My Ex for Christmas (Sugar Peak Resort)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

HADLEY

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home, bitch?”

I sigh as I step back into my suite after another long day. With my phone in one hand and my bag in the other, I have to kick the door closed with my foot. “I was a little preoccupied getting everything sorted for Mr. Oliveira’s takeover of the ski resort.”

On the other end of the line, my sister makes a noise of protest. “After all these years, he still makes you call him Mr. Oliveira ?”

“No,” I reply, a little defensively. In fact, my boss often tells me not to call him Mr. Oliveira. He prefers Thiago. “I just like keeping things professional.”

I can practically feel her eye roll through the phone. “Hadley.”

“Samantha.”

“Please tell me you haven’t been pulling twelve-hour days.”

“I haven’t been pulling twelve-hour days.”

They’re usually sixteen. But at least I take a break for lunch. That has to count for something, right?

She snorts in disbelief. “You’re at a beautiful resort in the mountains!” Sam says, which she only knows because I was forced to send her pictures this morning. “At least promise me you’ll do more than rot in your hotel room every night. ”

“I do not rot ,” I say with a scoff.

She ignores me. “Do something fun! Go out, have a drink. For me. Please?”

I haven’t gone out in a long time. Probably not since university. Even then, my wild nights were few and far between. I much preferred staying in to study, and sometimes on the weekends I would venture out to immerse myself in the Brazilian culture. I hadn’t wanted to take a minute of my studying abroad for granted.

But I know that if I don’t throw my sister a bone, she’s going to keep pestering me. She might even resort to driving up here from her new place in Nanaimo and physically dragging me outside to have her definition of fun.

“Ugh. Fine , I’ll go.”

“You better not be lying! I’ll know if you are.”

Unfortunately, she’s right. She has always had this uncanny ability to sniff out my lies and pry the truth from me. In some ways, she makes a better older sister than I do.

I sigh as I set my bag down on the love seat in my living room. My suite is essentially a small apartment. “I’m going, I’m going.”

One drink , I promise myself. I’ll go for one drink. Then I can successfully say I followed Sam’s orders, and I’ll never have to do it again.

“And while you’re at it, maybe you can get yourself laid or something.”

“Sam!” I chastise. My cheeks flare at the insinuation—that I haven’t had sex in a while—and I ignore the fact that she’s right. Again.

I can just imagine her satisfied grin. “Okay, I’ve gotta go, but you have a blast! And don’t think this conversation is over. I still want to know why you really didn’t tell me you were moving back.”

Me, too .

“I love you the most,” I say.

“I love you the mostest,” she replies. “Bye. ”

I hang up the phone and glance down at my clothing. A wool sweater, black slacks and knee-high suede boots. That will have to do. Not exactly going out attire, but I’d rather not waste another outfit. The less time I have to spend worrying about laundry, the more time I have to keep on top of things for Thiago.

Pulling out my phone, I search for the nearest bar. Something tells me Sam wouldn’t appreciate me getting my drink from the resort. She’d call it cheating. According to Google, there’s one singular bar in Sugar Peak, which is about half an hour down the mountain. Fitting for such a small town.

I bundle myself up in my coat, toque and mittens, and then I venture through the resort. The lobby is all floor-to-ceiling windows and dark wood, with a stone fireplace as a focal point. Thiago certainly spared no expense. It makes sense, considering the whole point of him buying this place was to create a vacation spot for himself.

Once I’m out the front door, the chill wind hits me instantly. Though I haven’t used it much since I’ve stayed bundled up inside the resort, I am thankful my rental car came with heated seats. Living in S?o Paulo for so long, I became accustomed to the climate; I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live with snow. But I can already recall not being a fan.

I drive the distance into town, white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire way. I never used to bat an eye when driving in the snow, but eight years can make you forget a lot of things.

After a tense thirty minutes, I roll to a stop in a snow-covered parking lot. From the outside, the building is unassuming. There are letters hanging above the door that spell out Dirty Dick’s , but the S at the end is upside down, half falling off. No one has bothered to fix it, it seems.

I’ve been staying at the resort for a couple months now, and I’ve ventured into town a handful of times. I haven’t set foot on this end of the main street, though. If Sugar Peak has a wrong side of town, this is it.

My nose wrinkles as I push open the front door of Dirty Dick’s. The name is very apt, given the layer of grime that coats everything. But it appears that none of the patrons care. Some kind of lively music plays from a jukebox in the corner, and merry shouts echo from a group gathered around a pool table in an adjoining room.

I make a beeline toward the bar, feeling incredibly out of place here. One drink , I remind myself. Settling onto the very last stool at the edge of the counter, I try to ignore the sticky surface in front of me.

I slip my coat off my shoulders and drape it across the stool next to me. With any luck, people will assume the seat is taken and avoid trying to sit there. It’s been a long day, so I’m not in the mood for idle chitchat.

The bartender makes her way over to me. Her dark hair, peppered with streaks of grey, is short, the sides shaved close to her scalp. From beneath the sleeves of her black t-shirt, colourful floral tattoos bloom, trailing down her arms.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

My eyes dart around, looking for some kind of menu, but I come up empty. I suppose the locals just know what kind of drinks are served here, like some kind of intrinsic knowledge they gain when they turn legal drinking age. Maybe even before. This certainly looks like a place that doesn’t check IDs.

“Um,” I say, chewing on my lower lip. I take a stab in the dark. “I’ll have a gin fizz, please.”

The woman starts laughing before I’ve even finished my sentence. “Honey, do you know where you are? That fancy ass resort is up the mountain,” she says, pointing out the window. I just blink, and she shakes her head. “The best I can do is a vodka cran. That, or beer.”

A little embarrassed, I attempt to save face. “I’ll have whatever you recommend. Surprise me.”

With a small smirk, the bartender turns and grabs a tall glass. From one of the taps, she pours a dark liquid. A layer of foam settles across the top once it’s full, and some of it spills over the edge and down the side.

She sets it on the counter in front of me. With a wink, she says, “Enjoy.”

The first sip I take makes me want to gag. The bartender is watching, though, so I force myself to swallow the bitter liquid. Fun , I think to myself. I’m showing Sam that I still know how to have fun—which I do .

The second sip goes down easier, but I fear I may never get the horrid taste out of my mouth. A beer connoisseur, I am not.

When the bartender’s attention shifts to another customer down the line, my shoulders drop in relief. I’ll just pretend to nurse the drink for a while, then I can pay my tab and leave.

Swivelling on my stool, glass in hand, I watch the locals in their natural habitat. The people I’ve met in Sugar Peak thus far have been nothing short of kind. And although I’m loath to admit it, it is nice to be back in Canada. Travelling the world with Thiago has been incredible, but nothing beats my home province. British Columbia is breathtaking, especially up here in the mountains. Even if it is really fucking cold.

When I told my boss about the abandoned ski resort an hour or so away from my hometown, I never thought my offhand comment would make him decide to buy the place and have it fixed up. But he did, and now I’m here.

The front door opens, and a group of people come flooding in, a blast of chill winter air with them. Based on their uniforms, they’re employees from the resort. The volume instantly increases as they greet others around the room.

I turn back to face the bar, still nursing my disgusting beer. I can feel the bartender watching again, so I raise the glass to my lips to take another swig. At the same time, someone bumps roughly into my back, and cold liquid slides down my chin to my chest, staining the white fabric of my wool sweater.

I hear a vague sorry as the person brushes past. But sorry doesn’t cover my dry cleaning bill. Or mend my wounded pride .

I grab a tiny square napkin off the bar top—it’s a miracle they even have those here—and dab fruitlessly at the front of my sweater. It’s no use, though. The ugly splotch has spread, the liquid seeping through to my skin.

Thanks a lot, Sam . This is your fault .

“Here’re those glasses you asked for, Luce.”

My hand freezes on my chest. I hardly notice the feel of my soggy sweater anymore because that voice . I know that voice. But I’m definitely hearing things. I have to be. Otherwise, that means?—

“Thanks, Brooksy. Just throw them over there.”

Oh, no. No, no, no .

A small squeak slips from my mouth unbidden. Chin tipped down, I stare at the surface of the bar, hand on my forehead to shield my face from view. Maybe if I sit here long enough without moving, he won’t notice me.

Please don't let him notice me .

I hear footsteps across the floor behind the bar as he sets the box down where Luce instructed. Then, just when I think I might be in the clear, I can sense someone approach. The looming figure seems too big to be Luce, my beer deliverer, but I metaphorically cross my fingers anyway.

“Hi, Hadley,” he says from above me.

I lift my head, resigned, and meet the familiar brown eyes of my ex boyfriend.

“Hi, Brooks.”