Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Sunny
I’m not sure if the fire in my chest is rage or shame, but either way, it’s burning through me.
I slam the front door to my office shut behind me, the echo bouncing off the walls, loud as a warning shot.
I can feel it, all of it: the searing frustration with Ryder, the suffocating disappointment in myself for letting him mess with my head and my body again.
I don’t even know why I’m still surprised. I told myself, no more. Never again. But I went back, and he still talks to me like crap.
I’m mad at him. I’m angry at myself.
The worst part? He doesn’t even realize what he’s done. The way he shut me out of that meeting, the way he dismissed me as if I was some quirky hotel decorator with no real stake in this.
It’s one thing for him to treat me like a joke. But for me to let it affect me this much?
Ugh.
I grab a handful of cinnamon sticks from the bag I’ve had out for my DIY centerpieces—which, let’s be real, are rapidly heading toward fire hazard territory—and start wrapping them in red ribbon.
It’s supposed to be a cute, festive touch—a small project to distract me from everything else.
But it’s not working. Not even close.
Tinsel hops onto my desk, tail swishing like a metronome of judgment. Before I can stop her, she knocks an entire bundle of cinnamon sticks onto the floor and immediately starts batting one across the office like it’s a hockey puck.
“Not helpful,” I mutter, scooping one up and glaring at her.
She blinks at me, smug as ever.
“Sunny, you okay?”
I spin to see Pearl smiling at me.
“You look stressed.”
I could tell her everything, but that doesn’t seem right. So, I roll my eyes instead. “Just this hotel. It’s crazy busy.”
Pearl winks. “But it has a good bar. I’m just headed for a drink.”
Before I can even be tempted to join her, my phone buzzes—a FaceTime call from Marjorie.
I swipe at the screen, my frustration seeping into my voice as I pick up. Her face fills the screen with that ever-so-welcome, chaotic energy of hers.
She’s sitting on her couch, a large glass of wine in one hand and a mug in the other. The mug reads: “Men Are the Worst.” I can’t help but grin despite myself.
“You okay?” she asks, taking a slow sip from the wine glass.
“Do I sound okay?” I’m practically spitting fire as I cut another piece of ribbon way too aggressively.
“Ryder blindsided me today with an investor meeting. I overheard him talking to some guy about the future of the hotel, and it was like I didn’t even exist. Like all I do is throw glitter at problems and hope they go away. ”
Marjorie arches an eyebrow.
“And you slept with him again, didn’t you?” she says, not missing a beat, dripping with judgment and amusement.
I cringe at her spot-on assessment. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
My hands are trembling as I wind the ribbon tighter, trying to focus on anything that isn’t the entire emotional disaster that is my life right now.
“I don’t know why I let it happen. I should have walked away. I should have said no. But no, I let him pull me in like an idiot. Now I’m pissed at him, and even more pissed at myself.”
Marjorie’s expression softens, just a little. “First of all, honey, you’re not an idiot. You’re just a woman who always wants to believe in the good parts of people. Even the ones who don’t deserve it.”
I throw my hands up, still seething. “But it’s not just him! It’s me, too. I let him mess with my head, and I care what he thinks, which is absurd. Why do I care?”
Marjorie lets out a long, dramatic sigh and takes another sip of wine.
“Look, Sunny. I get it. Trust me, I do. But this isn’t just about a grumpy CFO with abs of doom,” she gestures with the wine glass, “and whatever that messed-up emotional pull is that keeps dragging you back into his orbit. This is about you, and what you’re building here. ”
She gives me a serious look, her eyes sharp. “You’ve got a hotel to save. A hotel, Sunny. And yeah, maybe there’s a tall, broody CFO throwing you off, but that’s all it is: a distraction. And frankly, you’re better than that.”
I feel a lump form in my throat at the reminder of what I’ve been fighting for. The hotel. My dreams. The vision I’ve been chasing despite everything.
She’s right.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, ignoring the cinnamon stick debris. “I am better than that.” I force myself to stand a little straighter. “This hotel is my chance to build something that means something. And I’m not going to let Ryder, or anyone, take that from me.”
Marjorie grins, her eyes twinkling with that familiar mischievous gleam.
“That’s my girl. You’re Sunny Freakin’ Quinn, after all.
Now, let’s get back to making that hotel sparkle like the star it deserves to be.
Screw Ryder, okay? And if you need to kick him to the curb, I’ll happily make a sign that says, ‘Ryder’s a prick’ and we can put it in front of the hotel. He won’t know what hit him.”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s precisely the kind of insanity I need right now. “I love that. But maybe let’s hold off on the signage for now.”
She raises her glass in a mock toast. “Fine, fine. But I’m serious, Sunny.
You can’t let him throw you off course. You’re better than that.
And trust me, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’ve got the heart and the brains to turn this whole thing around.
You’re not just saving a hotel. You’re saving your future. ”
Her words sink in a little more than I want to admit.
“You’re right,” I say, steadier now, my eyes focused on the mess I’ve made of these cinnamon sticks. “I can do this. I just need to get my head back in the game.”
“And stay in it,” Marjorie adds, her tone light again. “Now, I’ll let you get back to your fire hazard centerpiece project but just know that I’m rooting for you from over here in my wine-fueled paradise. And if you ever need backup, I’m just a flight away.”
I smile at her, grateful. “Thanks, Marj. I needed this. And I needed you.”
She winks. “Always here for you, girl. Always.”
As we end the call, I look at the mess on my desk and take a deep breath. The chaos of today is far from over, but I’m done letting it control me.
The hotel is mine now, and so is my future. Time to stop letting distractions, especially Ryder, get in my way.
I’ve got this.
I’m feeling light, the pep of Marjorie’s words still buzzing in my head, and okay, maybe the peppermint schnapps I added to my mug of hot chocolate isn’t helping the clarity much.
But screw it, I’ve been trying to plan holiday events, and survive this hotel without so much as a decent nap in a week.
A little festive buzz never hurt anyone.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I make my way down the hallway to Aunt Evie’s room.
The grand suite that used to be her space is tucked at the far end of the hall, and it smells of a blend of pine, old paper, and nostalgia. There’s a comforting sensation about the room.
I’m stepping into a place frozen in time. The walls are lined with antique furniture and vintage wallpaper, layers of memories stacked up high as the dusty tomes in a library.
It’s so Evie.
I move to the closet first, eyes scanning the shelves for anything remotely useful for my next crazy DIY project. Maybe a vintage Santa or some glass baubles that scream charm.
But my mind keeps circling back to the things I found earlier in the office. The weird vibes in the emails, the feeling that there’s more going on than meets the eye.
I shove aside a collection of garlands, wreaths, and tinsel, cursing under my breath when I knock a box of ornaments off the shelf.
They hit the ground with a clink, and as I bend down to pick them up, something catches my eye. There, tucked behind a garland of gold beads, is an old, battered lockbox.
What the hell?
Curiosity piqued, I slide it out carefully, its weight surprising me. It’s locked, obviously, but the little brass padlock looks easy to break.
I don’t even think about it. I find the first pair of scissors I can reach and pry the lock open. It clicks, and the lid lifts with a satisfying creak.
Inside, it’s not what I expect—no Christmas treasures, no forgotten holiday trinkets. Instead, there’s a collection of receipts, handwritten ledgers, and a few very unfestive papers.
I squint at the first page, trying to make sense of the scrawled numbers and names. And then I see it.
A crinkled, yellowed letter, folded carefully and placed on top.
It’s addressed to someone named Vincent, and the handwriting is unmistakable: Aunt Evie’s.
I don’t know why, but I feel this strange twist in my stomach as I unfold it, reading the words slowly.
Vincent,
I know you’ll probably never read this, and I’ve been advised not to send it. But I can’t stop myself. The truth is, I no longer trust you. Things have gone too far, and the damage has been done. There’s no fixing it now.
I’m writing this because I need to make sure that someone knows what’s at stake here. The hotel is vulnerable. And Ryder… he doesn’t know it yet, but he’s the only one I trust to keep this place safe.
I’m sorry, Vincent. I thought we were friends, but I see now that I was wrong.
Evie
The breath is knocked out of me.
What the hell is this? What was Aunt Evie trying to protect? And why didn’t Ryder say anything about this?
He was supposed to be the one Evie trusted, but all this time, he’s been silent. He’s never mentioned Vincent, never even hinted at there being something more to the hotel’s struggles than just bad management or finances.
Why the secrecy?
I sit there, staring at the letter, the words sinking in. It doesn’t add up. There’s more here I don’t know.
And he does.
I can feel the heat rising in my chest. What does Ryder know? And why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he mention anything about Vincent, or whatever this pattern was that Aunt Evie had been investigating?
I don’t have answers. Not yet. But I’m going to get them.
Without wasting another second, I scoop up the letter and the ledger pages, shoving them into my purse. Ryder needs to hear this. He’s the one Evie trusted to keep the hotel safe.
I head to his office with a growing sense of determination, fingers tight around the letter. I’m going to get answers.
There’s no immediate response when I knock, so I open the door.
Ryder is standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, gaze locked outside. It’s as if he’s trying to escape the very room I’m standing in.
The tension in his posture is clear, and his thoughts seem a million miles out of reach. For a moment, I almost feel bad about interrupting him.
I step in. “Ryder?”
My voice cuts through the silence, and he slowly turns to face me. His expression is guarded.
I walk toward him, not giving him the chance to speak.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I say, holding up the letter. “I found—”
Ryder shakes his head. “I don’t have time for this right now, Sunny. I can’t listen to any more harebrained ideas.”
I take a step back. Harebrained ideas. I thought he was proud of the last event I threw.
My lips clamp together tightly. I don’t want to talk to him while he’s in this mood. My blood has run cold.
“Okay,” I finally snap, making a decision. “Forget it.”
I turn sharply on my heel, not giving him the chance to say another word. I can feel the tension simmering in my chest as I march out of his office, but I don’t care. If he doesn’t want to deal with me, fine.
I’ll deal with this on my own.
The door slams shut behind me with more force than I intend, and I don’t look back. Every step I take away from his office is a rejection. Maybe it’s a wake-up call, or maybe I’m just tired of being swept aside.
I don’t need Ryder. I never did.
I’ve got work to do. The hotel has work to do.
And if Ryder won’t help me, then I’ll figure it out without him.