2. Cici
CICI
By the time I made it downstairs to Silver Pine Tavern, I had changed into jeans, a soft cream sweater, and done little more than run a brush through my hair before heading out.
The restaurant sat just off the lobby of the Aspen Grand, tucked behind a wall of glass and dark wood.
A massive stone fireplace took up most of one side of the room, throwing golden light over leather chairs, polished tables, and a bar that looked like it had been carved out of a very expensive tree.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow fell hard and steady.
I slid onto a stool at the bar and set my phone facedown beside me. The last thing I wanted was another update about grounded flights or the weather over Colorado.
I wanted to disconnect. I needed to disconnect.
The bartender, a pretty brunette with tired eyes and a messy knot of hair pinned at the back of her head, stopped in front of me with a napkin and a smile that looked practiced but kind.
“What can I get you?”
“A glass of Prosecco would be great.”
“Sure thing. Would you like to look at the menu?”
“Yes, please.”
Her smile became real. “Rough day?”
“No, actually, just settling into my unexpected schedule.”
She reached for a glass and scanned the room. “Some people accept it better than others.”
“This is true.”
She poured the Prosecco and placed it in front of me. I took a sip, letting the bubbles hit my tongue, and glanced over the menu.
She came back a few minutes later. “Decided?”
“A chicken Caesar salad sounds perfect.”
“Good choice. The kitchen is a little backed up but the salads have been coming out quickly.”
“Great, thanks.”
She reached for the menu but I stopped her. “I may want dessert.” I shrugged.
“Gotcha,” she chuckled.
The room was busy, but not chaotic. Hotel guests filled the tables near the windows.
Skiers in expensive sweaters laughed too loudly by the fireplace.
A couple argued quietly near the hostess stand with the grim focus of people who had been married long enough to know exactly which words would hurt.
I was deciding whether I had enough emotional strength to order fries with my salad when the air changed.
That sounded dramatic.
I hated that it was true.
I looked up at the same time the hostess smiled toward the entrance, and there he was.
Airport Guy.
Of course.
Because apparently the universe had decided being stranded was not entertaining enough on its own.
He walked into Silver Pine Tavern like he had never once wondered if he belonged somewhere.
Tall, broad, controlled. His dark hair was still neat, though he had changed out of the suit from earlier.
Now he wore dark jeans, a white button-down shirt open at the neck, and a light casual charcoal jacket that somehow made him look less formal and more dangerous.
Not dangerous in a murdery way.
Dangerous in the way that made smart women forget they were smart.
What were the chances that the Airport Guy picked this hotel?
In Aspen during a storm?
Obviously, annoyingly high.
I looked down at the menu, focusing on the words in front of me. I knew he had already seen me. I felt it the same second his gaze found mine. A little jolt. A tiny spark of awareness I had no business feeling for a man I had already decided was arrogant.
Gorgeous, yes.
Magnetic, unfortunately.
But arrogant.
I knew his type. Men like him were used to people making room for them. Used to heads turning. Used to women smiling before they had earned it.
I kept my eyes on the appetizers.
There were truffle fries.
Damn, truffle fries were a weakness of mine.
A shadow fell across the bar beside me.
“Passing through?” he asked.
I looked up.
He stood one stool away, one hand resting on the back of it, his expression calm enough to be irritating. Close up, he was even better looking than he had been in the terminal, which felt unfair and possibly illegal.
“I was,” I said. “Then the weather developed abandonment issues.”
His mouth twitched. “That bad?”
“I’m drinking Prosecco alone at a hotel bar and pretending I meant to be here.”
“That sounds like a strategy.”
“It’s a survival skill.”
“Is this seat taken?”
I glanced at the empty stool, then back at him. “That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you are going to talk about flight delays.”
“I would rather discuss almost anything else.”
“Acceptable.”
He sat down, leaving one empty stool between us. I noticed that. He did not crowd me. He did not lean in too close or assume we were already sharing a moment.
Maybe he had manners.
That was inconvenient.
The bartender came back with a fresh napkin for him. “What can I get you?”
“Bourbon. Neat. Whatever you recommend.”
“Long day?” she asked.
He looked at me for half a second. “Unexpected one.”
The bartender smiled and walked away.
I took another sip of Prosecco and pretended the low sound of his voice did not settle somewhere under my skin.
He turned slightly toward me. “Todd.”
Right, I remember.
He looked like someone who owned things.
Hotels. Companies. The emotional stability of women with poor judgment.
“Cici,” I said.
His gaze flicked over my face, not in a creepy way. More like he was paying attention.
“Cici. Yes, I know.”
He continued to stare, like he was contemplating something.
“I am deciding if it suits you.”
“And?”
“It does.”
I should have rolled my eyes.
I almost did.
Instead, I looked back at the menu because my cheeks had gotten warm, and I had no interest in him knowing that.
The bartender returned with his bourbon and set it in front of him. “Kitchen is running about twenty minutes behind.”
“That’s fine,” Todd said.
“You eating?”
He picked up the menu. “I am now.”
I hid my smile behind my glass.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“You walked in looking like a man who had a dinner reservation somewhere with white tablecloths and a waiter named Pierre.”
His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Pierre?”
“Yes. Or Jean-Luc. Someone who says reductions and foam with a straight face.”
“I have never trusted foam.”
That startled a laugh out of me.
He looked pleased, which annoyed me because I had not meant to reward him.
The bartender came back for his order. He chose a steak sandwich and the truffle fries I had been trying to avoid.
When she left, he glanced at my menu. “You ordered a salad, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“You regret it.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You looked at those fries with a longing expression.”
“They are fried potatoes covered in truffle oil. So yeah, I guess I did.”
“I’ll share.”
“I didn’t ask you to share.”
“I know.”
I studied him for a moment. “Do you always get your way?”
His expression shifted slightly, the humor still there but softer around the edges. “Not today.”
Outside, wind pushed snow against the windows in thick white sheets. The fire cracked behind us. Somewhere near the entrance, a man in a vest was explaining to the hostess that he had status, as if that could intimidate a blizzard.
Todd followed my gaze. “Think that will work?”
“With the hostess or the storm?”
“Either.”
“No. But I admire his commitment to being the problem.”
Todd laughed under his breath.
I liked the sound.
I did not want to like the sound.
I took a larger sip of Prosecco.
His food came before mine, which somehow seemed perfectly on brand. The bartender set his steak sandwich and fries in front of him, then nodded toward the kitchen.
“Your salad is coming right out,” she told me. “I promise.”
“I’m fine.”
Todd pushed the fries between us.
I looked at the basket. “You are very confident.”
“I am sharing.”
“You are bribing.”
“With potatoes?”
“Men have done worse with less.”
His eyes warmed. “That sounds like a story.”
“Yes, several actually.”
“I am not sure whether to be impressed or concerned.”
“Both are appropriate.”
He smiled, and I took one fry because I had dignity but not enough to refuse fried potatoes.
For the next twenty minutes, we talked about nothing important.
Nothing revealing.
Nothing that should have mattered.
We talked about airports and bad hotel coffee.
He claimed airport sushi should be illegal in several states.
I told him anyone who bought a neck pillow shaped like an animal deserved what happened next.
He said he had once seen a grown man bring a full-sized desktop computer through security.
I told him I had seen a woman try to board with a sourdough starter named Kevin.
Todd laughed so hard he lowered his head for a second.
That was the first moment I forgot to be careful with him.
Because he did not laugh like a man performing charm. He laughed like the story had caught him off guard, and for one small second, the polished control slipped.
I liked that too.
Which was becoming a problem.
My salad arrived, and Todd did not make a single joke about my virtuous dinner while I kept stealing his fries. That alone set him above several men I had dated.
The bartender moved up and down the bar, refilling drinks and answering the same questions about road closures and room service wait times. At the far end, another woman in a black server apron leaned close to her, speaking quietly while she folded napkins.
The brunette bartender shook her head.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said, her voice low enough that she probably thought no one could hear over the crowd. “The mechanic said twelve hundred just to get the transmission done, and that’s if nothing else is wrong.”
The other woman winced. “Will they give you time to come up with the money?”
“I’m not sure, I guess it doesn’t really matter. I need the car. I can’t keep borrowing my sister’s. She has kids.”
Todd did not look over.
He kept his attention on his plate, cutting his sandwich in half with the same quiet control he seemed to bring to everything. If he heard them, he gave no sign of it.
I heard them.
I also saw his hand still for half a second before he picked up his glass.
Interesting.
The women moved farther down the bar, and the conversation disappeared beneath the noise of the restaurant.
I looked at Todd. “You got quiet.”