22. Leo
Leo
The walk back to the lodge is a blur. The snow crunches under my boots, but I don't feel the cold.
The world is muffled, distant, as if I'm walking through a dream.
The only thing that feels real is the phantom pressure of Mara's lips on mine, the scent of her still clinging to my jacket, a faint, sweet whisper of honeysuckle and rain.
I push through the heavy front door, and the warmth of the lobby envelops me. Mrs. Lacey is polishing the reception desk, her movements slow and methodical. She looks up as I shake the snow from my hair, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"You look like the cat that got the cream, Leo."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face, a wide, uncontainable thing that makes my cheeks ache. "Mrs. Lacey," I say, my voice lighter than it's been in days. "I think it's safe to say this was the best day of my life."
She raises an eyebrow, her polishing cloth paused mid-swipe. "That's a bold statement for a man who's climbed mountains on three continents."
"None of those peaks had anything on this," I say, and the truth of it settles in my chest, warm and solid. I give her a little salute and head for the stairs, my feet barely touching the ground.
My room is at the end of the hall, a quiet sanctuary.
I close the door behind me, the click of the latch echoing in the silence.
I lean back against the cool wood, my eyes closed, and let the day wash over me.
The chaos of the café, the exhaustion, the fear for Tess—it all fades away, eclipsed by the memory of Mara in my arms. The way she felt, the sound she made when I kissed her neck, the way she'd finally, finally kissed me back.
I push off the door and shrug out of my jacket, tossing it onto a chair. The scent of her is strong on it. I bury my face in it and breathe.
My body is humming with a residual energy, a thrumming current that has nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with her.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and run a hand through my hair.
My mind is replaying every second, every detail.
The look in her eyes when she confessed about Daniel.
The way she'd tensed when I touched her chin.
The exact moment she'd surrendered to the kiss.
My cock is already hard, a thick and insistent pressure against the denim of my jeans.
It's been a long time since I've wanted someone this much, since a simple kiss has undone me so completely.
I lie back on the bed, the rough texture of the duvet against my back.
I close my eyes, letting my hands rest on my stomach, and I let the memory take over.
I see her standing there, her face flushed, her eyes wide with a mix of defiance and vulnerability.
I hear her voice, low and breathy, telling me she kissed Daniel.
I remember the feeling of her lips, soft and hesitant at first, then bold, hungry.
I unbutton my jeans, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet room.
I slip my hand inside, wrapping my fingers around my aching length.
The touch is a relief, a welcome pressure, but it's not enough. It's not her.
I start to stroke, my movements slow, savoring the sensation.
I'm not in a hurry. I want to draw this out, to live in this feeling a little longer.
I picture her face, the way her chestnut hair fell around her shoulders, the way her hazel eyes darkened with desire.
I remember the feel of her body pressed against mine, the soft curve of her ass in my hands, the way she'd arched into me.
My grip tightens, my strokes becoming longer, more firm.
I imagine what it would be like to really have her.
To peel off that oversized sweater, to see the smooth skin of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts.
I wonder what she looks like when she's lost to pleasure, what sounds she makes.
The thought sends a jolt of heat through me, and my hips buck up into my hand.
I can almost smell her, that sweet, clean scent that drives me wild.
I bring my hand to my face, inhaling deeply, pretending it's her skin, her hair.
My breathing grows ragged, each exhale a rough groan.
The image in my mind shifts. I'm no longer standing in the café.
I'm laying her down on this very bed, my body covering hers.
I'm kissing my way down her neck, my lips tracing the line of her collarbone.
I can feel her hands in my hair, her legs wrapping around my waist. I want to taste her, to explore every inch of her, to make her fall apart in my arms. I want to be the one who makes her forget everything else, the one who shows her what it feels like to be truly wanted, truly cherished.
My strokes become faster, more frantic. The pleasure is building, a tight, coiling heat in the pit of my stomach.
I'm thinking about her scent, her taste, the sound of my name on her lips.
I'm thinking about the way she looked at me, like I was the only person in the world.
I'm thinking about the way she kissed me, with a desperation that matched my own.
"Fuck, Mara," I groan, the words a raw, broken sound.
I'm so close. I can feel the orgasm building, a wave of pleasure so intense it's almost painful.
I grip my cock tighter, my thumb swiping over the head, spreading the bead of moisture there.
I'm imagining her beneath me, her back arched, her head thrown back in ecstasy.
I'm imagining the feeling of being inside her, of her tight, wet heat surrounding me, pulling me in.
And that's it. That's the thought that sends me over the edge.
A white-hot flash of pleasure explodes through me, my body arching off the bed.
I come hard, spilling over my hand and my stomach, a groan tearing from my throat.
It's a release so powerful it leaves me shaking, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I lie there for a long time, my chest heaving, my body slick with sweat.
The room is quiet again, the only sound my own ragged breathing.
The pleasure slowly fades, leaving a warm, satisfied glow in its wake.
I grab a tissue from the nightstand and clean myself up, then just lie back, staring at the ceiling.
The euphoria of the orgasm is still there, but it's mingled with something else, something deeper.
A certainty. This isn't just about lust, about a physical need.
It's about her. It's always been about her.
I've been waiting for this, for her, for longer than I care to admit.
And now that I've had a taste, I know I'm never going to be able to let her go.
I roll onto my side, pulling a pillow to my chest. The exhaustion from the long day is finally starting to catch up with me, my eyelids growing heavy.
But as I drift off to sleep, my last thought is of her.
Of her smile, her scent, her kiss. And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that this is only the beginning.
The best day of my life. And tomorrow will be even better.
There's a soft gray smear across the sky, filtering through the lodge's heavy curtains and painting stripes on the opposite wall. I'm floating in that warm, weightless space between sleep and waking, my body relaxed and sated.
The last vestiges of a dream cling to me, a dream of honeysuckle and rain, of soft skin and softer sighs. Mara. Her name is a whisper in my mind, a taste on my tongue. The memory of her kiss, the way she finally surrendered to it, sends a fresh wave of warmth through me.
I smile into my pillow, a stupid, goofy grin I'm glad no one can see. Yesterday was the best day of my life.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, a jarring, insistent vibration that shatters the peaceful morning haze.
I groan, burying my face deeper into the pillow, trying to ignore it.
But it keeps buzzing, a persistent little demon demanding attention.
I fumble for it, my eyes still half-closed, and squint at the screen.
Mateo. Of course. My cousin is the only person I know who functions on a time zone all his own.
I swipe to answer, my voice a gravelly mess. "This had better be a national emergency, Mateo."
"Leo, mi hermano! Good, you're alive." His voice is a blast of high-energy Spanglish, a familiar sound from my childhood. "I was starting to think the mountain men got you."
"The mountain men are fine," I mumble, pushing myself up to sit against the headboard. The room is cold, and I pull the duvet up around my chest. "What's up?"
"What's up? What's up is that you haven't called your mother, and she's driving Tía Sofia crazy. And also, and more importantly, are you coming home for Isabella's quinceanera? It's in two weeks, Leo. Two weeks. Mami needs a headcount for the catering."
Isabella's quinceanera. I'd completely forgotten. In the whirlwind of the storm, of Tess getting sick, of the café chaos, of Mara… my entire life back in Denver feels like a distant memory, a different planet.
"Shit. Mateo, I… I don't know. Things are kind of crazy up here."
"Crazy? You're on vacation. How is that crazy?" He pauses, and I can hear the clatter of pans in the background. He's probably at the restaurant, already working while I'm still in bed. "Is everything okay? You sound weird."
"Everything's fine. Just… a lot happening." I don't want to get into it. Explaining the situation with Tess, and with Mara, to Mateo would be like trying to explain quantum physics to a squirrel. He'd listen for about five seconds before getting distracted by a shiny object.
"Well, un-crazy yourself enough to give me an answer. Isabella is asking about you. She wants her favorite cousin to be there for her waltz."
I can't help but smile. Isabella is my youngest cousin, a firecracker with a smile that could melt glaciers. "Of course I want to be there. I just don't know if I can get away."
"Make it happen," Mateo says, his tone firm. "You know how Mami gets. And besides, the restaurant needs you."
I lean my head back against the headboard, a familiar pang of guilt twisting in my gut. "How is everything at Casa Sandoval? Is Dad driving everyone insane yet?"
"When is he not?" Mateo says with a laugh.
"He's decided the new mole recipe needs 'more soul.
' So he's been in the kitchen since five a.m., muttering to himself and throwing out perfectly good chiles.
Business is good, though. Really good. The new patio seating you designed is a huge hit. We're packed every weekend."
A small surge of pride warms me. I spent a whole summer convincing my father and uncle to modernize the back of the restaurant, to add string lights and comfortable outdoor furniture. They called it a waste of money.
"See? I told you it would work. People want to feel like they're on vacation, even when they're just a few miles from home."
"Yeah, yeah, you're a genius," he says, but I can hear the smile in his voice. "Speaking of genius, I've been thinking."
"Oh no."
"No, listen! I've been messing around on Carlos's turntables. The ones he uses for his parties. And… I think I want to be a DJ."
I sit up a little straighter, the sleepiness starting to fade. "A DJ? Seriously?"
"Seriously! I made a playlist for Sofia's birthday last month, and everyone was dancing. Everyone, Leo. Even Tía Elena, and she only listens to ranchera."
I can't help but chuckle. The image of my stern, traditional aunt dancing to a DJ set is a good one.
"That's awesome, man. But you know my father and Uncle Luis are going to have a heart attack, right?
They've had your life planned out since you were born.
Line cook, to sous chef, to running your own Casa Sandoval franchise. "
"Let them have their heart attack," he says, a rebellious edge to his voice. "I'm good at it. I have a feel for the music, for the crowd. It's like… it's like cooking, but for the soul. You get it, right? You're the one who left the kitchen to go climb mountains."
His words hit me harder than he probably intends. I did leave. I'm always leaving. And now, the thought of leaving Sweet Creek, of leaving Mara, feels like a physical blow. "Yeah, man," I say, my voice quieter. "I get it."
"You should talk to him," Mateo continues, oblivious to my internal turmoil. "Your dad actually listens to you. You could tell him it's a good business move, that we could have a DJ at the restaurant on weekend nights. Bring in a younger crowd."
"It's a thought," I say, noncommittally. My mind is already a million miles away, back in a small café with a girl who tastes like heaven and feels like home.
"Anyway, I gotta go. The morning rush is about to start, and your father is about to sacrifice a chicken to the mole gods. Just… think about the quince, okay? For Isabella."
"I will, Mateo. I promise."
"Okay, hermano. Talk soon."
He hangs up, and I'm left alone in the quiet room, the phone feeling heavy in my hand. The peaceful, contented mood from this morning has evaporated, replaced by a familiar, unwelcome weight. The weight of family, of expectations, of a life that's waiting for me back in Denver.
I can see it all so clearly: the noisy, chaotic kitchen of Casa Sandoval, the endless stream of customers, my father's disappointed face if I tell him I might not make it for Isabella's big day.
I get out of bed and walk over to the window, pushing the curtain aside. The snow has stopped, and the world outside is transformed, glittering and pristine under a pale winter sun. The town of Sweet Creek Falls is quiet, beautiful, and a world away from everything Mateo was just talking about.
And in that moment, I know with a certainty that settles deep in my bones that the mountain I really want to climb isn't in the Andes or on a ski slope.
It's right here. And her name is Mara.