by Dani Collins
Serge circled to show the equipment shed had taken the brunt of the avalanche along with the crumpled heap that Rolf thought was likely the former operations lodge. Judging by the mounds, there was still a debris field in what had likely been the public parking lot for the ski hill.
“There’s the lodge,” Serge said. A snow-covered roof appeared as he followed another wide, overgrown track. The trail had once connected the lodge to the base of the hill. It was wide enough for two lanes of vehicles, but would have made it possible for guests to ski from the lodge down to the lifts. They could ski all day, then follow a run from the top of the lift back to their accommodation when they were tired.
The three-story structure of yellowed stucco and thick brown beams overlooked a frozen pond. A handful of men stood next to their parked snowmobiles off to the side, near a snow-covered skeleton of a burned-out A-frame—old staff quarters, maybe. He assumed one of the men was the mayor. The rest must have come to help clear the landing site.
The snow was still dry enough the chopper blades kicked up a cloud as Serge set them down. The flakes caught the sun in glints and sparkles, then settled to reveal the front façade of Blue Spruce Lodge.
Health inspectors had condemned it for commercial use, but engineers had deemed it structurally sound despite a few identified leaks and other spots of disrepair. Floors would have to be stripped and the electrical needed upgrading along with gas and plumbing, but it had a solid foundation and the original timbers were massive. It was not only salvageable, it was also well-situated and retained its potential.
Nevertheless, when Trigg had first come to him with the idea of bringing this resort back to life, Rolf had been most turned off by the lodge. He was an A-type control freak. He could easily hire someone to take on the lodge within the scope of his own project, maintaining the helm on this as well as the rest, but the costs and headaches of refurbishing the lodge had been more minutiae than he was willing to deal with.
Deciding colors of drapes and looking at curlicue handles, hiring innumerable staff and negotiating with suppliers over the price of sugar made him twitch just thinking about it. As for running it? Hell, no. At least if he was talking to someone wanting to ski, they spoke the same language. Catering to spoiled strangers—the kind used to getting the best because they paid for it, which was the clientele he intended to court—was beyond him.
So he’d left it to Trigg to negotiate that side of the deal, partly to keep the kid busy. Renovating this behemoth was going to be an arduous, expensive task, though, and he wondered again if the Cormers were up to it.
Serge shut down and unbuckled, pushing through the passenger cabin to the back where he opened the door and exited to tie down.
Rolf unbuckled and took off his ear muffs, twisting in his seat in time to see the Cormer woman rise to her knees on her seat. She glared toward the back of the helicopter where her father sat.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” She snapped her head around to pierce Rolf with eyes that were icy blue-green slits. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Three
Glory knew she was setting women back decades, behaving in a way that made men accuse females of being emotional, shrill, and shrewish.
Fuck you, Bill Shakespeare. Every woman being steamrollered by a man was entitled to speak her mind as loudly as required to be heard.
Trigg, the shit, choked on a laugh and flowed out of the helicopter like sewage. Her father cast her a hurt, disapproving frown, then scurried after him. The legal team made like a tree and so did Nate, after one bitches-be-crazy lift of his brow.
That left her with Rolf. He emerged from the cockpit and set his forearm on the top of the door. Judging by his hard-as-mahogany gaze, he hadn’t taken kindly to her snippy tone. He didn’t say, ‘Yes?’ Didn’t say anything. Just stared her down, kicking a streak of lightning through her middle.
Shit. Whatever passed for a spine between her shoulder blades started to wither. He was really freaking scary. And really close. His jacket was open, revealing a pullover that clung to his muscled chest so her eyes were basically a foot and a half from his pecs. He took his workouts seriously, not giving it fifteen minutes and a ‘good enough’ attitude like she did. She could smell wool and aftershave and manly man. High-grade testosterone, maybe. The kind that came in a really fancy bottle.
Damn. He was, like, really solid and sexy and perfect.
“Done?” Infinite boredom infused his tone.
Now her lips felt numb and she was starting to blush again, struggling to meet his eyes. Dark brown eyes that were painfully indifferent. Not empathetic or concerned that she was upset or even aware she had breasts and a uterus. She was nothing to him and he was taking pains to let her know that.
“No.” She clawed herself together. “The deal is off.”
No reaction, not even a pulse of muscle in his jaw. Not even a blink. Then, he twitched a shoulder. In his very crisp and dry hint of accent he said, “Fine. Call a taxi.” He started to leave.
“Very funny.” She couldn’t help skipping her gaze to the window where there was nothing but winter wilderness. “You’re taking advantage of my father.”
He turned back nice and slow, eyes narrowed, letting her know in no uncertain terms that didn’t care for the suggestion he’d cheated. “How?”
Fuck, he was intimidating. Defensive ire built up, choking off her voice and scrambling her thoughts. “I don’t know! But it’s obvious—”
“Get the facts before you pick a fight.” He walked out.
Prick.
Stinging, she shouldered her bag and rushed out to find the pilot was setting up a table with coffee, boxed lunches, and champagne. She definitely didn’t need any more alcohol, but she would get some of that coffee as soon as she’d ripped into her dad.
Torsten was coming back from what looked like an outhouse. Verner was going through a sheaf of papers with her father. Rolf, Trigg, and Nate met a man who’d waved from the ground as they landed. They all took off toward the side of the lodge.
“…this is the confirmation of assessed value and the lease agreement for the land…” she heard Verner saying as she came even with her father.
“Lease?” Folding her arms, she glared at her father.
Verner hurried to finish, cleared his throat and said, “I’m going to try the coffee,” like it was some kind of exotic treat.
Glory barely waited until he was out of earshot. “You don’t get title on the land?”
“That has to do with the land usage agreement they have with the adjacent park. It’s a very nominal rate until we’re officially open. I get first crack at future building sites.”
“To build what? With what money?”
“Where is your faith? This is going to be a huge success, Glory.” He tucked his chin and wiggled his eyebrows to where Rolf and the other men had disappeared. “You’ve met the man. Do you honestly think he’s going to fail at anything?”
“No. I don’t. That’s why I’m sure he’s found a sucker in you and will take your shirt along with mine.”
“I’m insulted. For me and Trigg. He’s been nothing but fair. Look, they’re charging less than the assessed value for the lodge.” Her father showed her a figure that made her want to throw up.
“That’s a really big mortgage.” She grabbed at the papers to double-check.
“It’s seventy rooms. Look at it, Glory.” He gazed at it like the building was a majestic sunset.
No amount of soft, golden light was going to help that eyesore, though. The windows in the front doors were tinted late-seventies yellow, for God’s sake, and were leaded in a very dated, diamond pattern. She had to admit there was some storybook charm in the shape of those big front doors, rounded like something off a cuckoo clock. The rest of the building, with its gingerbread shutters, gables, and big, exposed beams, had a sturdy, Bavarian feel. Each room seemed to let onto the balcony that encircled the building and she could already picture geraniums decorati
ng the rail in the summer.
In another life, she would have seen possibilities, but ugh. It was the kind of place real estate agents said possessed ‘nostalgic touches,’ when they really meant ‘such a money pit, it’s cheaper to start a drug habit.’
“At least wait until you’ve seen inside before making snap judgments. Trigg said the mayor was bringing the keys—ah, that must be him.”
She turned and saw a man in a snowsuit tramping toward them with Trigg.
Introductions happened. Stanley something. She didn’t pay attention. She was too busy biting her tongue, listening for actual facts so she could put up a proper fight. At the same time, she could see there was no use talking to Trigg. He had the same starry look in his eyes that her father wore.
“It’s great, isn’t it, Marv?”
She was starting to think they’d dropped peyote together, they were both so blinded by some imaginary vision she was completely missing.
Trigg went to grab a coffee and the mayor gave her father a sheepish grin. “You don’t actually need keys. Some of the local clubs occasionally use it.”
Oh, terrific.
“As caretakers,” Stanley hurried to add. “Better to keep it up than let kids or animals get in there, right? That’s why we dug the outhouse.”
So considerate.
Her father took another moment to gaze on it with admiration.
Glory gritted her teeth and grumpily started into the lodge.
Her first impression was a dim glow of yellow over dark mahogany and a carpet so old and dirty, the original color or pattern wasn’t worth trying to identify. It smelled musty beneath the layer of chill, and vaguely of smoke and stale beer. The ‘caretakers’ had swept debris into piles in the corners and gathered trash into bags, but fifteen years of dust coated the reception desk.
There was a ghost-town atmosphere, with some of the original furniture still in place around the lobby’s big fireplace. Other items had been moved around and were looking chewed up and worn. A pile of abandoned upholstery suggested some furniture had been knocked apart and used to start fires. The generic art on the walls was also picked over, some hanging crooked, some thickly coated with dusty grime. Other spaces were glaringly empty, also used for kindling perhaps.
The fireplace was open on both sides. French doors stood on either side of it, all of their glass panels systematically smashed. She walked through a pair into the lounge that might have once had a patio off the back, but the deck had fallen off the end of the building and the doors were nailed shut.
Her father tried a light switch.
“All the utilities were turned off when the hill shut,” Stanley said. “I’ve already talked to the cooperative about restoring power. They’ll have to put in some temporary poles. Good news is, it has its own water. Or will, once the treatment plant is recommissioned. Gas is another story. Town hall has been fielding calls from tradespeople from all over, asking how to apply for work. I can’t tell you what having good jobs returning to this area means to Haven. A lot of husbands work away, or picked up their families and left altogether.”
Glory didn’t want to hear how their taking on this project could save a small town, not that she had much chance of stopping her father at this point. There had been an element in her parents’ marriage of indulging her mother, especially in the years since her diagnosis. Her father had made sacrifices including taking tenure purely to pay the bills, before her mother’s career took off. Glory couldn’t blame him for wanting to finally pursue his own goals. After devoting herself to helping her mother for several years, she felt obliged to help him in the same way.
This, though? It struck financial terror in her heart.
The enthusiasm in his tone, however, told her the only decision she was at liberty to make was whether she would join him here or let him go it alone.
Much as she wished she could let him sink or swim, she knew exactly how equipped he was to take on something like this. The idea was overwhelming for her and she knew how to run a business and see a venture through from concept to finished product.
He knew how to grade whether a term paper that scrutinized motif in twentieth-century art was properly formatted in MLA style.
And, of course, how to make hideous puns like, “Will these tradesmen work on trade?”
The mayor chuckled with appreciation.
Ugh.
She left them behind, circling the horseshoe bar that partitioned the lounge from the dining room. It might gleam in honey tones of polished oak if refinished, but she refused to touch it as is. The carpet around it was threadbare where it wasn’t downright moldy. Bleh.
In the dining room, big, filthy windows ran the length of one wall, but even through the coating of grime, it offered a placid view of the pond blanketed in snow: Christmas-card perfect.
The sun was making a last-ditch effort to slant through the dust coating the glass, warming her a few degrees. It would glow full strength in the mornings, she suspected. Once it was cleaned up and set with white linens and fresh flowers, she could easily picture coming in here to eat toast with jam, watching the sun rise behind the peaks while eavesdropping on people starting their day, dishes clinking in the background.
“This is lovely, isn’t it?” her father said, coming around the bar to join her.
Ergh. She really didn’t want to see potential of any kind, let alone admit to it.
She led her father through a pantry into the kitchen. Shocking stains on the floor and wall had her pulling up short.
“Do people butcher animals in here?” Please say it’s animals.
The refrigerator door stood open. She saw makeshift hooks with nametags.
“Game,” the mayor assured quickly, and had to be lying through his teeth when he added, “But only very occasionally.”
“Dad. It’s a slaughterhouse.”
“I knew that.” He rattled his pages at her. “It’s all in here. The entire kitchen needs to be gutted to bring it up to code. Oh, look. A dumbwaiter.”
She rolled her eyes, not daring to peek, expecting a rabid raccoon to latch on to her throat. She moved behind the wall to where a wide service entrance took deliveries. A narrow set of vinyl-covered stairs rose and dropped across from the door. There was a basement-level laundry, she imagined, along with boiler rooms and such. Footprints of snow were melting on the treads.
She frowned at that sign of disregard, but really, how much more damage could be done?
She climbed the stairs herself, coming into a room that housekeeping had probably used, judging by the numerous empty shelves with faded labels. Enterprising locals had likely absconded with furnishings, linens, dishes…anything of value, over the years.
As she wandered the length of the hall, the few doors that were closed all opened to her touch. Some rooms were bare, others had beds or mattresses, abandoned camping supplies, books and bits of rags and other old clothing.
All the doors also had deep gouges where something had been scratched off fairly recently. Names, perhaps? Of the outdoor club members who ‘occasionally’ used the place? For every person pleased to see the ski hill come back online, there would be another ten losing their shit because their private hunting lodge was now off-limits.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
She walked through one room, out to the balcony, hugged herself against the chill and climbed the four flights of exterior stairs to the top floor, breath fogging. Instructions and a weathered map on each landing directed chalet guests to either store their gear outside their rooms, or rent a locker in a building she couldn’t see and suspected had been burned or knocked down.
Outside each room stood rusted ski racks and a grate for boots. She walked all the way around the end. The stunning view of the valley that appeared stole her breath. She could see all the way to the town of Haven and the silvery lake it nestled against.
The roof over the balcony on these upper floor rooms was gabled, allowing sunlight to hit the top-floor window
s of the corner rooms. When she slipped into the room at the end, she found it warm and inviting despite the disrepair. It had light from two directions and a panoramic view that was to die for. Despite the caked window and sketchy-looking stripped bed, it had once been a premium room with a fireplace, a mini-lounge, and a spacious bathroom.
The toilet was tucked into a little closet behind a pocket door. She made a face at the dry, yellow bowl. It probably reeked in the middle of summer, but in the main area of the bathroom, a claw-footed tub sat under a skylight, charming her to bits.
Leaks, she cautioned her inner romantic, averting her gaze from the convenient shelf where tea light candles could sit with a glass of wine and a book. Glancing at the mirror, which was flecked where the silver had degraded, she imagined a man shaving there while she bathed.
Maybe he looked like Rolf. She didn’t have to like a man to use him as inspiration and it wasn’t hard at all to imagine his physique in a towel…
His tanned back flexed in the glow of candlelight while he drew a razor over his jaw, slow and methodical, the sound a soft rasp in the quiet room. The only other sound was the whispered crackle of bubbles tickling her skin.
Their eyes met in the mirror. Anticipation hung like a sultry scent in the air. He was preparing to join her.
Her body warmed and a pulse of heat struck between her legs.
She didn’t think of herself as a particularly sexual person. Not after the oppressive upbringing she’d had, but this weekend was making her feel like she ran a bordello purely for kicks. When it came to wiping memories of her old boyfriend—or any man she’d ever known, for that matter—this guy was doing a hell of a job.
She crooked her forearm behind her head to cushion it against the hard edge of the tub, aware that it lifted her nipple into the bubbles that frothed the surface of the water.
He noticed, which made her smile.
She set her calf along the side of the tub, shiny and wet. “Me next. I don’t want you to get whisker burn.”