Chapter Four
Three Months Later
The first thing I do when I wake up is stare at the ceiling.
For a few seconds, I just lie there, blinking at the familiar wood beams and watching the blades of the ceiling fan twirl, letting my brain catch up with the fact that today is actually happening.
My first day.
I’ve spent the whole summer working on the ranch, helping Daddy with administrative tasks and supporting Charli and Shelby whenever I could while Matty stayed home with AJ. It was eye-opening. I’d never realized what went into keeping the wheels of the Wildhaven Storm turning.
It’s a lot. And I’ve gained a greater appreciation for all Matty has done over the years.
I roll onto my side and glance at the clock on the nightstand—6:04 a.m.
My stomach flips.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’ve got this.”
I’ve spent the last three months looking forward to this moment.
Working in a world-class resort. Not just as a summer intern, but as an integral part of the management team.
Learning the business from the inside out.
Figuring out how to take everything I learned and eventually applying it to the dream I’ve had since I was a kid.
Which means I absolutely cannot be late on day one.
I throw the covers back and swing my legs out of bed.
The early morning is cool against my skin, the sun barely cresting over the mountains outside my window. Golden light spills across the fields and barns, painting the ranch in soft amber.
September is my favorite. I love the summertime, but nothing beats fall in Wyoming.
Somewhere outside, a horse nickers, and one of Grandpa’s roosters crows.
I hurry through my shower, blow-dry my long golden-streaked hair, and pull it back into a sleek, low ponytail.
Then I step into the outfit I picked out last night.
Fitted black jeans.
A soft, off-the-shoulder white sweater.
Black ankle boots.
I turn sideways in the mirror.
Tilt my head and adjust the ponytail. Then I add a couple of layered gold necklaces, simple pearl stud earrings, and a thick gold bangle on my wrist.
Professional … but still me.
“Good enough,” I decide.
My nerves are buzzing like a swarm of bees by the time I grab my black clutch and head downstairs.
The kitchen smells like coffee.
And bacon.
Which means Grandma is already awake. Of course she is.
She sits at the big farmhouse table, wrapped in one of her shawls, a steaming mug in front of her, silver hair pulled into her usual loose bun. The morning light from the front windows glows softly around her.
She looks up the moment I step into the room.
“Well,” she says, smiling, “look at you.”
My nerves loosen just a little as I do a slow turn.
“What do you think?” I ask.
She studies me from head to toe.
Her eyes pause on the sweater. Then the jeans.
Then my boots.
Her eyebrows rise a fraction, but she doesn’t comment.
Instead, she slides a travel mug across the table. “Coffee.”
Bless her.
“You’re my hero,” I say, grabbing it.
I take a long sip.
Liquid courage.
Grandma folds her hands and watches me carefully. “You nervous?”
“A little.”
She snorts. “Liar.”
“Okay, a lot.”
“That’s normal,” she says as she reaches beside her and lifts a white box from the chair and sets it in front of me.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Just a little something from me and your father.”
I set the coffee down and lift the lid. Carefully pulling back the tissue paper to reveal a gorgeous black leather messenger bag with my initials embossed above the metal clasp.
I run my fingers over the soft material. “It’s beautiful.”
“We thought you could use a new briefcase for your new job,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say as tears fill my eyes.
“Oh, none of that now. You’ll mess up your face,” she says, waving me off.
I swallow the lump in my throat and grasp my laptop that I left on the table last night. I open the bag and slip it into one of the compartments, then my clutch and cell phone. I adjust the strap and pull it over my shoulder. It rests perfectly on my right hip.
“It’s exquisite!”
I glance at the clock—6:28.
“Oh shoot.”
I grab the thermos.
“I gotta go.”
“What about breakfast?” Grandma asks.
“I don’t have time.”
Her face immediately tightens. “Harleigh Storm, you’re not going to start your first day of work on an empty stomach.”
“I’ll grab something later—”
“No,” she says, using that tone. The one we know better than to argue with. She’s already standing. Moving to the kitchen with determination.
“Grandma—”
“Come.”
I follow.
Because arguing with Evelyn Storm is like arguing with a fence post. It’s futile.
She moves quickly around the place. A bagel goes into the toaster, which she quickly loads with bacon and eggs from the pans resting on the stove.
“You young people,” she mutters. “Always running off in a hurry without any food in your belly.”
She wraps the breakfast sandwich in aluminum foil and hands it to me. “For the road.”
My stomach rumbles as I take it.
She raises an eyebrow.
“You’re the best,” I say, kissing her cheek. “I’ll set my alarm a half hour earlier tomorrow.”
“Have a good day,” she says, satisfied. “Drive safe!”
“I will!” I call as I grab my keys and head for the door.
“And, Harleigh?”
I turn back to see her standing in the mudroom.
Her expression softens. “We’re proud of you.”
My chest tightens. “Thanks, Grandma.”
Then I step outside into the crisp mountain morning.
The Belicourt Resort Hotel sits about thirty minutes from the ranch, tucked high in the Tetons, like something out of a postcard.
The drive out of town is one I’ve made hundreds of times.
But today, it feels different.
Important.
My car climbs the winding road as the sun rises higher over the mountains. Pine forests stretch along the slopes, with patches of color peeking through as the foliage begins to change with the fall weather.
Halfway there, I unwrap the bagel.
It’s amazing.
By the time I round the final bend in the road, the Belicourt comes into view.
And my breath catches.
Every.
Single.
Time.
The Belicourt Resort Hotel rises from the mountainside like a castle made of stone and timber.
Built in 1910 by banking magnate Fitzgerald Garrison, the historic resort was designed by the famous architect Edwin Ford in the Arts and Crafts style.
Massive, native granite boulders form the base of the main structure, giving the building the feeling that it grew straight out of the mountain itself.
Towering timber beams frame the windows.
Wide balconies overlook the valley below.
Smoke curls from the enormous chimneys that feed the legendary great-hall fireplaces.
For over a century, the Belicourt has hosted everyone from Hollywood legends and foreign dignitaries to US senators and presidents.
And today, I’m becoming a part of that history.
I park in the employee lot and sit in my car for a moment, staring up at the building.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, “you got this.”
Then I climb out.
Inside, the lobby takes my breath away.
The great hall is enormous with its cathedral ceiling. Hand-hewn beams. Stone fireplaces, big enough to roast an entire cow, standing on both ends of the room. Leather couches and high-back chairs. Massive chandeliers. And large floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Tetons like living paintings.
It’s early, but the lobby is already buzzing with activity.
Guests checking out.
Uniformed bellmen rolling luggage carts.
A concierge speaking softly with a couple near his desk.
I step toward the front desk.
Two women stand behind it, focused on one of the computer screens.
One stands with authority behind the other. She’s elegant in a way that feels … intimidating.
Dark hair swept into a perfect chignon.
Sharp cheekbones.
A burgundy blazer tailored within an inch of its life.
And stilettos with unmistakable red soles.
She looks about mid-thirties.
Pretty.
But cold.
Her eyes flick over me.
Assessing.
Judging.
“Can we help you?” the shorter girl asks.
“Yes. I’m Harleigh Storm. I’m looking for the front office manager.”
The dark-haired woman’s eyes lift to me. “You found her. I’m Diana Fairchild.” Her voice is smooth and polished.
She steps out from behind the desk.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending my hand.
She takes it and then quickly releases it.
“I oversee the front operations of the resort—the front desk, concierge services, bell staff, and guest relations. Essentially, the nerve center of guest interaction.”
I nod quickly. “Of course.”
“Your direct supervisor is in the hospitality development department, but I’ve been asked to oversee your introduction to the resort.”
“Thank you.”
Her gaze drifts down again.
Sweater.
Jeans.
Boots.
Her lips press together almost imperceptibly.
Then she leads me over to a coat closet behind the front desk and hands me a burgundy blazer that matches her own and an engraved name tag.
“Here.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“Dress slacks would be a more appropriate choice, going forward,” she says evenly.
My cheeks warm. “Understood.”
“Good.” She gestures toward a hallway. “Your office is this way.”
My office.
The words send a thrill through me.
We walk down a quiet corridor lined with framed historical photographs of the Belicourt.
Movie stars.
Politicians.
Presidents shaking hands with hotel owners.
“This resort operates year-round,” Diana says as we walk. “Winter skiing, summer hiking and spa tourism, high-end corporate retreats, international clientele.”
I nod eagerly. “It’s incredible.”
“It’s demanding,” she notes.
We stop in front of a dark wooden door with a plaque that reads Social Events and Conference Planning Manager.
She opens it.
“This will be your office.”
I step inside.
It’s … small.
Very small.
A narrow desk. A computer. A filing cabinet. And one window overlooking the employee parking lot.
But it’s clean.
Functional.
And it’s mine.
“And my office,” Diana says, pointing across the hall, “is directly opposite.”
I glance into her office.
It’s twice the size.
Immaculate.
Elegant.
Just like her.
She folds her hands. “You may take a the rest of the morning to … acquaint yourself.”
I nod.
“I’ll return around eleven.” She pauses at the door. “Then I’ll take you to lunch and give you a full tour of the property.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Diana.”
She nods once and disappears down the hallway.
The silence settles around me.
I exhale.
Then slowly turn in a circle.
My office.
It may be tiny, but I already see possibilities.
A plant on the windowsill. A framed photo of the ranch. A coat rack. Maybe a small bulletin board.
I run my fingers across the desk.
This is a stepping stone.
Learning the hospitality business from the inside. Understanding how a luxury resort actually runs.
So, one day …
I can build one of my own.
On Storm land.
I sit down in the chair behind the desk and smile.
Yeah … I think I’m going to like it here.