Chapter 2
Tyler
The wind whips straight off the mountain, slicing through my coat as I juggle a teetering stack of bags in the circular drive of Havencrest Mountain Lodge.
The lodge rises behind me, all stone and weathered timber, windows glowing gold against the bruised evening sky.
Icicles fringe the eaves, and fat flakes of snow drift down, softening everything except my brothers’ bickering.
Alexander is heading inside, walking briskly in his perfectly tailored coat, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Marcus is a step behind, rolling his eyes in that long-suffering way only a middle child can pull off.
“Honestly, this is absurd,” Alexander says, voice clipped, impatient. “No valet, no proper signage, and I’m missing a call with the Tokyo team for this.”
Marcus claps him on the shoulder, a little harder than necessary, grinning. “You’ll live, Alex. Try to remember we’re here for Sarah, not to audit the staff. Besides, you needed a break.”
Alexander glowers, his jaw working. “A break? You know what happens when I take a break, Marcus? Three hundred emails multiply into six hundred. This is a wedding, not a corporate merger. It didn’t need a summit in the White Mountains.”
I heft another bag, shuffling them into a precarious pyramid near the door. “Hey, you two want to give me a hand or just stand there and scare the locals?”
Alexander doesn’t glance over. “That’s why we brought you, Tyler. Youngest brother privileges.”
“Yeah, at forty-six, I’m the pack mule,” I say, kicking the snow off my boots and trying to keep the sarcasm light. “I’ll remember that when you’re both in walkers.”
Marcus laughs, taking a duffel from my arms. “Let’s be honest, Ty, you’re the only one not on a conference call every ten minutes. Consider this a team-building exercise.”
The lobby is grand but welcoming, wood beams soaring overhead and a stone fireplace throwing shadows over leather armchairs. Guests cluster around the check-in desk, coats dusted with snow, the smell of pine and woodsmoke warming the air.
Alexander is already fencing with the front desk clerk. “Yes, the Birch suite—under Alexander Birch. No, we requested hypoallergenic pillows. Marcus, make sure they didn’t lose the dinner reservations.”
Marcus mutters, “We’re here two minutes and he’s already conducting a military campaign.”
I nudge him. “If he calls in air support, I’m hiding in the bar.”
Alexander glances back, face pinched, then softens just a touch when he sees Marcus’s hand on his shoulder.
“All right, all right. I know why we’re here.
” He lets out a heavy sigh, his posture easing as he turns to us.
“For Sarah. She asked, and I wasn’t going to say no. But we’ll keep this short, agreed?”
Marcus gives him a look. “Alex. She’s our niece. This is a big deal for her, and she wants her uncles here—family, not CEOs. Try to enjoy it. Maybe even…smile.”
I grin, pushing the last suitcase onto the trolley. “You never know, Alex. You might even have fun. Stranger things have happened.”
Alexander shoots me a flat look, but Marcus winks. I glance around at the vaulted beams, the wreaths hanging from every rail, the soft sound of piano from the lounge. The lodge is alive with laughter, clinking glasses, muffled boots on stone.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, muffling the world, turning the whole place into a snow globe you almost believe might keep you safe. For a weekend, at least.
I’m just about to ask if anyone else wants a drink when Alexander stops short, mouth tightening. “Damn it,” he mutters. “I left my black carry-on in the car.”
Marcus turns, deadpan. “The one with your backup chargers and three changes of clothes for a forty-eight-hour stay?”
Alexander shoots him a look. “It has my notes for Monday’s call, and yes, my chargers. I’ll need it.”
Marcus raises his hands in surrender. “Better you than me, Ty.”
The two of them actually share a smirk—Marcus and Alexander, united in the ancient sport of making the youngest do the grunt work.
“Yeah, yeah, I know my place,” I say, dry. “I’ll go get it, your highness.”
Alexander doesn’t even look up. “Thank you.”
Marcus calls after me, “Try not to get lost, little brother!”
I flash him a one-fingered salute over my shoulder and step back out into the cold, pulling my coat tight and muttering under my breath about big brothers and manual labor.
The snow has slowed, swirling softly around the parking area, the lights making everything shimmer. I jog across the crunchy, fresh powder, scanning for Alexander’s precious bag.
I’ve grabbed it and I’m heading back toward the front doors when I spot her.
At first, I think she’s just another guest, but then she steps under the pool of light by the entrance, suitcase trailing behind, coat wrapped close around her.
She’s…stunning. No, that isn’t even the word.
She’s radiant, her hair catching the lamplight in a spill of chestnut waves, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
Delicate but strong—like she grew up running through these woods, but could hold her own at any gala in Boston.
She’s young. Or at least, she looks much younger than me—maybe mid-twenties, skin luminous, eyes wide with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from long flights and longer days. There’s a stubborn set to her chin, something both familiar and brand-new.
I forget about the bag. I forget about the cold, the snow, my brothers inside probably making jokes at my expense. For a second, I just stand there, struck stupid, watching her. She glances up, catches my stare, and gives me this little uncertain smile that punches straight through my rib cage.
God. She’s beautiful.
I fumble for something to say, anything that doesn’t sound like I’m about to recite poetry or ask for an autograph. All I manage is, “Uh, hi. I’m Tyler. Need a hand with your bags?”
She looks me up and down, cheeks flushed, eyes sharp and a little wary—then she nods, almost businesslike.
“Yes, thank you. Could you please bring it inside and let the desk know I’m here for check-in?
Name’s Mia. And, uh, if you could hurry, that would be great.
My flight was late and I am—” She sighs, her shoulders slumping a little. “Running on fumes.”
For a second, I blink, trying to process. She thinks I’m staff. Actual hotel staff.
I stifle a laugh and reach for her suitcase, giving her my most professional nod. “Absolutely, ma’am. Anything else I can get you? Mulled wine? Hot towel?”
She misses the joke, too tired or too frazzled, just shakes her head. “Just the room, thanks.”
I can’t help grinning as I start wheeling her bag toward the door.
Before she can make a beeline for the counter, I clear my throat and ask, “So, what brings you up here this weekend? You here for the wedding?”
She glances over her shoulder, a little puzzled. “Obviously. I’m checking in.”
I lean in, lowering my voice in a way that makes her narrow her eyes at me, like she’s wondering if I’m about to upsell her a massage. “Just so you know, the whole inn is reserved for the wedding party this weekend. You sure you’re in the right place?”
Now she looks at me like I’m the slowest concierge in New England. “I’m well aware. My room should be under the group block.”
“Ah, group block.” I nod, trying to look as serious as she does. “Got it. We’re very exclusive here. Only the finest for our, uh, esteemed guests.”
For a split second, I think she’s going to catch on, but she just shrugs out of her coat and hands it to me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Thanks. I’ll need that back later.”
I take it, stunned, my hand suddenly full of soft wool and something that smells like vanilla and winter. All I can do is grin and shake my head.
I trail her into the warm glow of the lobby, still holding her suitcase in one hand and her coat draped over my other arm.
She heads straight for the front desk, cheeks still pink from the cold and the walk, and I can’t help but watch as she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear—determined, put-together, but just a little bit frazzled. Cute. Really cute.
The clerk, a college kid with a nervous smile, taps at the keyboard. “Uh, I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not finding your name under the wedding block. Are you sure you’re with the Wingham party?”
She leans in, exasperated. “Yes, I’m sure. There should be a reservation for me. Maybe it’s under another name? Amelia, maybe?”
He frowns, scrolling, fingers pecking the keys. “I’m not seeing anything—”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mutters under her breath. “Where is Mr. Beattie when you need him?”
I frown. Who’s Mr. Beattie?
She sighs again, giving the clerk a look that could curdle milk. “Are you new here?” she asks, bossy but not unkind, just someone used to getting things done.
The poor kid looks helpless. I watch, amusement curling in my chest. She really has no idea. I almost want to let it play out, just to see what she does next, but she turns to me, eyebrows raised in mild challenge.
“Are you sure you’re not new?” she asks, half to me, half to the clerk. “Because I definitely have a room.”
Before the kid can stammer out another apology, I step in, grinning. “She’s with me,” I say, nice and easy.
That gets her attention. She turns, looking me over again like she’s trying to decide if I’m secretly management or maybe just really confident staff. “You can do that?” she asks, brow furrowing. “Just—bring someone in?”
I’m about to explain, but right then, I hear a familiar sharp voice behind me. “Tyler, what are you doing?”
I cringe a little, the amusement dying as Alexander’s tone slices through the lobby.
Of course he’d pick now to swoop in. I turn and catch him giving me that CEO stare—equal parts annoyed and judgmental.
But before he scolds me, he glances at her—really looks at her.
For a beat, his gaze lingers a little too long, and something unreadable flickers across his face.