Chapter 68
KENT
Well, that was a first. The only times anyone had ever toasted to me before was at college parties. Usually the toasts were all about congratulating me on my most recent lay. Bagging a supermodel or surviving a night of complete debauchery.
Having an entire room full of people raise their glasses because they genuinely valued what I had done for their family and friends felt a lot better than any of those hollow celebrations. It was real. Valid. Worth something.
“Good?” Sylvie asked quietly.
I nodded. “Really good.”
As dinner continued and the wine flowed, I found myself mingling with people who had somehow started to feel like family. The guests at the lodge weren’t just customers tonight. They were part of the celebration, part of the magic that Sylvie and her family created so effortlessly.
I met what felt like every person that lived in town.
They all had their own homes to get to but made the trek out to the lodge to celebrate with the Northwood family.
It was such a different way of living. I couldn’t believe people actually lived like this.
More importantly, I couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t live like this. I never knew it was an option.
“Want a refill?” I asked Phineas and held up a bottle of wine.
“Never going to turn down a drink,” he said. “Only thing this party is missing is a dartboard. Got plenty of drinks and food, but we could use some darts.”
“I’m not sure that would be safe with all the kids running around,” I said. “You like darts?”
“I do. I was pretty damn good at them back in my younger days.”
“How good?” I asked, settling into the chair beside him.
Phineas’s eyes lit up with the kind of mischief I was learning to associate with his better moods. “Professional level. Traveled all over the country for competitions. My wife and I loved getting free room and board. It’s how we got to see the country on someone else’s dime.”
I leaned forward, intrigued. I loved hearing about his past. It was so easy to look at an old person and just assume they were born old. It was hard to imagine wrinkled, stooped old men as vibrant, handsome, and even athletic.
“Your wife liked the bar scene?” I asked.
He chuckled. “She could handle herself. One time, some jackass was hitting on her, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Real persistent type, you know? So my bride—she was sharp as a tack—she challenged him to a game of darts. Winner takes all the money in his wallet.”
Phineas chuckled, lost in the memory. “Course, what the poor bastard didn’t know was that she had been playing since she was twelve years old. Her father owned a pub back in Ireland before they came over. And me? Well, I was there for a tournament that weekend.”
“Did you help her hustle him?” I asked, grinning.
“Damn right I did. We cleaned him out of every dollar he had. He slunk away with his tail between his legs.” Phineas’s smile softened. “We spent those winnings on dinner at the fanciest restaurant in the city, just because we could.”
He was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass. When he looked up at me, his expression was more serious than I’d ever seen it.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I looked at my wife that night the same way I see you look at Sylvie.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like she was the answer to a question you didn’t even know you’d been asking,” Phineas said simply. “Like everything that came before was just practice for getting to love her properly.”
I had to look away for a moment, overwhelmed by the accuracy of his observation. That was exactly how I felt about Sylvie, like everything in my life had been leading me to her, preparing me to be worthy of the love she offered so freely.
“You’re a lucky man, Kent,” Phineas continued. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
I’d never felt so grateful in my life. Not just for Sylvie, though that gratitude was enormous, but for this entire experience.
For being accepted by her family and especially for having an old man who barely knew me offer wisdom about love.
I found a place where I belonged simply because of who I was rather than what I could provide.
We chatted for a bit longer before I moved along to meet other people. I was loving this. I loved getting to meet new people and pick their brains. I wanted to know what they liked and didn’t like about the area. What could we do better.
It was around nine o’clock when I noticed Brom standing on the front porch, looking out at the night with a worried expression. I joined him, immediately understanding his concern.
The snow was coming down hard. Really hard. Driving back into town would be treacherous. What had been light flurries when I picked up Phineas was now a legitimate storm.
“This doesn’t look good,” Brom said, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. “I don’t think anyone’s going to be able to drive back into town tonight. Not safely, anyway. The last thing we need is someone getting hurt because they were enjoying our party.”
I looked around at the parking area, where cars were already accumulating significant snow on their windshields and hoods.
Several of our dinner guests had driven up from town, expecting to head home after the party.
But the roads would be dangerous now, especially for people who’d been drinking wine with dinner.
“Looks like everyone might have to stay here at the lodge tonight,” I said.
Brom nodded grimly. “Problem is, we haven’t made up half the rooms. They’ve been sitting untouched for months.”
“So, we make them up,” I said.
He turned to look at me. “Do you even know what that involves?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, sheets on a bed. Blankets? Pillows? A little mint?”
He shook his head. “Have you ever made a bed in your entire spoiled life?”
He was teasing, so I wasn’t offended. Plus, it was a valid question. “Okay, so, I wouldn’t say I’ve actually made a bed, but it can’t be that hard, right? I mean, I’ve seen it done.”
He smirked. “I don’t think you know what you’re in for. Not just making beds but the sheer amount of elbow grease it takes to keep a place like this running.”
“I guess I’m going to find out, right?”
“Careful what you wish for.”
“Where do you keep the linens?”
“Kent, slow down, buddy.”
“Where do you keep the linens?” I repeated.
“Follow me,” he said.
Brom showed me to a closet filled with bedding all neatly folded. He started pulling stacks of sheets and pillowcases and piling them into my arms.
“Don’t change your mind now,” he said.
“Just don’t make me wear the maid outfit and I’m fine.”
I followed Brom to the first empty guest room, my arms loaded with what felt like half a linen closet.
He kicked the door open and flipped on the light, revealing a room that was clean but clearly needed some freshening up.
There was a thin layer of dust on every surface, and the bare mattresses of the three twin beds looked sad without their bedding.
“Okay,” Brom said, setting down his own stack of linens. “Watch carefully because I’m only showing you this once.”
He grabbed a fitted sheet and snapped it open, positioned one corner, then moved to the opposite diagonal corner and tucked it under the mattress.
“See? Easy. Opposite corners first, then the other two. The elastic does most of the work.”
I nodded, thinking this looked simple enough. How hard could it be?
Very hard, as it turned out.
Brom left me to tackle the second bed in the room while he started on the third. I grabbed my fitted sheet with confidence, shook it out dramatically like I’d seen him do, and immediately lost track of which corner was which.
“These don’t have labels,” I muttered, turning the sheet around in my hands. “How the hell do you tell which side is which?”
“The tag goes at the bottom right,” Brom called from across the room, not even looking up from his own perfectly executed sheet application.
Right. The tag. I found it and positioned what I thought was the correct corner on the top left of the mattress. I pulled the elastic around the corner and tucked it under, feeling rather proud of myself.
Then I tried to do the opposite corner.
The sheet was too short. Way too short. I pulled harder, thinking maybe I just needed to stretch it more. The first corner I’d done popped off with a sound like a rubber band snapping, and the entire sheet gathered in the middle of the mattress like a fabric tumbleweed.
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
Brom snorted with laughter behind me. “You put it on sideways, genius.”
I turned the sheet ninety degrees and tried again. This time I got two corners on successfully, which felt like a major victory. But when I went to do the third corner, I couldn’t get the damn elastic to stretch far enough. I pulled. I yanked. I may have sworn some more.
“You have to lift the mattress,” Brom said, his voice thick with amusement. “You can’t just pull the sheet down.”
“That would have been helpful information before I started,” I grumbled.
I lifted the corner of the mattress with one hand while trying to wrestle the fitted sheet into submission with the other. The mattress was heavier than it looked, and I was at an awkward angle. I finally got the sheet corner tucked under just as my hand slipped and the mattress dropped.
Right onto my other hand, which was still trapped under there.
“Fuck!” I yelped, yanking my hand free and shaking it out. My fingers throbbed, but nothing felt broken. Just bruised pride and bruised knuckles.
“You hanging in there?” Brom asked, though he was clearly trying not to laugh.
“I’m peachy,” I muttered, glaring at the bed.
The fourth corner went on easier, probably because I was motivated by spite at that point.
When I finally stepped back to admire my work, the fitted sheet was on the bed.
It wasn’t smooth or particularly neat. There were wrinkles everywhere and one corner looked suspicious, like it might pop off if someone breathed on it too hard. But it was technically on the bed.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” Brom said generously, though his own bed looked like luxury while mine looked like a drunk person had made it. Which wasn’t far from the truth, considering the wine I’d had with dinner.
The flat sheet was easier, though I managed to put it on upside down the first time. I didn’t see the difference, but Brom insisted the wider hem went at the top, which seemed like information that should be common knowledge but apparently wasn’t taught in expensive boarding schools.
By the time we finished the pillowcases—which I put on inside out twice before getting it right—I was sweating despite the cold.
“How many more rooms do we need to make up?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Eight,” he replied. “Those are just double beds.”
I groaned but I had asked for this. I got to work, figuring it out as I went.
What had gotten into me? If my brothers could see me now, I would never hear the end of it. The worst part was that I found myself humming “Little Drummer Boy” the entire time, completely unconsciously.
I was putting the finishing touches on the last room when I sensed someone watching me. I looked up to find Sylvie leaning against the doorframe, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“This might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, holding up her hands and pretending to take a picture of me. “Kent Bancroft, domestic god.”
I grinned and crossed the room to her, pulling her into my arms for what I had intended to be a quick kiss but turned into something deeper, more lingering. She tasted like wine and Christmas cookies. The way she melted against me made my heart soar.
“This might be the best night of my life,” I said against her lips.
“It better be because it’s definitely mine.”
I kissed her again.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I love you.”
I cupped her face in my hands and just looked at her. Really looked. She looked radiant, happy in a way that made her practically glow.
“Say it again,” I said.
“I love you, Kent Bancroft,” she said. “I love that you drove in a snowstorm just to invite a lonely old man to dinner. I love that you’re up here making beds instead of letting someone else handle it.”
She paused, her thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.
“I love that you chose us. That you chose me. Even when it cost you everything else.”
I kissed her again, pouring all of my gratitude and wonder and absolute devotion into the connection between us.
“I’d choose you again,” I murmured against her forehead. “Every time, in every life, I’d choose you.”