16. Casey
I wake slowly, the sun coming in through the window warm against my skin. I stretch, a quiet groan slipping out before I can stop it—and pause, waiting for the familiar pull that usually follows.
It doesn’t come.
I lie there for a second, still taking stock. Everything feels… lighter. No heavy drag pinning me down, no instinctive bracing before I even try to move.
The worst of it is over. I lift my head, listening for the familiar sounds of the Mancini family, but nothing comes.
Just… quiet.
For a few seconds, I stay exactly where I am, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, letting that register properly before anything else does.
The room is warm in that deep, but not too hot, way, allowing me to snuggle under the covers.
Soft morning light filters in through the tall windows across from the bed, catching on the pale timber beams overhead and the thick wool throw draped across the end of the bed.
It smells faintly of pine and something sweeter underneath it—clean linen, maybe, or whatever they use in this place instead of the overly perfumed hotel version of “fresh.” It reminds me of Letty.
I shift slightly, testing. There’s still a trace of it, of that ache in my body, but not anything that will stop me from getting up and about.
More of a reminder than a restriction, and for the first time in what feels like days, I don’t feel like I’m negotiating with my own body before I move. I feel like me again.
“Oh, thank God,” I murmur under my breath, dragging a hand over my face before pushing myself upright.
The movement doesn’t punish me for it.
That alone feels like a win.
I sit there for a second longer than I need to, letting that sink in, then swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, slower out of habit than necessity this time.
The floor is warm under my feet because, of course, they’d have underfloor heating here. I take a moment to stretch, cautiously at first, then a little more confidently when nothing immediately protests.
Better.
Enough that I can get a shower without it feeling like I’m climbing a mountain.
The lodge is quiet when I step out into the hallway; the bickering and laughter that usually comes with a Mancini gathering is absent.
When I reach the main living space, I find Isabella seated at the long kitchen island, sleeves pushed up, a mug in one hand, her phone abandoned somewhere nearby as she glances up the second she hears me.
“There she is,” she says, her smile immediate.
I take her in properly for the first time since walking in—dark hair slightly less controlled than usual, like she’s run her hands through it one too many times already today.
There’s something brighter about her, more energy sitting just under the surface like she’s halfway between a conversation and chasing down a story.
Even now, wrapped up in Mancini chaos and mountain air, she still has that same look about her—like she’s noticing everything, filing it away, already asking questions she hasn’t said out loud yet.
It’s ridiculous how much I’ve missed that.
Missed her.
“I was starting to wonder if we needed to send a search party.”
I laugh softly, leaning against the edge of the counter. “I didn’t realize I’d slept that long.”
“You needed it,” she replies easily, setting her mug down and moving toward one of the warming drawers built seamlessly into the cabinetry. “And before you say anything—no apologizing. You’re on vacation.”
“I was going to apologize,” I admit.
“I know,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a look that says she knows me far too well. “And I’m stopping you.”
I smile despite myself.
She pulls out a plate, steam curling up immediately—pancakes, bacon, something that smells warm and solid and exactly like the kind of food you want in a place like this. My appetite has been rubbish but it’s back with a vengeance now.
“Adriano set this aside for you before they left,” she adds, sliding it toward me.
I glance at Isabella in surprise, then back at the plate, my fingers tightening slightly around the edge of it. “Oh,” I say, softer than I intended. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“Adriano never does anything he doesn’t want to do. He did it because he wanted to take care of you,” she corrects lightly.
Of course he did. He’s been taking care of me for days, so I’m not sure why I’m so shocked.
I wrap my fingers around the plate, letting the warmth seep into my hands. “Where is everyone?”
“Your small shadow was very determined to go skiing,” Isabella says, leaning back against the counter. “So Nico, Adriano, and Matteo took her up the mountain before she staged a full rebellion.”
“That tracks.”
“Elena and Rossi went into town,” she continues. “Something about last-minute shopping and fresh air.”
“And you stayed behind?”
She lifts one shoulder slightly. “I was waiting for you.”
I blink at her, caught off guard for a second. “You didn’t have to do that. What about Nico?”
“What about him? He knows how important you are to me. He was happy to escape for some time with his brothers and give us time to catch up properly.”
I don’t comment on it, just nod, pick up a fork and take a bite before I can overthink anything else. It’s good—ridiculously good, actually—and I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until that first mouthful.
Isabella watches me for a second, something satisfied flickering across her face before she pushes off the counter.
“Finish that,” she says. “Then we’re going out.”
“Out?” I echo.
“To the ski lodge,” she clarifies. “Hot chocolate, comfortable seats, and a perfect view of the slopes so we can pretend we’re participating without actually doing any of the work.”
I smile, already nodding. “That sounds ideal.”
“I thought you might say that.”
The ski lodge is exactly what it promises to be.
Warmth hits like a blanket as we enter through the heavy wooden doors, followed quickly by the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the soft scrape of chairs against wooden floors.
Large windows line the far wall, giving a clear view of the slopes beyond, where figures move in sweeping lines across the snow, the brightness of it almost too much to look at directly.
It’s like every ski lodge I’ve ever seen in a movie.
I’ve never been to Colorado or even skied before.
Jasper hated the cold, so he only ever booked hot destinations when we went away.
We find a table near the window, tucked just far enough away from the main flow that it feels like a small pocket of space rather than part of the crowd.
We place our order for hot chocolate; Isabella’s laced with Irish Cream and mine with extra whip.
Much as I’d love to spike mine, alcohol so soon after a flare is unwise.
“This is nice, just being able to relax and people-watch.”
I turn to Isabella with a warm grin. “Do you remember how much gossip we picked up by doing this in the student bar?”
“Oh my God, that was how we discovered Jilly Sanders was sleeping with Corey Marshall behind her sister’s back.”
I slap my hand over my mouth, a laugh bubbling out. “Oh shit, yes. And that Trevor Martin was sleeping with his professor for grades.” I laugh a full belly laugh, the heavy weight that has been on my shoulders these last few weeks lifting. “Good times.”
Isabella smiles. “The best.”
By the time the hot chocolate arrives—thick, rich, topped with so much cream it drips down the side—I feel more like myself than I have in days.
“I’ve missed this version of you,” Isabella says, watching me over the rim of her cup.
I raise an eyebrow. “The version that can sit upright without looking like I’m about to collapse?”
“Exactly that one.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“But also the carefree one, the less guarded one.”
My smile dims at her words, not because I’m angry, but because I hate that I let a man change me. “I felt really bruised after finding out about Jasper’s lies. I just needed time to lick my wounds and heal a bit.”
“I get that. What he did to you is disgusting, and he should have his balls cut off.”
A laugh breaks free despite the topic not being one I want to discuss. “You’ve been hanging around with Nico too much.”
Isabella quirks a brow. “True story, but on this I actually agree with him.”
“Well, as nice as that sounds, you can put your blades away. I’m doing a lot better.”
“Good,” she replies lightly, but her gaze lingers for a second longer. “You look better.”
“I feel better,” I say, and this time I don’t have to think about it.
She nods once, satisfied, before leaning forward slightly, curiosity threading into her expression. “And?” she asks. “How was he?”
I blink. “How was who?”
“Adriano,” she says, like it’s obvious.
I let out a quiet breath, my gaze dropping briefly to the swirl of chocolate in my cup before I look back at her. “He was… a lot,” I admit.
“Casey,” she whines, “that tells me nothing. I want details. So spill it.”
“Fine,” I say, huffing out a small laugh. “He was—” I hesitate because I can feel how this sounds before I even say it.
“Go on,” she prompts.
“He was really wonderful,” I say finally, quieter now. “Like… annoyingly good. He didn’t leave me alone for more than five minutes, kept bringing me things I didn’t ask for, and wouldn’t take no for an answer even when I tried.”
Isabella’s mouth curves slowly. “That sounds like him.”
“It was exhausting,” I add, though there’s no real bite to it, “in a completely different way.”
“Because you’re not used to being looked after.”
“I don’t need to be looked after,” I say automatically.
Her expression doesn’t shift. “We all need it sometimes, Case,” she says.
I roll my eyes but ignore the comment. “He’s just more stubborn than I am.”
She laughs softly. “That’s a dangerous combination and, believe me, it’s a family trait he shares with his older brother.”
“You’re telling me. It’s a bad combo.”
“And?” she presses. “Was he nice about it?”