Chapter 20
Carly
Eight Weeks
I don’t even try to play it cool.
The second I step out of Grayson’s car, the cold hits me like a welcome slap of fresh air.
The mountains rise up on every side of us, all white peaks and dark trees and sunlight blazing so bright off the snow it makes everything look unreal, like somebody turned the contrast all the way up on the world.
My boots crunch into snow as I turn in a slow circle, laughing under my breath because I genuinely cannot help it.
This place is insane.
Not just nice. Not just pretty. Insane.
The lodge looks like the sort of place rich people in movies go to have affairs and drink whiskey by enormous fireplaces, all timber and glass and dark stone tucked into the mountain like it grew there naturally.
For one stupid, blissful second, I forget everything complicated.
Work. Boundaries. Grayson. The fact that one deeply satisfying but idiotic night still occasionally flashes hot in the back of my brain at the worst possible times.
I just stand there breathing in cold air so clean it almost hurts and feel happy in a simple, childish way I haven't felt for far too long.
“Glad you like it.”
I turn to find Wade coming down the lodge steps toward us, hands in the pockets of a dark ski jacket. “Like it?” I say. “This place is absurd.”
“That’s the spirit.” He reaches Grayson first, claps him once on the shoulder, then looks at me. “Welcome to Colchester.”
Wade’s the same as he was at Cole’s party — handsome in that severely-rich asshole way, but weirdly normal to talk to.
He glances between us. “You made good time. Thought the roads might be worse.”
“Gray drives like he owns the roads,” I say as Grayson shuts the trunk with more force than necessary.
He looks at me, then, his brows creasing in the center. “Did you just…?” He says, then shakes his head. “Never mind. I drive fine.”
Wade grins. “Sure you do, man.”
Wade takes over immediately, giving us the kind of casual, efficient tour that makes it obvious he’s done this a thousand times.
The main lodge is even more beautiful inside, all wood and stone floors and soaring ceilings with iron chandeliers the size of small cars.
Huge windows line the back wall, framing the slopes like living paintings.
I nearly walk into a decorative table because I’m too busy staring.
“Rentals are downstairs,” he says as we pass a set of stone steps. “Skis, boards, boots, helmets, whatever you need. They’ll get you fitted fast if you go early.”
He shows us a little general store with knit hats, gloves, sunscreen, postcards, expensive candles, and enough branded resort merch to bankrupt a weaker version of me. Then the coffee shop, which smells like espresso and cinnamon and fresh pastries, and instantly becomes my favorite place on earth.
“Oh, this is dangerous,” I murmur.
Wade hears me and points at the pastry case. “Those brown butter maple scones sell out by nine every morning, especially on weekends like this when we're fully booked out. Don’t hesitate.”
“Why would you tell me that?” I groan, already making the mental calculations of what time to set my alarm for to get down here early enough.
“Because everyone and their mother should have one. Believe me.”
Next comes the bar and restaurant, all low lighting and leather wingbacks and massive windows looking out over the mountain. A fire crackles in a stone hearth at one end of the room. It smells like cedar and expensive food.
“This is where we’re doing dinner,” Wade says. “Cole and Dana should be here soon. Jackson and Mandy are already checked in. You’ll probably hear Mandy before you see her.”
Then he leads us through a set of glass doors out onto a snow-dusted deck, where I stop short.
“There’s a heated pool?”
Steam rises off the water in soft white ribbons into the freezing air. Beyond it, the mountains stretch out in every direction, all blue shadows and white light.
Wade spreads his arms like he personally invented luxury. “There is.”
I look at him. “Do people actually get in that while it’s snowing?”
“All the time.”
“I should have brought a swimsuit.”
“We sell them.”
By the time Wade finally leads us upstairs toward the rooms, I am fully, hopelessly sold. I would like to be buried here someday, or at least left alone with a latte and a blanket and no responsibilities for twelve to eighteen years.
“This one is you two,” Wade says, stopping outside a room near the end of the hall. He opens the door and steps aside.
I go in first.
Oh.
Oh no.
The room is beautiful. Of course it is. Bigger than my room at Grayson's, with a fireplace, a seating area, a balcony door looking out toward the slopes, a sleek bathroom off to one side, and—
One bed.
One enormous, plush, very unmistakable bed sitting dead center like a threat.
I go still. Behind me, I hear Grayson stop too.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Wade says.
I turn just enough to look at Grayson. He looks back at me, and unless I am wildly misreading that expression, he did not know this either.
That is both reassuring and worse.
“Looks great,” Grayson says finally, in the tone of a man trying very hard not to look directly at the problem in the middle of the room.
Wade nods once, either oblivious or pretending to be, which honestly might be more sinister. “Dinner’s at seven-thirty. Freshen up, settle in, whatever.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and silence drops over the room, and this time, it feels like it has a pulse.
I set my bag down by the armchair with what I hope looks like total composure and not the beginning of a nervous breakdown. “Well.”
“Mm.”
I glance at the bed and then immediately glance away like it might burst into flames if I look at it too directly.
This is fine. This is survivable. This is definitely not the universe mocking us.
For the next few minutes, we pretend not to be aware of it.
He takes his toiletries bag into the bathroom and comes back out.
I unzip my suitcase at the foot of the bed and then hate that location instantly and drag it over toward the couch.
He hangs a jacket in the closet. I stand by the balcony doors for no reason whatsoever except that they are not near him.
The whole room feels too warm and too small.
I can feel him in it even when I’m not looking at him.
Grayson exhales sharply through his nose. “All right.”
I turn.
He’s standing near the dresser, one hand braced on it like he’s gearing himself up for impact. “We should address the obvious.”
I fold my arms. “Do your friends know we had sex?”
He looks me directly in the eyes. “No. They do not.”
“They seem to think we're fine sleeping in a bed together.”
“They apparently do.”
A beat passes.
“Wade said they're booked out. Maybe it's because there wasn't another room.” He sighs. “Either way, I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
I stare at him. “Amazing. Starting this conversation strong.”
“I'm just making it clear.”
“There’s a couch,” I say, pointing.
He glances at it like I’ve suggested he spend the night hanging from the balcony. “Not happening.”
“So you're just taking the bed?” I let out a short, bitter laugh. “What happened to chivalry?”
“What happened to realism? I’m six-three.”
“The couch isn't that small.”
He straightens. “I’m not taking the couch.”
“Okay, and I’m not taking the floor or the couch, so congratulations, we’ve both brought a lot to the table.”
His eyes narrow. “You could just sleep in the bed with me like a normal person.”
“Oh, could I?” I say sweetly, injecting just a hint of venom into my words. “Thank you so much for the permission. That’s really generous of you.”
He groans in annoyance. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It is a little bit what you meant.”
“No, what I meant was that there is a massive bed in this room and we are both adults.”
“Adults who have a recent history of making terrible decisions in close proximity.”
“Nothing is going to happen,” he says, but I catch the little flare of his nostrils.
“Wow. You sound so convincing.”
He presses his lips into a thin line, exhaling harshly through his nostrils. “Carly.”
“What?”
“You’re being difficult.”
I bark out a laugh. “I’m being difficult? You’re standing there acting like this is no big deal.”
“It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
“You're implying we should share a bed.”
“It’s a large bed.”
“Oh, well, that changes everything.”
He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “What do you want me to do, exactly?”
I throw a hand toward the couch again. “Be uncomfortable with dignity.”
His eyebrows go up. “Seniority trumps chivalry. I’m your boss.”
“You’re also an ass,” I mutter, pulling out the singular dress I'd packed and throwing it onto the bed.
He guffaws. “You can't talk to me like that!”
“And you can't pull rank because you don’t want to sleep on a couch!”
“It's barely a couch.”
“You’re being a dick.”
His eyes flash. “And you’re still a brat who won't shut her fucking mouth.”
The words hit me like a slap from an all-too-familiar hand.
I'd played those words on repeat in my head since he said it the first time, and my face heats, irritation tangling with something I desperately don't want to name.
It's like he's begging me to say my response: I’d prefer you fuck me hard enough that I can’t talk at all.
Grayson seems to realize what he's said a second too late, his jaw setting as his shoulders relax just a hair, like he's run out of steam.
Great.
Perfect.
This is exactly the energy I didn't want for this weekend.
I turn away first. “Fine. Whatever. I'll take the couch.”
“Fine,” he bites out.
And just like that, we retreat into brittle silence.