2. Cici #2
“I was giving serious thought to ordering dessert.”
“You do not look like a dessert man.”
“What does a dessert man look like?”
“More cheerful.”
“That’s fair.”
“You have a very serious face.”
“I have been told.”
“By frightened employees?”
His eyes met mine. “Among others.”
There it was again. That hint of something bigger behind him. A life I knew nothing about. A world I had no business wondering about.
I did not ask.
He did not offer.
That suited me just fine.
The whole point of being stranded was that real life was paused. No schedules. No pressure.
Just a hotel bar, a snowstorm, and a man who looked at me like I was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
That kind of attention could make a woman reckless.
I was trying very hard not to be that woman.
The bill came after we split a flourless chocolate cake that Todd absolutely pretended not to want. He took one bite, paused, then reached for the fork again.
I pointed at him. “Dessert man.”
“I am reevaluating my position.”
“That’s personal growth.”
“I have been inspired.”
“By cake?”
“Among other things.”
The way he said it made my pulse trip.
The bartender set the leather check folder between us. Todd reached for it before I could.
“No,” I said.
He looked at me. “No?”
“I can pay for my own dinner.”
“I invited myself into your evening.”
“I allowed it.”
“Generously.”
“Accurately.”
His mouth curved. “Then allow me to pay.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
Simple. Direct. Not smug.
I held his gaze for one beat too long, then leaned back. “Fine. But only because you shared fries.”
“That seems fair.”
He slid a card into the folder and handed it to the bartender when she passed. A few minutes later, she returned with the receipt.
“Thank you,” he said.
“No rush,” she told him before hurrying toward the group of newcomers at the other end of the bar..
Todd signed the receipt. Then, with no drama, he took cash from his wallet and tucked it beneath the edge of the folder.
A lot of cash.
I saw enough to know it was not normal tip money.
He closed the folder, placed it near the inside edge of the bar, and stood.
“Ready?” he asked.
I looked from him to the check folder.
He acted like he had done nothing.
That was the part that got me.
Not the money, though that was impressive. Not the amount, though unless I was wrong, he had left enough to fix a transmission and then some.
It was the fact that he did not wait for the bartender to notice.
He did not want applause.
He did not want gratitude.
He just fixed a problem he had no obligation to fix and turned back to me like he had only paid for dinner.
My opinion of him shifted so fast I almost felt the ground move.
Airport Guy was still gorgeous.
Still controlled.
Still magnetic in a way that made my survival instincts question their own usefulness.
Maybe he wasn’t arrogant.
Maybe he was something worse.
Kind.
Quietly kind.
The dangerous kind of man did not brag about goodness.
He let you discover it.
I slid off the stool and grabbed my small purse. “You know she’s going to find that.”
“I assume so.”
“You heard her.”
His gaze stayed on mine. “So did you.”
“That is a lot of money.”
“She could use it.”
The answer should have sounded dismissive.
It didn’t.
It sounded honest.
I swallowed, suddenly unsure what to do with the softer feeling moving through me. The bartender returned to our spot at the bar and flipped open the folder. She froze.
Todd placed his hand lightly against my lower back, not pushing, barely touching. “We should go.”
I glanced back.
The bartender looked up, eyes wide, searching.
Todd guided me toward the exit before she could call out.
I should have said something clever.
Instead, I followed him.
The lobby felt cooler than the restaurant. Quieter too. Snow swirled beyond the glass entrance doors, and the storm had turned the world outside into a blur of white and shadow.
We walked toward the elevators without speaking.
His hand dropped away from my back once we cleared the restaurant. I felt the absence immediately, which was ridiculous. It had been a light touch through a sweater, not a life event.
The elevator doors opened.
We stepped inside.
A family hurried toward us from across the lobby, but the doors closed before they reached us, sealing Todd and me into a small mirrored box with noticeably cooler air.
I pressed number three. He pressed eight. I half-smiled, then stared at the glowing floor numbers.
He stood beside me, close enough that I felt the warmth of him but not close enough to accuse him of anything.
That was somehow worse.
“You did not have to do that,” I said.
“No.”
“She’ll probably cry.”
“I hope not.”
That made me look at him. “You hope not?”
“I would rather she just fix her car.”
There it was again.
No performance.
No speech.
Just the thing itself.
The elevator climbed.
The air between us tightened.
I looked forward again because looking at him was becoming a terrible idea. The mirrored doors reflected us together, and that was worse. He looked too composed. I looked like a woman trying to remember every responsible choice she had ever made.
The elevator stopped on my floor.
The doors opened.
Neither of us moved for a second.
That was the kind of moment a smarter woman would end with a polite goodnight and a firm step into the hallway.
I was smart.
Usually.
“This is me,” I said.
Todd nodded. “I know.”
I turned toward him. “You know?”
“You pressed three.”
“Observant.”
“Occasionally.”
I should have walked out.
Instead, I stood there while the doors started to close. Todd reached out and stopped them with one hand.
My pulse jumped.
He looked down at me, and for once, his expression was not unreadable.
It was careful.
“The hotel left a bottle of champagne in my suite,” he said. “Seems a shame to let it go to waste.”
Heat moved through me slowly, then all at once.
“Is that your way of inviting me upstairs?”
“No.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”
His gaze held mine.
“My way of asking for another hour.”
Oh.
That was much, much worse.
Because I could have rejected an invitation. I could have laughed off a line. I could have rolled my eyes at a man who thought champagne was a personality trait.
But another hour?
Another hour sounded harmless.
Another hour sounded like conversation and bubbles and snow outside the windows.
Another hour sounded like the exact lie women told themselves right before making decisions they would remember in vivid detail for the rest of their lives.
I looked down the hallway toward my room.
Safe choice.
Then I looked back at Todd.
Not safe.
Not even close.
“One hour,” I said.
His mouth softened into something that was not quite a smile. “One hour.”
The elevator doors closed.
His suite was on the top floor.
I said nothing about that.
I also said nothing about the way the hallway got quieter as we walked. Or the way every step seemed to pull me farther from the practical version of myself and closer to the woman who had stolen fries from a stranger and laughed too much over cake.
Todd unlocked the door and stepped aside to let me enter first.
The suite was ridiculous in the understated way rich hotels preferred.
Not flashy. Not gold faucets and velvet curtains.
Just space. A sitting area with a low fire already burning.
A wall of windows overlooking a storm-dark mountain.
A dining table set with a silver ice bucket and a bottle of champagne the hotel must have sent up before the world shut down.
I walked in slowly. “This is subtle.”
Todd closed the door behind us. “Aspen does not believe in subtlety.”
“Fair point.”
“Would you like champagne?”
“I came up here for another hour.”
His eyes met mine. “So did I.”
That answer did something to my breathing.
He removed the bottle from the bucket and worked the cork loose without making a show of it. It opened with a soft pop instead of a dramatic one, which I appreciated. I had never trusted men who turned champagne into a performance.
He poured two glasses and handed one to me.
I took it. “To grounded flights.”
“To unexpected evenings.”
We touched glasses.