The Lodge

Chapter 1

1

Congrats, everyone—the news is out! Go celebrate tonight!

Everything feels buzzy as I take in the new email at the top of my inbox.

There’s hardly anything to it, just that short note—sent from my editor, Maribel, to the whole team—along with a screenshot. I zoom in, see the Publishers Marketplace deal listing for Sebastian Green’s book.

For our book.

I’ve been sitting on this secret for what feels like forever. It’s a feat, honestly, considering how many times I’ve almost let it slip.

With the announcement now out, it’s finally starting to sink in that I’m writing a memoir—a celebrity memoir that will likely take up permanent residence on the New York Times bestseller list for at least a year. Not only that, but I’m on a train, headed to a ski lodge in Vermont for an entire month, all expenses paid.

These are the things dreams are made of, and not just because I quit my day job last year to pursue freelance work. Ghostwriting the memoir of Sebastian Green, arguably the most famous member of my all-time favorite boy band?

Yes. Yes, with enthusiasm . I signed on in a heartbeat.

But I haven’t breathed a word about it, not to anyone.

I’ve been dying to tell my best friend, Chloe. She’s easily starstruck, though, and notorious for inadvertently spilling secrets. Not even my sister, Lauren, knows—and she’s been crashing with me in New York for more than a month while doing an internship at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In retrospect, maybe she would’ve let me get some work done if I’d told her.

I had almost nothing to show on my most recent Zoom call with the book’s publisher. That wasn’t entirely Lauren’s fault, but her presence in my apartment has been distracting, to say the least. My editor—the infamous Maribel Tovar at McClendon at their base is a sprawling lodge, grandiose and picture-perfect. It looks warm and cozy even at a distance, lit inside and out with the glow of yellow lanterns.

I feel like a starlet as we pull up to the lodge.

This close, it feels absolutely colossal—the covered drive at the entrance stretches at least three floors high, with stone and steel and wooden beams to scale. Entire humans could fit inside the iron frames of the glass-paneled lanterns, if said lanterns weren’t ablaze with actual fire.

We come to a stop just outside the main entrance. One of the valets appears with a cart, and my driver steps out to take care of my luggage. Puffin yowls again, bristling at the cold air as we get out of the car.

I rummage in my wallet, pull out a twenty; it was not a short drive, and my bags are not what one would call lightly packed.

When I offer it, the driver waves it away.

“Save it for the next guy.” He grins, tucking the last of my bags onto the luggage cart.

What sort of driver refuses an extra tip?

The sort who has already been paid generously , I realize as soon as I’ve had the thought.

Thanks, Sebastian.

“This way,” the valet says, luggage cart in tow.

I follow him through the gigantic double doors and into the atrium.

The inside is every bit as oversized as the outside. Just past the entrance is a massive fireplace, possibly taller than I am, lively flames flickering in its grate. The atrium ceiling extends four stories, held up by the thickest wooden columns I’ve ever seen—it’s like something straight out of a redwood forest. And then there’s the bookshelf wall: it’s as tall as the atrium itself (yes, four floors high) and filled with books that are mostly out of reach, purely there to serve the cozy aesthetic. Lush leather couches—with ottomans to match, and what appear to be hand-woven throw blankets—make me want to curl up with one of the books I packed and a mug of hot cocoa.

But alas, the valet leads me right past the seating area to the concierge desk.

“Ms. Morgan?” a woman greets me, her dark hair neat in a low bun.

I must look surprised, because she nods toward the luggage cart, at Puffin’s carrier. “It isn’t every day we get to make preparations for a cat.”

Oh. Right.

“Your suite is all ready for you—I’m not sure how much Mr. Green told you, but your penthouse is in our Exclusive Access Complex, just down the path from the main lodge, where we are now. I’ll page the tram for you unless you prefer to walk—it takes about eight minutes on foot.”

“The tram sounds great, thanks.”

The tram turns out to be a glorified golf cart with a few extra rows and some clear plastic flaps to keep the cold and the snow at bay. We wind down the path, only a little bit freezing.

It’s hard to get a great view through the protective flaps, but what I can see looks magical: twinkle lights everywhere, sparkling against the snowy afternoon sky; a quaint mini village full of shops and cafés, the entire scene extremely warm and cozy and inviting. I even spot an ice-skating rink, positioned perfectly against the backdrop of the resort’s main attraction: Black Maple Mountain.

We pull up to my building, which looks like a more modern addition to the resort. Apparently, some people live in this building year-round, while others treat it like a vacation home. I’m guessing Sebastian might be the latter; his attitude screamed owner when he offered up this place so cavalierly, but I’m not sure he’s ever actually lived here.

“Your key card will give you private access to the penthouse floor—those elevators are around back, just down the sidewalk,” the driver informs me. “Would you like assistance finding your way?”

I shake my head. “Got it, thanks.”

“If you ever have any trouble, use the intercom and someone will be over to assist you.”

He waits until Puffin and I have rounded the corner toward the elevator vestibule before driving off. One flick of my key card against the sensor and I’m in the building—one more, and I’m in the elevator itself. There’s only one button: P for Penthouse.

I hear the faint vibration of my phone in my bag. It’s a text from Chloe, asking where I am.

It’s possible I haven’t mentioned this whole month-in-Vermont situation to her yet. I know she’ll forgive me for keeping secrets—but still, there’s a part of me that worries she’ll be hurt that I didn’t tell her sooner.

I’m supposed to keep as quiet as possible about the fact that I’m ghostwriting for Sebastian. According to my editor, it’s best for the book if we don’t call attention to the fact that he didn’t write every single word himself. Maribel did give me permission to tell Chloe everything once the deal announcement went live, though, so I guess I’m in the clear now as long as I trust her to be discreet.

The elevator opens onto a landing that’s even more private than I anticipated—and even more beautiful, with stylish wood paneling, black furniture, a gilded mirror on the wall, and a sprig of greenery in a slim vase. There are apparently only two residences on this entire floor; a pair of battered boots sits neatly outside the door on my left, so I guess the other door must be mine.

I head that way but can’t help glancing back at the boots. They’re so large they almost certainly belong to a man—a man who recently got back from a long trek through the snow, judging by the sizable puddle underneath. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of having a neighbor, especially not a maybe-tall man who could be fairly athletic. Interesting .

I call Chloe before I get too carried away. It rings only once before she picks up.

“Hey! Are we still on for happy hour? I started to worry when you didn’t text me back.”

Last night, in between last-minute laundry and placing an overnight order for more cat food, I had the sinking feeling I was forgetting something, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.

Now I know.

“So, um, about that,” I say, tapping my key card to the sensor outside my room. The lock opens on command, and I head inside. “Holy. Crap.”

“Alix—what? Are you okay?”

I blink at the room before me.

Room is not a sufficient word for what’s before me.

Alpine haven for millionaires with expensive taste is a more apt description. Heaven with a view : even better.

Sprawling is an understatement. And more than just gigantic, this place is utterly gorgeous. I suppose I should have expected as much, given that it’s a penthouse—and yet.

“Alix?”

“Sorry, Chlo,” I finally say. “No happy hour today. But I have a good explanation, I promise. Give me five minutes? I’ll call you right back.”

“That’s quite the cliffhanger, but okay. I’m setting a timer—do not leave me in suspense for too long!”