2. Tyler
TYLER
“Good morning, Mr. Reed," the receptionist said with a soft smile as I walk past, her eyes lingering a moment too long.
"Call me Tyler. Good morning." I hate when people called me Mr. Reed. It makes me feel like my father—a comparison that did neither of us any favors.
She cocks her head shyly. "Julian just walked past here with his friend." Already tracking my son's movements like most of the staff did.
"How did you know I was looking for him?"
She laughs. "I'm sure that's the only reason why you're out at this early hour."
I checked my watch—7:30 AM. Only parenthood could drag me from bed this early on vacation, a sacrifice not listed in any parenting manual.
Last night had been a whirlwind of laughter and chaos—Karl and Julian bouncing off the walls as if they'd mainlined a pound of sugar. Which is why it so surprising that they were up and out of the suite so early this morning.
As I stand in the lobby, I scan the area for signs of the boys, already dreading the challenge of keeping up with their energy.
If they were anything like last night, they’d be ready to take on the mountain before I’d even had my coffee.
The thought made me smile despite my sleepiness; there was something joyous about watching them form a friendship.
But I need to track them down before they made a run for the chocolate fountain without me.
"Thank you." I turn toward the exit and walk out of the reception, pulling my scarf tight across my neck.
My breath clouds in front of me as I step outside.
The mountain air slicing through my jacket like tiny glass shards.
I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering, feeling the cold seep into my marrow.
"Are you by any chance looking for your son?" someone asks.
I turn to find a blonde woman beaming at me, her designer ski outfit still creased from the packaging—the luxury logo emblazoned across her chest like a walking advertisement.
She adjusts her posture the moment our eyes met, tilting her head at that calculated angle I'd seen a hundred times before—the universal stance of someone who's recognized a potential opportunity.
I rub my stubbled jaw and glance down at my deliberately average jacket. So much for blending in. I might as well have worn a flashing neon sign reading 'BILLIONAIRE ATTEMPTING INCOGNITO—PLEASE APPROACH WITH MARRIAGE PROPOSALS' for all the good my disguise was doing.
"Well, yes, ma'am."
She frowns, and I try to keep a straight face.
"Ma'am? I'm twenty-six." Her perfectly lined lips form a pout.
"Apologies, I didn’t mean to come off that way." My mouth curls into a smile as crimson spread across her cheeks.
Her eyes dart to my watch—the only luxury item I hadn't bothered to swap out.
She shifts her stance, blocking my path enough to seem accidental while ensuring I couldn't walk away.
The same choreographed dance I'd witnessed at every charity gala, board meeting, and even my son's school functions.
I straighten my shoulders and plaster on my press-conference smile.
"I hope you're enjoying your vacation," I say when it was obvious she wasn't going away any moment soon.
"Yes!" She answers, her eyes glistening with excitement. "I thought it was going to be boring without my friends because they bailed out on me at the last minute, but so far I've had a great time. Everyone keeps each other company here, and that's what I love the most about it."
She scans the resort behind me, eyes lingering on each male figure before returning to me with renewed intensity, like a predator mentally checking off options on a menu. Her fingers toy with her hair, empty wedding finger conspicuously displayed.
"Great, as long as you're having fun."
She nods, staring at me with an intensity that made me want to check if I had breakfast on my face. "My name's Mia."
Normally, I'd be savoring my room's warmth instead of battling this snowfall, but Julian would prance through a blizzard in swim trunks if I let him—a parenting lesson branded into my psyche through frostbitten fingers and emergency hot chocolate.
"Hey, Tyler!"
I wave at a group of men standing by the outdoor fireplace and promise to stop by on my way back—the social tax I paid for being a billionaire.
Like death and actual taxes, networking was unavoidable.
Thinking my conversation with Mia was over, I continue walking through the resort. Only to be followed by Mia.
"I heard he left his wife and children at home to come and have a great time here alone," Mia continues walking, scanning the area for Julian.
Voices hush as I pass groups of guests, only to erupt into whispers and sidelong glances the moment I move beyond what they thought was hearing range.
"Who are you talking about?" I absentmindedly ask.
"The dude in the red shirt." Mia gestures with her eyes.
"How'd you know so much about the people here in such a short time?" I ask, recognizing the familiar pattern of someone who'd done their research before "accidentally" bumping into me.
She laughs, gasping suddenly. 'There he is!' She points towards the ski slope where Julian stood with a Karl, my son's animated gestures visible even from a distance.
"That's Ginger Lawson's son."
"How do you know Ginger Lawson?" Now interested in her gossip.
Mia shrugs, coming to a halt. "She just won the lottery, a forty-million-dollar jackpot. Not that that is a big deal to a billionaire."
She laughs when I blink my eyes. "Well, that's a huge amount of money for anyone."
My jaw clenches involuntarily. So that's who I was sharing my suite with? A lottery winner with fresh money. Forty million. The numbers rattled through my mind, barely registering as significant compared to my own accounts, yet it changed the entire dynamic.
New money. That explains the mix of defiance and uncertainty in her eyes whenever we discussed the accommodations. I'd assumed she was just another tourist who'd splurged on a luxury vacation, not someone whose entire financial reality had shifted overnight.
I feel an unexpected twinge of sympathy.
I'd been born into wealth, grown it methodically through years of calculated risk and strategic planning.
But to have fortune literally drop into your lap without warning?
That came with its own complications—expectations, hangers-on, vultures circling for a piece of the windfall.
Julian turns at that moment and waves at me, pulling Karl by the arm. "Have a good vacation, Mia," I call out as I walk towards them.
My fingers drum against my thigh as I try to wrap my head around sharing living space with a lottery winner—someone with fresh money and fresh problems. My mental calculations of potential complications scatter as two small bodies crashed into view—sneakers skidding on snow, laughter slicing through the frigid mountain air.
"Hey, Dad.”
"I've been showing Karl around," Julian announces, his face lit with that rare eight-year-old enthusiasm usually reserved for video games or sugar.
"Hi," Karl says, glancing uncertainly at Julian.
"Julian told me you're the owner of this place!" He states excitedly, staring at me as if I might pull the building's deed from my pocket as proof.
"Well, not entirely," I say, ruffling Julian’s mop of hair. My holdings in the resort were substantial, but minority stake. Julian operates under the eight-year-old logic that I own every building I'd ever confidently walked into.
"Wow, you must be rich." Karl eyes me with the unfiltered directness that only kids can get away with.
"What? Don't I look like your idea of a wealthy man?" I run a hand over my three-day stubble and average North Face jacket. I work hard at blending in, especially on vacation.
He laughs. "You look normal."
"Should I take that as a compliment?" I wink at him, and he shrugs, taking his eyes away from me.
"There's Mom!" Karl exclaims, his face lighting up.
"Hey, Mom," Karl calls out, waving at her. I turn to see Ginger, my unexpected roommate.
Ginger Lawson marches toward us. Auburn curls escaping from a hastily-secured bun.
Each step punched into the snow with purpose.
The morning light caught the constellation of freckles across her nose, her hazel eyes flashing like warning signals as she closed the distance.
My breath hitches, a sudden warmth spreading beneath my collar despite the freezing air.
I tug at my scarf, clearing my throat—just the cold, obviously.
"Karl!" She calls, her voice a mix of relief and exasperation. "I've been looking everywhere for you! You can't disappear like that! I'm don't have a child-tracking GPS—though clearly I should invest in one!"
"Sorry, Mom," Karl mumbles, though his apologetic tone was undermined by the grin he shot Julian.
Ginger's gaze finally lands on me, and I saw the moment of recognition flash across her face. Her shoulders stiffened. Impact imminent.
"Mr. Reed," she says, her voice cooling several degrees.
"Tyler," I correct. "We established that yesterday, remember? Along with the coffee maker priority." I couldn't help myself. Something about her prickliness made me want to poke at it.
"Right," she says, though her tone suggested she'd rather forget our entire arrangement.
"They seem to be getting along well," I offer, trying for diplomacy. No need to make this more awkward than it already was.
She nods, then turns to Karl. "Seriously, Karl. This is not going to work if you just take off like that.”
"Julian said there's a restaurant that makes pancakes shaped like animals!"
"Is that where you were headed so fast that you couldn’t wake me?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me as if I'd been luring children with candy.
"I was tracking them down myself," I explain, resisting the urge to defend myself further. "But animal pancakes sound like an excellent plan."
Julian tugs at my sleeve. "Dad, can Karl come with us? Please?"
I glance at Ginger, whose expression suggested she'd rather drink snowmelt than spend another minute in my company. "That's up to Karl's mom."
"Please, Mom?" Karl deploys puppy eyes that would make a retriever jealous. "Julian says his dad lets him put extra chocolate chips in the pancakes."
I wince. "Way to throw me under the bus, kid."
Ginger sigh, but I caught the hint of a smile she tried to suppress. It softened her face in a way that made me curious what a real laugh from her might look like.
"Fine. But actual food first, then the chocolate chips."
The boys high-five as if they'd just negotiated world peace.
"Are you joining us?" Surprising myself with the sincerity behind the offer. Something about her intrigued me, despite her obvious dislike of me—or maybe because of it. When was the last time someone hadn't immediately tried to impress or please me?
She hesitates, and for a moment I thought she might accept. Then her phone buzzed. She glances at it and her face darkened.
"I'd better not. I have some... calls to make." She gives Karl a look. "Behave yourself, okay? I'll meet you back at the room in an hour."
"Is everything okay?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them as her shoulders hunched forward, spine stiffening.
"Yeah, I’m good," she mutters. Her cheeks flushed as she tucked her phone away with more force than necessary. "Ex-husband issues."
"Ah." My hand moves to the pocket where my own phone was tucked away. "Say no more." I offer a tight smile, the familiar acid taste of divorce disputes rising in my throat.
"Thanks for watching him," she says, softening slightly. "He doesn't have many guy... you know, role models or whatever."
"Happy to help," I say, meaning it. "Julian's been stuck with just me for too long."
She gives me a look that could calculate tax deductions. "Where's Mrs. Reed?"
"There isn't one," I say. "Just me." I didn't elaborate. Vacation meant vacation from that particular headache.
She clears her throat. "Well, don't let him spoil his lunch."
"Yes, ma'am," I salute playfully, earning an eye-roll that somehow felt more friendly than the last one.
As she walks away, winter sunlight caught in her hair, turning it to living flame against the pristine snow. I can’t help but notice—and can't help but wonder why I was noticing.
Then Julian yanks my arm.
"Dad! Pancakes!"
"Right," I shake my head, banishing whatever momentary madness had overtaken me. "Pancakes it is."
I lead the boys toward the restaurant, trying not to think about the mysterious lottery winner I was temporarily living with, or the fact that despite her prickly exterior, something about her had caught my interest in a way no one had in a very long time.
This was supposed to be a peaceful vacation—a chance to recharge and spend quality time with Julian. The last thing I needed was a complicated roommate situation with a woman who clearly had complications of her own.
As we enter the restaurant, my phone buzzes again. Amy. Three missed calls already this morning.
I silence the phone and bury it in my pocket like evidence at a crime scene. Whatever five-alarm crisis she was manufacturing could wait until after the syrup coma.
"Everything okay, Dad?" Julian asks, picking up on my momentary tension.
I force a smile. "Perfect. Now, about these chocolate chip pancakes..."
Sometimes the best way to handle your problems was to drown them in syrup. And if that didn't work—well, there was always the minibar waiting back in the suite. Problem-solving, billionaire style.
The suite I was sharing with a green-eyed lottery winner who looked at me like I was the human equivalent of a Monday morning after a holiday weekend with no coffee in sight.