No more alcohol for me tonight.
When it finally does, I find his lips tipped into that same crooked smirk that used to make my teenage knees go weak, and for one dangerous second, I’m seventeen again, waiting for him to kiss me under the bleachers.
“This is definitely a step up from those barn parties we used to go to,” Jake says, loud enough to cut through the music, his gaze sweeping the glittering ballroom before returning to mine.
A genuine laugh escapes me before I can stop it, memories rising fast and bright.
“No bonfires or hay bales tonight,” I say. “Just fancy cocktails and jazz.”
“The hay sure came in handy when we needed a moment alone.”
His words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
Those nights tumble through my mind with painful clarity: us sneaking away from the crowd, finding a quiet corner in the loft where moonlight streamed through gaps in the weathered wood.
Lying on scratchy hay that somehow felt like the softest bed in the world when his arms were around me.
Gazing up at stars framed by the open hayloft door, whispering promises I was naive enough to believe.
Nostalgia wraps around my chest like a vice, squeezing until I can barely breathe. I need to end this conversation, find some excuse to walk away before I say something foolish. But before I can cobble together an escape plan, Jake extends his hand toward me in invitation.
“Dance with me?”
Almost thoughtlessly, my hand moves to his before I can stop it, as if it remembers what to do when he asks me to dance. His grip, warm and strong, envelops my hand entirely. “Sure,” I say, wondering if this is another mistake to add to my growing collection.
With my wine abandoned on the bar top, Jake guides me through the crowd.
The quartet transitions to something slow and intimate, a soundtrack perfectly timed for this moment of reckless nostalgia.
His hand settles against my waist, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of my dress.
The contact is electric, waking parts of me I was certain had gone dormant years ago.
We’ve done this a hundred times in the past—at prom, weddings, backyard gatherings—and our bodies haven’t forgotten. There is no tugging or hesitation. We glide across the dance floor without thought or effort, sharing a center of gravity where his momentum becomes my invitation.
Around us, the glittering ballroom blurs into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow.
There’s no awkward stepping on toes or misread signals.
Neither of us has to look down to know exactly where the other will land.
Our dancing has always been like a long-term partnership; I stop reacting to what he does and start moving to what he’s about to do.
A slight shift in his palm or a gentle tug at the small of my back tells me everything I need to know.
Reading his body’s intentions is second nature.
I’d forgotten how it feels to trust someone so completely with my movement, to exist in flawless synchronicity with another person.
Despite the magic of this moment, sadness wells up, thick and choking.
This is what we could have had—what we did have—before he discarded it, discarded me, like I meant nothing at all.
“Sarah,” Jake begins, his voice straining with something that sounds almost like longing, “I need to—“
“Mind if I cut in?”
Amanda materializes beside us like a summoned demon, her crimson dress and flashing jewelry creating a barrier between our bodies. She wedges herself into the space between us, breaking our connection.
“Come on, handsome,” Amanda says, flashing a smile that’s all teeth and territorial warning. “Let’s show these amateurs what real dancing looks like.”
Jake’s mouth parts like he’s about to say something—an apology maybe, but Amanda is already dragging him away.
Her habit of showing up at the least opportune moments gets on my nerves—but I can’t cause a scene here. I’ve drawn too much attention to myself already.
So, I leave the dance floor, as far away from Amanda’s obnoxious laughter as possible. I glance over my shoulder. Her head tilts back as she whispers something to Jake, her body angled toward him in a seductive way. It shouldn’t bother me. It absolutely shouldn’t bother me.
But it does.
With a frustrated exhale, I turn and move through the glittering throng, seeking refuge from the sight of them together. The hallway stretches before me like a promise of escape, quiet and dimly lit compared to the ballroom’s dazzling spectacle.
”—Jake doesn’t stand a chance.“ Tim’s words slither through the air, coated in arrogance. I creep behind a velvet curtain for a closer look. “The promotion’s as good as mine,” he says. “For now, let him think he’s winning.”
The promotion. Is that what Jake meant about opportunities opening up if we win? The warmth drains from my cheeks as the pieces lock into place. Tim is planning to sabotage our work, Jake’s work, my work. That has to be what they were plotting at the office, before Judy split us into groups.
Pressing myself against the wall, I slide back, away from Tim’s voice, the thoughts in my mind racing faster than my heart. As much as Jake has wounded me—as much as I’ve nursed that wound into a protective shell—I can’t let Tim destroy what we’ve built here.
Determined, I push through the crowd in search of Jake. Where is he?
“I know you’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” a voice hisses in my ear.
Amanda blocks my way. “Keep it up and it won’t end well for you.”
I stand my ground against her glare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know it was you that day in the office.” Her fingers dig into my forearm, five points of pressure sure to leave marks. “What did you hear?”
“Let go of me,” I command, wrenching free with enough force to make her stumble sideways.
My eyes flick past her, scanning the crowd until I find him standing near the bar, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. His gaze sweeps left, then right. Is he looking for me?
As I move closer his eyes finally land on me. “Sarah,” he begins when I’m close enough to hear over the music.
“We need to talk,” I interrupt. “It’s about the project.”
His brow furrows. “Wait. I need to tell you something first.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he blurts out. “Ever since you showed up in my life again, I can’t sleep at night. All I do is think about how to make things right.”
And he thinks now is a good time to drop this on me? Everything I’ve kept sealed away—anger, hurt, betrayal—suddenly erupts like hot lava.
“Are you serious right now?” I ask. “You left me. You said you didn’t love me. Do you have any idea how many nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering what I did wrong?”
“Sarah, please, just let me explain—“
“No. You don’t get to explain,” I snap, tears forming.
“You broke my heart, Jake. You stole my work. You made me doubt everything—my talent, my worth, my judgment.” My breaths come in jagged bursts as I spill everything I kept locked away.
“For four years, I carried it. Four years of wondering why I wasn’t enough, why you couldn’t even give me the dignity of a real explanation.
” I stare at him, the ache in my chest turning sharp, turning vicious.
“And now you think you can waltz back into my life because what, you’re bored?
Lonely? Or do you just need someone to help climb the corporate ladder? ”
Jake reaches for me, his face a portrait of misery. “It wasn’t like that—“
“Stop.” I retreat out of his reach. “You’re the worst person in the world for hurting me like that.”
Tears run unchecked down my cheeks. The weight of everyone’s stares tightens around my chest, squeezing until it hurts to breathe. I’ve made a scene. I’ve become exactly what I feared—a spectacle in front of colleagues and strangers alike.
This is too much. I turn and flee, pushing past curious onlookers toward the nearest exit.
Outside, the crisp night air cools my overheated skin. I brace myself against the stone wall, my whole body shaking from the aftershock of what just transpired.
“Sarah, are you okay?” Wendy’s voice comes from my left. I look up to find her standing a few feet away, concern fixed across her face.
I shake my head, unable to form words past the knot in my throat.
Without hesitation, she wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that I realize I needed more than anything. “I saw what happened. I’m so sorry.”
“Can you take me home?” I whisper against her shoulder.
“Of course.”
The drive back is a blur of streetlights and silence. I stare out the window at the passing shadows, one hand pressed against my stomach where emotion turns like nausea after a night of drinking.
I wanted so badly to let out all the pain and anger I’d been holding onto—but the release hasn’t brought the catharsis I’d imagined.
Instead, my chest aches, and regret gnaws at me. The scene of our argument plays on an endless loop behind my eyes—my words, his face, the spectators—leaving me wishing I could rewind time and swallow back every syllable that escaped my trembling lips.