2. Daniel
Daniel
The highway narrows into a single winding strip as the mountains swallow us whole.
Snow drifts down in soft, lazy flakes that catch the headlights like sparks.
I ease off the gas and let the truck coast, because out here, there's no rush.
There never is. Sweet Creek Falls is quiet this time of night—half-buried in snow, its windows lit in gold, its streets clean and still like a held breath.
Gray is asleep in the passenger seat, head tipped back, mouth parted slightly.
His dark hair's a mess against the window.
The man could fall asleep through an earthquake.
Leo's in the backseat, humming—no, mangling—some old pop song that flickers through static on the radio. His voice is too bright for one a.m.
I should tell him to keep it down, but instead I just watch the dark pines flash by, the slope of the road curving like an old memory. I haven't been back in months, maybe longer. The town feels familiar in the bones and foreign in the mind.
This trip is for rest, I remind myself. For reconnecting with my family. For the holidays.
Gray shifts beside me, mutters something about caffeine, and goes still again. I glance at him, then at Leo, who's grinning at his own reflection in the window.
"Leo, for the love of god, turn that down before you wake the dead."
He laughs, unbothered. "You're no fun, boss."
"Try me after I've slept."
He lowers the volume, but the hum stays under his breath. The air inside the truck is warm, faintly scented with coffee from the Thermos between us and the faint pine tang from Gray's jacket. I should feel relaxed, but tension has a way of riding shotgun with me.
It's been weeks of nonstop litigation—late nights, cold coffee, client calls that bled into morning. I'd forgotten what silence sounds like.
We talked about staying at the Prairie Inn when we planned this trip. Cozy, predictable, good pancakes. But when I heard my parents had bought the Lodge at Sweet Creek—the old tourist anchor up by the slope—I decided it'd be better to stay there. "Better" being relative.
The argument with them still sits sour in my mouth.
They hadn't told me. Not one word. They'd sold off the last of their rental cabins, sunk the money into a property that, in my professional opinion, was a financial black hole. And they hadn't even consulted me.
"You don't have to handle everything," my mother had said over the phone, gentle but firm.
"I don't have to," I'd replied. "But I'm usually the one cleaning it up when it goes wrong."
The call had ended cold. I regretted it the moment I hung up—but not enough to call back.
Now here we are, rounding the last bend, the truck's headlights cutting across the snow-glazed sign: The Lodge at Sweet Creek.
The place still looks like something out of a Christmas postcard—broad beams, sloping roof, lights tracing the porch rails. Renovated, sure, but the bones are old. Solid. My father's handiwork always did lean toward the sturdy and sentimental.
I park under the awning and kill the engine. Silence swells instantly, the kind that rings in your ears after a long drive.
"Home sweet home," Leo says, stretching like a cat.
Gray doesn't move.
"Gray."
A grunt. Then, "We're here?"
"Yeah."
He scrubs a hand over his face, blinking at the snow. "Looks like a Hallmark card threw up."
I smirk despite myself. "That's Sweet Creek Falls for you."
He yawns. "We were supposed to arrive tomorrow morning, Daniel. You sure the rooms are ready?"
"I know the housekeeper. They'll be fine."
We climb out, the cold hitting like a slap. Leo shivers dramatically and pulls his coat tighter.
"Next time," he mutters, "we're flying somewhere warm."
"You mountaineer for fun. How are you still not acclimated to the weather?" I ask.
"Colorado weather is different, I swear."
I ignore him, stepping into the crisp mountain air, breath fogging out in white puffs. The snow crunches underfoot as I grab the suitcases from the back. The town lies quiet below—tiny yellow lights, dark roofs, the faint smell of woodsmoke.
Then movement catches my eye.
A woman steps out from the side of the lodge—legs bare under a short black dress, boots scuffed from walking on ice, hair the color of chestnuts gleaming under the porch lights.
She's laughing, head thrown back, at something a man beside her says.
He's tall, wrapped in a dark leather coat, leaning close enough that it looks intimate.
Ah, young love. Or lust. Hard to tell.
I shake my head, hauling a bag over my shoulder.
Then I hear a door slam behind me. "Daniel?"
The voice hits like a spark.
I turn. Tess stands a few yards away, bundled in her coat. My little sister—except she's not little anymore. She's grown into herself, bright-eyed and grinning.
"Tess."
She runs forward, boots crunching through snow, and throws her arms around me. I hug her back, the weight of months melting off for a second.
"You didn't tell me you were coming!" she says, voice muffled against my coat.
"Thought we'd surprise you."
She pulls back, cheeks flushed. "You did." Her gaze skips past me. "Hey, Gray. Hey, Leo!"
Leo waves from behind the truck. "Missed you, troublemaker!"
She grins. "You always say that."
Then she looks over my shoulder, and her face lights up even brighter. She waves frantically. "Mara! It's Daniel! Can you believe it?"
Mara?
I glance back and realize the woman in the short dress isn't just anyone.
She's standing under the porch light now, snow caught in her hair like glitter, cheeks flushed from the cold. Hazel-green eyes meet mine, uncertain but steady. And then I smell it.
Honeysuckle and spring rain, underneath the tequila.
Subtle, clean, grounding—and achingly familiar.
She's not the fifteen-year-old who used to trail after Tess anymore.
And damn if she isn't beautiful.
"Daniel," she says softly, almost like she's testing the name.
"Mara."
Her smile is slight, a little shy. "It's been a while."
"You could say that."
The man she'd been laughing with—leather coat, stubble, maybe local—gives her a quick nod before heading down toward the main road. I track him instinctively, but Tess is already tugging my sleeve, oblivious.
"This is Gray… and Leo. Daniel's pack."
Mara nods politely. "Of course. Hi."
Gray gives her a warm, sleepy smile. Leo just grins like an idiot.
"Well," I say, clearing my throat. "Looks like you two have been out late."
Tess laughs. "Just the Bluejay. It's karaoke night."
"Explains the tequila," I mutter.
Mara's cheeks color faintly. "We were celebrating."
"What for?"
Tess elbows me. "Nothing you need to cross-examine. Just a girls' night."
I raise a brow. Same Tess—always dodging with humor.
She looks up at the lodge, eyes softening. "Mom and Dad have no idea you're here, huh?"
"Nope. Surprise visit. Came a day early."
"They're gonna freak out."
"Probably."
The wind picks up, carrying snow against our boots. Mara rubs her arms, and Leo, ever the gentleman, offers his scarf. She declines with a smile.
"It's freezing," she says. "Come inside. I can make hot chocolate at the café if you want."
The way she says it—it's instinct, kindness, the same Mara who used to leave cookies at the rink when we were kids.
But it's late, and exhaustion's gnawing at me. "Thanks, but we'll be fine till morning."
Leo groans. "You sure? I could use cocoa and maybe a sandwich."
"We can get some in the morning," I tell him. "Let's just get some rest for now. That's what you get for making me drive the whole way."
He laughs and shoulders his duffel.
We head up the steps. The wood creaks under our boots, the lodge light spilling onto snow. Tess walks beside Mara, their laughter low and familiar, and I find myself watching—not listening, just watching.
She moves differently now. Graceful, confident, but with a weariness she can't completely hide. There's something behind her smile, a shadow I can't name.
And the scent—god, it wraps around me until my pulse betrays the calm I'm trying to project.
I force myself to look away.
Inside, the lodge smells like cedar and fresh varnish. My father's work is everywhere—new floors, cleaned beams, polished railings. They've been busy. There's a warmth to it, though, like the walls themselves recognize me.
I find our keys waiting at the front desk and follow Tess up the stairs. She keeps glancing back, clearly bursting with questions.
"So," she says finally, "how long are you staying?"
"A couple of weeks."
"Good. Maybe you can help with the prep. We're opening for the full ski season next week."
I nod. "I heard."
Her grin softens. "They really missed you, you know."
"I know."
When we reach the landing, she hugs me again and whispers, "It's good you're here." Then she heads back down, waving Mara after her, the two of them off to the apartment over the café.
I stand there for a second, bags in hand. The guys drag their own bags into their adjacent rooms, but something has unmoored me.
I tell myself it's the exhaustion, the cold, the nostalgia—anything but the truth.
Because the truth is simple and dangerous: Mara isn't a girl anymore. And the way I looked at her tonight…
That's going to be a problem.
Heat. Skin. A woman's breath caught between a gasp and a whisper, my name tangled in the sound. Fingers in my hair, a body pressed close. I don't see her face, only the light behind my eyelids, gold and soft like dawn. Then the scent hits, wild honeysuckle and rain, and my stomach knots.
I wake hard and fast, sheets twisted around my legs, breath shallow. For a second I don't even know where I am. The ceiling is wood-paneled, the air cold enough to sting. A heartbeat later, the phone starts buzzing on the nightstand.
It takes me a moment to register it's mine.
The clock on the wall glows faintly: 4:30 a.m.