Epilogue 1 Mr. Snowman
A Frosty, Flirty, Snowed-In, Almost-Enemies-to-Lovers Christmas Romance
Holden West
Nothing says I’m The Man around here better than an enlarged and framed Times article calling me Mr. Snowman.
THE SNOWMAN RETURNS:
Holden West’s Frosty New Dream
“He single-handedly brought the sports entertainment spotlight to upstate New York with his state-of-the art luxurious new ski resort. We predict that come opening day, the sold-out crowds of ski fans will hail Mr. Snowman and his newest addition to the world of winter sports…”
I loved that quote. I stepped back, hands on my hips, and admired my masterpiece. Not the remodeled lodge—I’d admire it in a week on grand opening day, New Year’s Day. But the two by three feet of glossy glory.
Yep, I had the article enlarged and double-matted—with museum lighting. If I was going to stroke my ego, I might as well make it a centerpiece.
I grinned at the nickname “Mr. Snowman.” Back when I was a young snowboarding phenom, and destined for Olympic gold, the media had taken to calling me the Snowman. Before the injury, the surgeries, and the endless rehab that led to crushed dreams.
These days, they added Mr. to the front of it, and the press used it with a wink, like a billionaire playing lodge mogul was cute. But looking at that headline didn’t sting. It felt right. This place was my second chance. My legacy.
“Perfect,” I chortled aloud to the empty lobby. “Just the right amount of humble.”
A gust of wind rattled the big front windows. Outside, snow piled up. The storm had a nickname, given its epic size.
“Snowzilla” rolled straight for Steele Valley, and the forecasts were unanimous: this would not be a gentle and sweet Hallmark-esque snow. This was a shut-down-the-roads, batten-down-the-hatches, and hope-your-generator-works type of snow.
Usually, snow was a great thing for a ski lodge. Not this much though. My best hope was to be dug out by the plows before opening day.
I snorted. Leave it to me to choose New Year’s Day for the Grand Opening, but it would be my 40th birthday. I always loved having an enormous party to celebrate.
I’d sent the staff home hours ago. Everyone had families, cozy Christmas traditions, kids waiting for Santa. All I had was the lodge.
I poured a fortune into it for three years.
Tonight, I’d spend my holiday alone in it, probably call my brothers who were in various countries, maybe get drunk on good bourbon, and sleep like a baby in my suite.
In a day or two, when plows dug me out, the staff would return, and it’d be nonstop from there preparing for opening day.
I could have written this would happen. Like my snowboarding career in the past, taking a nosedive into an injury. Typical Holden West move: big plans ruined by a bigger storm. But I was determined to beat this challenge head-on.
I ran a cloth over the edge of the frame and the glass one more time, like touching it would make magic happen. I made a wish for success, just in case.
“Wow.”
The voice came from behind me, dry and unimpressed. I turned, startled to find her standing there.
Lilah Childs… my head chef, and apparently, my only unexpected Christmas guest.
As if we were doing dinner service at seven, her chef’s jacket hung buttoned up on her frame. My eyes swept over the culinary prodigy. None other than the granddaughter of the late great Julian Freaking Childs, one of the most beloved famous chefs in culinary history.
“Stare much?” She arched her brow, sleeves rolled up, folded arms and hair pinned up tight. I’d like to pluck that pin right out and let the flowing dark locks free.
When I hired her, I never expected a white chef’s uniform like that would play a major role in my fantasies. Every night, she’d straddle me and take it off, revealing one helluva body underneath, swelled breasts, soft stomach, curvy hips, a landing strip peeking out too.
My fantasies of Lilah were always fun-fueled romps.
In reality, about the only fun she gave off was the candy cane tucked behind her ear like a pencil.
A few years ago, after tasting one of Lilah’s meals at an exclusive resort in the Mediterranean, I had to have her. I mean to hire her. I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse; surprisingly, she took it. Left the Med behind to come all the way to Steele Valley.
We both saw the vision: going after Michelin stars for my new restaurant opening here at the lodge.
What I hadn’t anticipated was her absolute disdain for me, palpable in every interaction of ours. But I didn’t fire her, because of—my ego. My gut told me her perfectionistic ways would earn us those stars.
By the way she eyed me through slits, her gut probably saw nothing but a rich playboy who knew very little about running a ski lodge.
She’d be right.