Chapter 13
Competitive Spirit
Decision made, I find myself in an odd state of suspended animation.
After accepting the extended assignment and postponing my return to Chicago, I sink into a strange limbo—professionally engaged but personally adrift.
The argument with Noah hangs between us, unresolved and complicated by my suddenly extended stay.
I've messaged him, of course. A professionally worded text explaining that Horizon Magazine has asked me to cover the mountain rescue competition, something about an expanded feature, and editorial interest. His response was equally professional.
"The department will provide whatever access you need. "
Not "I'm glad you're staying" or "We should talk." Just proper, polite cooperation.
For five days, we've maintained this careful distance.
I've interviewed competition organizers, researched the history of mountain rescue techniques, and prepared background materials—all without directly engaging with Noah beyond necessary logistical communications.
He's been equally busy with pre-competition responsibilities, our paths crossing occasionally but never connecting.
Tonight changes that unavoidable reality. The Haven is hosting the welcome dinner for all competing teams, a formal affair that kicks off the weeklong competition. As the journalist covering the event, my attendance is expected. As the host team's leader, Noah's presence is guaranteed.
I contemplate this as I stand before the mirror in my room at Mabel's, assessing my appearance with critical eyes.
The dress I've chosen, midnight blue with a draped neckline and fitted silhouette that ends just above my knees, is the only truly formal outfit I packed, intended for a potential interview with a resort executive that never materialized.
My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders, and I've applied makeup with more care than usual, a subtle enhancement rather than a dramatic transformation.
"Just professional presentation," I tell my reflection, knowing it for the lie it is.
I want to look beautiful tonight. I want Noah to see what he's been avoiding these past five days.
I want to remind him of what happened in that cabin on the mountainside, what happened at his place, and what simmers between us despite our best efforts to maintain professional distance.
Pride, perhaps. Or something deeper.
Mabel catches me as I descend the stairs, a knowing smile playing across her features. "My, don't you clean up nicely. The Haven won't know what hit it."
I smooth out nonexistent wrinkles in my dress. "Just looking appropriate for the event."
"Mmhmm." Her expression suggests complete disbelief. "I hear all twelve competing teams arrived today. Quite the prestigious gathering of rescue experts."
"It's a significant competition.” I fall into the comfortable rhythm of discussing my article rather than my appearance or my complicated relationship with a certain fire chief. "Angel's Peak hosting it speaks volumes about the town's revitalization."
"Indeed." Mabel hands me a small beaded evening bag. "Thought you might need this. Your regular tote seems a bit casual for that dress."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture touches me. "Thank you. It's perfect."
"Just return it whenever." She waves away my thanks. "And Riley? Sometimes the bravest rescues have nothing to do with mountains."
Before I can decipher this cryptic comment, she's bustling away to attend to other guests, leaving me to make my way to The Haven alone with her words echoing in my mind.
The lodge glows with warm light against the darkening evening sky, its rustic-luxe architecture transformed by strategic lighting and elegant floral arrangements into something truly spectacular.
Valet attendants manage a steady stream of arrivals, while inside, the soaring lobby hums with the murmur of conversations in multiple languages, punctuated by occasional laughter.
I scan the crowd as I enter, professional instinct seeking to identify key players for my article.
Rescue teams cluster in small groups, identifiable by matching attire or shared physical characteristics that speak of similar training regimens—the compact, wiry strength of people who routinely carry heavy equipment up mountains and injured people back down.
A server offers champagne from a passing tray, which I accept gratefully, using the glass as both a prop and a shield as I navigate the growing crowd.
I recognize James Donovan in his dress uniform, representing the sheriff's department that works closely with mountain rescue.
Eleanor Morgan holds court near the stone fireplace, elegant in burgundy silk, clearly relishing her role as community matriarch.
No sign of Noah.
I'm interviewing the captain of the Colorado Wilderness team—last year's runners-up, determined to claim victory this time—when a subtle shift in the room's energy alerts me to a new arrival. I don't need to turn to know who it is; my body recognizes his presence before my eyes confirm it.
Noah stands in the entrance to the grand hall, imposing in a charcoal suit that fits his athletic frame perfectly.
He's forgone a tie, the open collar of his white shirt revealing the strong column of his throat.
His dark hair, usually slightly tousled, has been tamed for the occasion, though a rebellious wave still curls over his forehead.
He's devastatingly handsome, and from the appreciative glances directed his way by several female competitors, I'm not the only one who notices.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room, a moment of connection that sends electricity skating down my spine despite the distance between us.
His gaze holds mine for one heartbeat, two, before he's pulled into conversation by the Swiss team captain, breaking the contact but not the awareness that thrums between us.
"Excuse me," I murmur to the Colorado captain, who follows my distracted gaze and smirks knowingly.
"Ah, Morgan. Tough competition." He sips his drink. "On and off the mountain, apparently."
I don't dignify this with a response, moving away to continue my professional duties.
For the next hour, I circulate purposefully, gathering quotes and impressions, building the framework for my article while acutely aware of Noah's location at all times.
He does the same, working the room, the consummate host to visiting teams while maintaining a careful orbit that never quite intersects with mine.
We're like binary stars, locked in mutual gravitational pull yet traveling on separate paths, influencing each other’s trajectories without direct contact.
Dinner is announced, breaking my astronomical musings.
I find my assigned seat at a table with competition officials and representatives from the local tourism board.
Noah, naturally, is seated elsewhere, hosting a table of international team captains.
Throughout the multi-course meal, I maintain professional engagement in the conversations around me while fighting the magnetic pull that repeatedly draws my attention to his table.
Once, I catch him watching me, his expression unreadable across the distance.
Another time, our eyes meet as we both reach for our water glasses, a momentary synchronicity that feels significant despite its mundanity.
The third time, he doesn't look away immediately, holding my gaze long enough that heat climbs my neck, forcing me to break the contact first.
After dinner, the formal program begins with welcoming speeches, sponsor acknowledgments, and an explanation of the competition rules.
I take notes dutifully, though my attention fragments each time Noah approaches the microphone.
His voice, confident and clear as he outlines safety protocols and logistical details, sends inappropriate shivers of memory through me—that same voice, roughened with passion, whispering my name in the mountain cabin.
When the program concludes, and attendees disperse into smaller conversational groups, I step onto the terrace for a moment of quiet and fresh mountain air.
The night has cooled considerably, but I welcome the chill against my overheated skin.
Stars blanket the clear sky, more brilliant here than anything visible from Chicago's light-polluted neighborhoods.
"You're cold."
I don't turn at the sound of Noah's voice, though my pulse immediately accelerates. "Just needed some air."
His jacket settles around my shoulders, warm from his body and carrying his scent—cedar and something spicier, uniquely him. The gesture echoes our moment at Lookout Point days ago, before the kiss that changed everything.
"Thank you." I finally face him, finding him closer than expected, the terrace lights casting intriguing shadows across the planes of his face.
"Blue suits you." His gaze travels briefly over my dress before returning to my face. "Always did."
The compliment warms me more than his jacket. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Chief Morgan."
A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "Are we back to 'Chief Morgan' now?"
"I'm not sure where we are." The honesty slips out before I can censor it.
"That makes two of us." He moves to the stone balustrade, looking out over the valley where Angel's Peak's lights twinkle below. "Your article's been extended."
Not a question, but I answer anyway. "Two more weeks. The magazine wants to feature the competition as part of a larger piece on specialized emergency services in rural communities."
"Convenient timing."
Something in his tone raises my defenses. "Meaning what, exactly?"
"Just an observation." He turns to face me, expression carefully neutral. "You were set to leave, then suddenly you're staying for two more weeks. Right after we had an argument."