2. Mount Never-Should-Have-Come-Here
Chapter 2
Mount Never-Should-Have-Come-Here
Tessa
T he bellhop swung open the door to my suite, and I immediately understood why the front desk clerk had offered to change my room. This wasn’t merely a honeymoon suite; this was like Cupid had projectile-vomited all over a luxury apartment.
“Your bags, Ms. Callahan.” He set them by a heart-shaped monstrosity masquerading as a bed. The website had shown a normal, king-sized, bed. This... this looked like something out of a 1970s romance movie, complete with pink satin bedding that probably made swishy sounds when you moved.
I tipped him generously because anyone who had to deliver luggage to this love shrine deserved hazard pay and waited until the door clicked shut before letting out a long sigh.
At least there weren’t any mirrors on the ceiling. I looked up to make sure.
The add-ons I’d ordered almost a year ago were dutifully arranged on a small table: a bottle of champagne in a bucket of mostly melted ice, chocolate-covered strawberries on a heart-shaped plate, and rose petals scattered everywhere. The cleaning staff was going to hate me.
Ignoring all of it, I made my way to the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated the far wall. A glass door led to a private balcony, and beyond that... my breath caught.
The view was spectacular. Snow fell softly against the backdrop of mountains, their peaks disappearing into low-hanging clouds. The lake below reflected the last rays of sunlight, creating an otherworldly glow that made my chest tight. It was the kind of view that reminded you how small you were in the grand scheme of things.
I pressed my hand against the cold glass. Declan wouldn’t have appreciated this anyway. He would have been too busy checking his phone, making sure the carefully planned schedule wasn’t disrupted by something as inconvenient as natural beauty.
“We don’t share the same vision for the future, Tessa.” His words echoed in my head, delivered with a patience he used with difficult clients. “You’re talking about opening a restaurant. That’s not the life we planned.”
No, it wasn’t the life he had planned. Somewhere between being his personal chef and planning dinner parties for his clients, I’d lost sight of my own dreams. Or I’d gotten really good at ignoring them.
My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since the sad airport sandwich six hours ago. The champagne caught my eye, and well, why not?
I poured myself a glass, grimacing at the tepid temperature. “Here’s to sharing no one’s vision but my own,” I toasted to the mountains, taking a sip of the underwhelming alcohol.
Grabbing a chocolate-covered strawberry, I bit into it and immediately regretted my decision. The chocolate had that distinct burnt taste that came from being heated for too long, and the strawberry itself was somehow both mushy and hard.
I spluttered, looking for somewhere to spit it out that wasn’t the pristine carpet. I ended up racing to the bathroom, which had rose petals in the jacuzzi tub and was surrounded by electric candles.
“Seriously?” I asked my reflection in the mirror after disposing of the offensive strawberry. “Who enjoys this?”
My reflection had no answer, but my stomach growled again, more insistently this time. Right. Real food. That was what I needed. Not burnt chocolate, not room-temperature champagne, and definitely not a pity party in a room that looked like Valentine’s Day threw up in it.
I pulled out my phone to order room service, but the lack of cell service mocked me once again. The landline caught my eye, but the thought of talking to another human being right now felt like too much effort. Besides, I’d already humiliated myself enough for one day.
The minibar beckoned like a beacon of processed-food salvation. I grabbed everything that looked remotely filling: a bag of mixed nuts, some fancy potato chips, a chocolate bar, and a stick of jerky that was grass fed. My stomach wasn’t picky at this point.
I sat in a chair by the window, staring out as the snow fell, enjoying my fancy dinner. It was quite tasty, and I devoured everything in record time.
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I started filling the tub, determined to at least end this day warm and clean. My eyes landed on the minibar menu propped innocently against a display of aromatherapy bath salts. Who the hell puts the minibar menu in the bathroom next to the tub?
“Twenty dollars for nuts ?” I screeched, snatching up the menu. “Eight dollars for a candy bar ?”
I’d just eaten forty dollars’ worth of snacks. Forty. Dollars. That was like... four normal bags of nuts. Or two actual meals. Or one really nice bottle of wine that I desperately needed right now.
I hit the button for the jets in the tub. Nothing happened. I pressed it again, harder this time, as if sheer force would make it work. Still nothing. I jabbed at it repeatedly, giving all my frustration to the useless button. “Come. On. You. Overpriced. Piece. Of?—”
That’s when I caught sight of myself in the mirror and froze. There, on the back of my jeans, was a massive muddy streak from my earlier tumble. It looked exactly like I’d had an unfortunate accident while trying to scale Mount Never-Should-Have-Come-Here.
“No,” I whispered, horrified. “No, no, no.”
The events of the evening replayed in my mind: Archer helping me with my bags, Archer walking behind me into the lobby, Archer’s expensive-looking SUV with its pristine leather seats that I’d sat on for a good three minutes.
I slid down the wall to sit on the floor, which was probably covered in overpriced rose petals that would now be stuck to my mud-stained butt. “He thought I pooped my pants. The hot guy thought I POOPED MY PANTS.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. Because really, what was a little pants-pooping assumption between strangers? Especially when said stranger ran a resort with canceled shuttles, heart-shaped beds, and jacuzzi tubs that were fancy bathtubs with delusions of grandeur.
“You know what?” I stood up, pointing accusingly at the jet button. “You deserve that mud stain on your fancy car seat, Mr. Archer Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is. You and your stupid broken jets and your forty-dollar snacks and your chocolate-covered lies masquerading as strawberries.”
The tub was full now, steam rising invitingly despite its jet-less state. I stripped off my mud-stained clothes, making a mental note to burn the jeans at the first opportunity.
As I sank into the hot water, I consoled myself with one thought: at least I’d never have to see Archer again. How often did the management interact with guests anyway?
The universe, I was sure, was already laughing at that assumption.
I woke up feeling surprisingly optimistic, considering I was cocooned in pink satin sheets that made me feel like a discount Barbie. The sun streaming through the windows painted the mountains in shades of gold and pink, making even the heart-shaped bed seem less tragic in the morning light.
I stretched my arms above my head, ready to try again. New day, new attitude, new... everything.
I dressed appropriately this time, pulling on thick leggings, a chunky sweater, and my snow boots. The sweater was one of my favorites, a cozy oatmeal-colored number that made me feel like I belonged in a cabin somewhere, sipping hot chocolate and living my best Hallmark movie life. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t too far off from my current situation, minus the picture-perfect romance.
No more prancing around in impractical outfits like some lost city girl who thought mountain life was an Instagram aesthetic. In my defense, it had been seventy degrees in San Diego when I began my journey.
My stomach growled, and I had never been so excited for breakfast. The website had raved about their award-winning locally sourced ingredients, and I couldn’t wait for my taste buds to be pampered.
As I headed downstairs, I considered stopping at the front desk first, but getting some coffee and food was at the top of my list. Complaining about the room and lack of shuttle could wait until I was in a more agreeable mood.
The dining room was... quaint? This wasn’t what was shown in the pictures… I mean, it was . It was the same space with large windows overlooking the landscape, but the tables were bare except for paper placemats and basic silverware wrapped in napkins. No tablecloths, no fresh flowers, not even a sad little candle.
“Just one?” the hostess asked, already grabbing a menu.
I nodded, trying not to look disappointed. The menu was a single sheet of printer paper with what looked like Comic Sans font. My inner food snob died a little.
“Your server will be right with you.” She left me to contemplate my severely limited breakfast options. Where were the eggs Benedict? The French toast?
When my food arrived, I stared at it in disbelief. The eggs had that tell-tale grainy texture that screamed, “I came from a box!” The bacon was uniformly straight and the kind that comes pre-cooked and only requires reheating in the microwave. The hash browns were those frozen patties fast-food restaurants served, and the toast... oh, the toast. It looked like it had gotten into a fight with the toaster and lost.
“Is everything okay?” The server had returned after ten minutes of me picking at my food.
“Fine,” I lied, because it wasn’t his fault the kitchen apparently thought they were feeding a prison camp instead of resort guests.
I pulled out my phone, connected to the resort’s WiFi, and pulled up their website. My jaw dropped. The entire restaurant section was “Under Construction” with a note about “exciting changes coming soon.”
“Changes like learning how to cook an egg?” I muttered, pushing the rubbery mess around my plate.
This was not the resort I’d booked a year ago. That resort had a renowned chef, a menu that made my mouth water when reading it, and no heart-shaped furniture. What happened to this place?
I flagged down my server. “Excuse me, but has the restaurant always been... like this?”
He glanced around nervously before leaning in. “No, ma’am. Everything changed when the old owner passed away. His friends inherited the place and, well...” He straightened up, plastering on a smile as someone walked past. “Would you like more coffee?”
That explained some things. But it didn’t explain why I was paying luxury resort prices for food that would make a gas station convenience store blush.
“Yes, please.” At least the coffee was good.
Once I was done eating what I could manage to, I left a tip and headed into the lobby. I approached the front desk, where a man with the kind of stubble that looked effortlessly perfect was typing away at the computer. His name tag read “Evan” and when he looked up, I was struck by how many absurdly attractive men this resort employed.
“Good morning. How can I help you?” His smile was warm and genuine, a stark contrast to Archer’s controlled politeness from yesterday.
“Hi, yes, I’m in the honeymoon suite, and I have some... concerns.” I tried to channel my inner Karen, minus the haircut and attitude. “First, the minibar prices weren’t posted anywhere near the minibar, which led to a very expensive shock when I stress-ate last night.”
“You’re absolutely right. I’ll credit your room for the minibar mishap.” He grabbed a notepad and started writing. “Anything else?”
“The jets in the tub don’t work, which was disappointing after my adventure getting here yesterday.” I paused, biting my lip. Was I turning into a Karen? No… I paid good money for this resort based on what was presented on their website and reviews. “Also, who designed the room? Because I feel like I’m living in a Valentine’s Day card that exploded. That’s not what was pictured on the website when I booked… and it still isn’t pictured there.”
His pen stopped moving, and was that a blush creeping up his cheeks? “The décor isn’t to your taste?”
“If Cupid and a disco ball had a baby, it would be less sparkly than my room. I was expecting this….” I gestured vaguely upward at the lobby’s tasteful crown molding and upscale lodge look. “Not like someone raided every clearance bin at Walmart the day after February 14th and just... went for it.”
Evan cleared his throat but looked like he was fighting a smile. “We were going for... romantic.”
“You went right past romantic and landed somewhere between ‘Vegas chapel’ and ‘teenage girl’s first Pinterest board.’” I leaned in and lowered my voice, bracing my hands on the polished counter. “I was honestly surprised there wasn’t a mirror above the bed.” A memory of the one time I’d stayed in Las Vegas with my ex flashed through my mind, and I shuddered. “Though given the general aesthetic, it probably would’ve been heart-shaped and trimmed with LED lights that change color to music.”
Now he was definitely blushing. “I’ll add interior design to the list.”
“Oh, and is there any way to get cell service up here?” I was perfectly fine without my phone, but with the way things had been going, I’d probably need it when out and about.
“Only Mountain Mobile works up here, but we can set you up with an eSIM that’ll work with their network.”
“Perfect, I’ll?—”
“Ms. Callahan.”
I jumped at Archer’s voice behind me, nearly knocking over a display of resort brochures on the counter. He’d appeared like a corporate sorcerer, wearing an impeccably tailored suit that was at least a week’s salary.
The temperature in the lobby seemed to drop ten degrees as Archer and Evan exchanged looks that could only be described as Arctic.
“I wanted to inform you that we’ve retrieved your vehicle from the snow.” Archer’s tone was professional, but he sounded absolutely bored that this was his life. “And maintenance successfully recovered your... personal item from the tree.”
Evan’s eyebrows shot up. “Personal item?”
“It’s not—I mean, it was—” My face was burning with embarrassment. “Speaking of yesterday, you probably saw the mud stain on my pants when I fell, which wasn’t my finest moment, obviously, but in my defense, those ballet flats were basically ice skates, and gravity is really more of a suggestion when you’re sliding down a hill. And did you know that pants actually attract dirt? And that dirt might have appeared to look like I had an incontinence issue? Because I didn’t until yesterday, and now I have this piece of useless knowledge along with ruined clothes and the mental image of my underwear flying through the air like a lingerie flag. And oh my God, why am I still talking?”
Both men stared at me in stunned silence, and for one glorious moment, I wished I had the superpower to melt through the floor. Maybe I could start a new league—the Perpetually Embarrassed Avengers. PEA for short. Our nemesis would be small talk and social grace.
Evan recovered first, his lips turning up into a grin. “Your underwear did what now?” He leaned forward on his elbows, looking far too delighted by my verbal vomit, while Archer maintained the kind of carefully blank expression that suggested he was either plotting world domination or seriously reconsidering having come to work today.
“I’m going to go die of embarrassment in my disco ball room.” I backed away from the desk since melting into the ground wasn’t working. “Thanks for the help. I’m leaving now. Forever, probably.”
And with that, I practically ran to the elevators in a strategic retreat. Because that’s what it was, a strategic retreat, not me fleeing in mortification after announcing to both gorgeous men that the day before, my ass had looked like I’d had a major diaper blowout.
At least the elevator doors opened immediately, as if sensing my desperate need to disappear. Small mercies.