25. Bennett
BENNETT
I stood in the main lodge lobby with a maintenance report in my hands, pretending to read it. The words might as well have been in another language. I'd been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes, seeing nothing but the page, my mind somewhere else entirely.
On Kate. On the divorce papers that were still moving forward. On the fact that I had no idea if she'd ever come back.
Two days ago we'd kissed at the rescue base. I'd told her about stepping back from the resorts, about ending Priscilla's place here, about breaking with my mother. I'd apologized. I'd meant every word. And she'd pulled away and told me she was afraid it wouldn't last.
I hadn't called her since. Every instinct I had screamed at me to fix it, to make a plan, to solve the problem with logic and persistence the way I solved everything else. But that was exactly what had broken us in the first place. So I'd kept my distance. I'd given her space. I'd waited.
The waiting was killing me.
I set the report down on the front desk and rubbed my hand over my face. The lobby was busy, guests coming and going, voices echoing off the high ceiling. Normal operations. Everything running the way it should. It felt hollow.
The front doors opened, bringing in a gust of cold air and the sound of laughter.
I looked up. Gordon Chen walked in with his wife, Anna, and two of his executives trailing behind them.
Gordon owned a chain of outdoor retail stores across the West—thirty-two locations and growing.
We'd been in talks for three years about a partnership, and this was his first visit to see the flagship resort in person.
They had come straight in off the slopes, ski jackets still zipped and boots loud on the floor, and it was the first time I'd met any of them face to face.
I straightened and crossed the lobby to meet them. "Gordon."
He grinned and shook my hand, his grip firm. "Bennett. Good to see you. The pictures didn't do this place justice."
"Glad you could make it." I shook hands with Anna, then with the two executives. Diane Harper, his VP of operations, and Tom Nguyen, who handled store development. "How was the morning?"
"Gorgeous," Anna said. She pulled off her gloves, her cheeks flushed from the cold. "We stopped twice on the way down just to take pictures of the mountains. Tom wanted to stop every five minutes."
Tom laughed. "Guilty. I'm a flatlander. This is all new to me."
Diane was already looking around the lobby, taking in the timber beams and the stone fireplace, the wide windows that framed the slopes. "This is incredible. The photos on your website are good, but this—" She shook her head. "You can't capture the scale."
I felt the familiar weight of performance settling over me. The need to be on, to charm, to guide the conversation toward a close. I'd done this a thousand times without thinking. Now it felt different. Every word mattered. Every move was a choice.
"Let me show you around," I said. "We can grab lunch after, if you're hungry."
"Perfect," Gordon said. He clapped me on the shoulder. "Lead the way."
I was turning toward the hall when I saw her.
Kate.
She stood just inside the doors, her dark hair wind-blown and the collar of her coat turned up.
She wore the deep green scarf she'd knitted herself, the one with the pattern that always made me think of pine branches.
Her cheeks were pink from the cold. She looked like she'd been outside for a while. She looked uncertain.
My chest clenched. God. I wanted to cross the room. I wanted to ask her if she was okay, if she needed anything, if she'd come to see me or if she was just here for something else. I wanted to tell her I was glad she came.
I didn't move.
She met my eyes for a second. Then she looked away and walked toward the far side of the lobby, where the windows overlooked the main slopes. She wasn't coming over. She was keeping her distance.
I understood that. I'd told her I wasn't asking for anything. That meant the next step was hers to take.
Even if it was tearing me apart to stand here and not go to her.
"Bennett?" Gordon's voice pulled me back.
I turned. "Sorry. Right this way."
I led them down the main hall, past the equipment rental desk and the ski school office, out onto the back deck that overlooked the mountain. The sun was brilliant on the snow, the sky so blue it almost hurt to look at. A perfect Colorado day.
Diane stepped up to the railing and let out a breath. "God. That view."
Gordon stood beside her, scanning the slopes. He pointed at one of the runs that curved down through the trees on the north face. "Which one is that?"
I followed his gaze. Ridgeline. One of the intermediate trails, wide and smooth, with a flow that made even cautious skiers feel confident.
Kate had designed it five years ago after spending two full seasons studying that part of the mountain—how the snow accumulated, where the wind carved it away, how the light fell in the morning and the afternoon.
She'd walked the route on foot in the summer and skied it in every condition before she was satisfied.
I'd never asked her about any of it. I'd just skied the run and thought it worked and moved on.
"That's Ridgeline," I said.
"We skied it this morning," Gordon said. "Twice, actually. Best intermediate run I've been on in years. It's not just the terrain. It's the design. The way it flows—you're not fighting the mountain. You're working with it."
Anna nodded, leaning on the railing beside him. "It feels intuitive. Like the mountain wants you there."
I'd felt that too, every time I skied it. I'd never thought about why.
Kate had thought about why. She always did.
"It's a great run," I said.
Tom was looking at the terrain park off to the left, where a few snowboarders were hitting the jumps. "How do you decide where to put something like that? The park, I mean."
I started to answer, then stopped. I didn't know. Kate knew. She'd placed the park there because of the wind patterns and the sun exposure and a dozen other factors I'd never paid attention to.
"I couldn't tell you," I said. "Not well enough to explain it."
We moved back inside. I walked them through the lodge, pointing out the features that mattered—the geothermal heating system, the water reclamation setup, the way we'd expanded the dining area without blocking the view.
Gordon asked good questions about capacity and maintenance costs.
Diane wanted to know about the guest experience, how we handled peak season, what our retention rates looked like.
I answered them. I didn't oversell. I didn't try to steer the conversation or close the deal early. I just gave them the information they asked for and let it speak for itself.
I'd learned that much, at least. Pushing didn't work. It never had.
We ended up in the lounge, a wide room with a stone fireplace and deep leather chairs.
A handful of other guests were scattered around—a couple reading by the windows, a family playing cards at one of the tables.
I saw Kate slip in and take a seat near the back, away from us.
She had a book open in her lap, but she wasn't looking at it.
She was watching.
I felt it like a hand on my chest.
I didn't look at her. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But the people in front of me had my attention, and they were owed it.
Gordon settled into one of the chairs by the fire with a contented sigh. "So, Bennett. I've got to say, this trip has exceeded my expectations. The terrain, the lodge, the whole experience—it's exactly what we're looking for in a partnership."
"I'm glad to hear it," I said.
Diane leaned forward, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee someone had brought her.
"We skied Ridgeline twice this morning. I know Gordon already mentioned it, but I have to say it again—that run is something special.
It's not just fun. It's smart. Somebody really understands how people move on a mountain. "
I felt the old instinct rising. The habit of eight years. Nod. Smile. Accept the compliment. Let them assume the runs were mine because it was easier, because it kept the conversation smooth, because nobody had ever asked me to correct them and I'd never volunteered.
I thought about Kate at the rescue base, her voice quiet and steady. I'm afraid it won't last.
"My wife designed that run," I said.
The lounge went quiet for a beat. Gordon looked at me, his eyebrows going up.
"Your wife?"
"Kate." I kept my voice level. "She's a former competitive skier. She designs all the runs here—Ridgeline, Shadowline, all of it. She's the one who understands how people move on a mountain."
Diane blinked. "I had no idea."
"Most people don't," I said. It wasn't a defense. It was just the truth.
And it was my fault.
Gordon smiled, shaking his head. "Well, she's damn good at it. If she ever wants to consult on trail design for other resorts, I'd hire her in a heartbeat. We've got partners out in Tahoe who'd pay top dollar for that kind of expertise."
"I'll tell her you said so," I said.
I didn't look at Kate. I didn't gesture toward where she was sitting.
I didn't draw attention to the fact that she was twenty feet away, listening to every word.
I didn't point out that I'd just given her credit in front of people who mattered, people whose opinions could affect our business, people I'd been courting for three years.
I didn't explain myself.
I just let it sit.
Anna started talking about the afternoon, asking which runs we recommended for varying skill levels. Tom wanted to try the terrain park. I answered their questions. I listened when they talked. I didn't interrupt. I didn't try to fix their plans with logic.
I just listened.
When they stood to head out, Gordon shook my hand again, his grip warm. "This has been great, Bennett. Let's talk specifics over dinner tonight. I think we can make this partnership work."
"Sounds good," I said.
They left, taking their laughter and their energy with them. The lounge felt quieter. A couple of other guests remained by the windows, talking in low voices. Kate was still in the back, her book closed now, her hands folded in her lap.
I stood there, not sure what to do. I wanted to walk over. I wanted to ask her if she'd heard. I wanted to know if it mattered, if it changed anything, if she was any less afraid than she'd been two days ago.
I didn't move.
She stood. She picked up her bag, slipping the book inside, and I thought that was it. Now she'd leave, and I wouldn't see her again for days or weeks or maybe longer, and I'd just have to live with not knowing if I'd done enough.
She didn't leave.
She walked over to the windows. She stood there looking out at the mountain, at Ridgeline cutting through the trees in a long graceful curve, the run she'd built with her own hands and her own knowledge and her own care.
I crossed the room. I stopped a few feet away, giving her space.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey."
Her voice was soft. She didn't look at me. She kept her eyes on the mountain.
There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her I was glad she came, that I'd meant every word I'd said to Gordon, that I'd been thinking about her every minute since the rescue base. I wanted to tell her I was trying. That I knew trying wasn't enough, but it was all I had.
I didn't say any of it.
"I didn't know you were here," I said.
"I know."
God. I had to clear my throat. I'd spent eight years talking at her, explaining, managing, trying to solve her like she was a problem that needed fixing. And now the only thing I wanted was to stand here beside her and not screw it up by saying too much.
The quiet stretched on. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't easy. But it wasn't angry, either. It was just—there. Something we were both holding, waiting to see who would break first.
Kate shifted her weight, her arms crossed over her chest. "Gordon seems nice."
"He is."
"He's right about Ridgeline," she said. "It's a good run."
"You built a good run."
She didn't answer right away. She stood there, looking out at the snow, her shoulders tense. I could see the uncertainty in the line of her body, the way she was holding herself like she wasn't sure whether to stay or go.
I didn't ask her to stay. I didn't tell her I'd been waiting for her, that I'd spent two days not calling because I was trying to prove I could give her room. I didn't say anything.
I just stood there, a few feet away, and let her decide.
Minutes passed. I wasn't sure how many. Long enough that the couple by the windows left. Long enough that the fire crackled and settled lower. Long enough that the light outside shifted, the shadows from the trees growing longer on the snow.
Kate didn't leave.
She stood at the window, her arms still crossed, her gaze on the mountain. I stood beside her, not close enough to touch, not far enough to feel like I'd given up.
Finally, she let out a breath. "I should go."
"Okay."
She picked up her bag from where she'd set it on the floor. She turned toward the door, her movements slow, like she was giving herself time to change her mind.
She stopped.
She stood there, halfway between the window and the door, her hand tight on the strap of her bag. I didn't say anything. I didn't ask her to stay. I didn't move.
She set the bag down again.
"Maybe I'll stay a little longer," she said.
My chest loosened. Just a fraction. Just enough to breathe.
I didn't smile. I didn't reach for her. I didn't tell her I was glad.
I just nodded.
She walked back to the window. I stayed where I was, a few feet away, giving her the space she needed.
She stayed.