14. Leo
Leo
The lodge smells like fresh pine cleaner and waxed floors when I step inside, and the warmth hits me before anything else.
Snow crunches under my boots as I shake the flakes off and glance around.
Mrs. Lacey is fussing over a cart stacked with linens and cleaning supplies.
She glances up at me with that small, warm smile, the one that makes me feel like I actually belong here.
"Leo, could you start on the second-floor rooms? Mara's helping, and I want everything refreshed before the tourists arrive."
I nod, catching sight of Mara stacking towels nearby. She's dressed in a simple fleece and leggings, hair tied back, and I catch the faint scent of Daniel on her. I feel it hit me like a spark—the warmth of him, the faint cedarwood mixed with her own scent.
My lips twitch, but I keep the smile under control. Whatever happened between them is none of my business. I'm not going to ask, not today.
"Ready?" I call, grabbing a cart for cleaning supplies and motioning toward the stairs.
Mara glances up and meets my eyes. "As ready as I'll ever be," she says, and I notice the faint warmth creeping into her cheeks. Her voice has that soft lilt I can't seem to forget. I keep my distance, but it's hard when she's near, every movement drawing my attention.
We head up the stairs together, exchanging quiet comments as we move through the hallways, fluffing pillows, refolding blankets, and checking each room for minor details.
It's repetitive, yes, but there's a rhythm to it that makes it oddly satisfying.
I glance over at her, catching her focused expression, and I realize she works with precision—careful, thoughtful, like everything she does has meaning.
"You know," I say, brushing past a pile of towels as I stack them neatly, "one day, I'd love to have a lodge like this. Somewhere people can escape to, like this—calm, beautiful, a place that feels like it belongs to the world but also feels private."
Mara pauses, a towel in her hands. "I think you'd be good at it," she says softly.
"You've got the energy and… the attention to detail.
Not everyone notices the little things, but you do.
" Her eyes lock on mine, curious, and I feel the corners of my mouth tug up into a grin.
It's encouraging to hear, even from her.
"Thanks. I'd need a good team, though," I add, and she smiles, folding the towel with care.
"Teamwork makes it easier," she agrees. And in that moment, the mundane task of refreshing rooms doesn't feel mundane at all. It feels like we're building something together, even if it's just clean linens and fluffed pillows for a weekend of tourists.
By late morning, Mrs. Lacey comes over, holding a small notepad and glancing between us.
"The couple that booked ski lessons? The snow's been heavy and the road's closed, so the instructor they hired can't get up here.
Somebody has to take them out." Her gaze shifts to me. "Leo, think you can handle it?"
I grin. "Definitely. But I'll need Mara to help me lead the way."
She hesitates. "I… I can't ski," she admits, and I catch the flicker of frustration in her eyes, like she's annoyed with herself.
"Doesn't matter," I say. "I'll teach you. You can lead the others on foot; I'll guide them down the slope, and we'll keep them safe. You're perfect for this—coordinating, helping, watching out."
Her lips curve into a reluctant smile, and I can feel the spark of camaraderie starting to form.
By the time we step outside, the snow is falling thicker, flakes dusting our shoulders and landing in my hair.
The couple—college students from Atlanta—wait at the bottom of the slope, dressed in layers that are cute but clearly unprepared for serious skiing.
Their nervous laughter carries across the snow, making my chest tighten with amusement.
Mara walks beside me, bundled up but confident, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the pair with precision. I glance at her and notice the faint flush creeping across her cheeks from the cold—or maybe from the excitement—and it makes me grin.
"Okay, everyone," I say, holding up my hand to gather attention. "We'll start with the basics, then I'll guide you down. Follow me, and pay attention. I've got you."
Mara takes the other side, matching my tone with calm instruction, and I can't help but notice how natural she is at this.
She points out potential hazards, encourages careful footing, and her voice carries over the wind in a way that's commanding but still friendly.
I feel my admiration for her spike; she's capable, confident, and radiant all at once.
The couple from Atlanta looks relieved, their nervousness easing under our guidance.
I grab their skis and demonstrate the stance, the way to shift weight, how to brake and turn.
Mara follows with practical tips, helping them maintain balance, and she laughs when one of them wobbles too much and nearly tumbles.
Her laughter is infectious, and even the students giggle, tension melting into the crisp mountain air.
I glance at her, noticing the way the cold reddens her cheeks and the sparkle in her hazel eyes, and I realize this is what I've wanted—not just a lodge, not just the work, but this… connection. Sharing the thrill of the outdoors, teaching, guiding, laughing together.
"Don't lean too far forward," I call, guiding the couple down the slope. "Yes, like that. Good, good. Relax your shoulders—feel the snow beneath you, trust yourself."
Mara moves alongside them, hands occasionally brushing against the students' ski poles to steady them, murmuring encouragement.
When our eyes meet, she smiles, and I swear I feel the heat in my chest climb.
I catch a whiff of her scent again, faint but undeniable, and it makes my fingers itch to reach out, to brush the snowflakes sticking to her hair.
I resist, keeping my focus on teaching, but the tension between us hums beneath the surface, a low current that refuses to be ignored.
As we descend, the couple laughs when I pretend to stumble, letting Mara steady me before catching my balance.
She rolls her eyes but can't hide the grin, and the sound of her laugh makes me grin in return.
This isn't just a lesson; it's almost like a date, a double date of sorts, just the two of us and the couple, snow flying, adrenaline rushing, laughter and instruction intertwining.
Every glance, every brush of her arm against mine, every shared laugh tightens the coil of desire and admiration in my chest.
We pause halfway down the slope. Mara shakes snow from her gloves, smiling up at me, cheeks flushed. "You know, this isn't so bad," she admits, her tone teasing but genuine. "I can see why people love it."
I grin. "Told you it'd be fun. Next time we get you on skis, and I'll see if I can keep up with you," I tease, though inside I'm thinking there's no way I'd want to be anywhere else but right here with her, alive and electric in the snow.
She laughs, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I notice how the light catches in her eyes, how her lips curve, the way her expression softens when she looks at me.
I want to reach for her, pull her close in the cold, warm her up, but we're in the middle of a lesson, and the couple looks to us for guidance.
Still, the temptation sits heavy in my chest, a warm, insistent ache that won't go away.
By the time we guide the couple safely down, their nervousness replaced with excitement, Mara's cheeks are rosy from exertion, and I feel a deep, unspoken connection, a satisfaction that goes beyond teaching skiing.
We're a team. She trusts me; I trust her.
I notice the subtle curve of her jaw when she laughs, the way her hair sticks to her forehead in damp strands, the shine of cold on her eyelashes. Every detail is etched into my mind.
"Great job, everyone," I call, voice carrying over the snow. "See? You're skiing!"
Mara claps beside me, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "I knew you could do it. You just needed a little confidence," she says, glancing at me, and the brush of her arm against mine is enough to make my pulse spike.
We head back toward the lodge together, footprints in the snow marking our path, breaths misting in the cold air.
The students follow, laughing and chatting about their newfound confidence.
I glance at Mara, feeling the warmth that radiates even through layers of clothing.
I want to hold that warmth, to bottle it, to make it ours.
But I let it linger in the stolen moments, in the shared laughter, in the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.
Back at the lodge, the snow continues to fall, thick and white, blanketing the world in stillness.
Mara and I carry the last of the gear inside, brushing snow from our sleeves, sharing a look that says more than words ever could.
There's something unspoken, a tension, an understanding, a thrill of the day.
And somewhere in that quiet, between the laughter and the cold, between the skis and the snow-dusted lodge, I know there's more to come. Mara, I realize, is becoming the axis around which this moment spins, and I don't intend to let the opportunity slip.
We brush snow off our boots at the door, glancing back at the slope one last time.
Mara catches my gaze, and I see that spark, that small, teasing curl of a smile that tells me she's as aware of this as I am.
My heart thumps, my chest tightens, and I know the snow, the skiing, the laughter—it's all become a backdrop for something else, something intensely ours.
Mara's already at the counter, wiping down the edge, the fleece jacket still clinging to her from the afternoon's snow, tiny droplets of melt clinging to her hair. She looks up at me, cheeks flushed, and there's a spark in her eyes that makes my chest tighten.