The private jet was overkill.
Charlotte said so halfway through the flight.
“Commercial exists,” she pointed out from her leather seat, looking out the small oval window at the white-capped peaks below. “People use it.”
“Yes,” Dominic said across from her. “People without three back-to-back calls and a need for quiet do.”
“You just wanted an excuse to expense the champagne,” she said.
“The champagne is yours,” he said. “My vice is legroom.”
“I thought your vice was power,” she shot back.
“That’s a feature, not a bug,” he said, reaching for the folder on the table between them.
Gillian and Peter sat a few rows back, heads together over plans. The flight attendant had retreated to the galley.
They were, effectively, alone.
“I still think we could have flown separately,” she muttered, flipping through a set of updated renderings. “Optics.”
“Your mother approved this,” he said. “She knows we’re on the same plane. If she can survive that, the world can handle it.”
“She approved it because she thinks I’ll be too tired to misbehave at altitude,” she said.
He smirked.
“Is she wrong?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
He laughed.
The last few days had been a strange mix of normal and intensely intimate.
After the park, they’d seen each other twice more in Milo’s orbit.
Once at her apartment, where Dominic had shown up with a bag of wooden puzzles under his arm and a suspiciously hopeful look on his face.
“Too much?” he’d asked, glancing at the bag.
“Depends,” she’d said. “Are you trying to buy his love?”
“Yes,” he’d said. “Is that wrong?”
She’d rolled her eyes and let him in.
Milo had adored the puzzles.
He’d also decided Dom was excellent at “making the wrong animal sounds” and had collapsed in giggles every time Dominic mooed when he should have meowed.
The second time had been at a children’s museum, where Dominic had spent two hours crawling through tunnels too small for his frame and letting Milo bury him in foam blocks.
Each time, he’d stayed just long enough to become…normal.
Not an event.
Not a novelty.
Just…Dom.
Each time, when he’d left, Milo had said, “Bye, Dom! See you later!” with casual certainty that made Charlotte’s heart ache.
Now, as they flew toward the skeleton of the hotel that would tie their professional fortunes together, she felt that same ache, sharper.
“So,” he said, tapping the blueprint. “Lobby.”
“Yes,” she said. “Lobby.”
“Is the kids’ corner too close to the bar?” he asked, echoing Jess from Steele Downtown.
“It was,” she said. “We moved it. You’ll see.”
He nodded, satisfied.
For a while, they talked layouts, materials, operational flow.
It was almost…easy.
“How’s your grandmother?” she asked at one point, surprising herself.
He looked up, startled.
“Good,” he said. “Annoyed that I took so long to tell her. Thrilled. Terrified. In that order.”
“She sounds…formidable,” she said.
“She’d like you,” he said. “She’d make you eat too much. Then lecture you about ambition. She thinks I work too much.”
“Your family has a theme,” she said. “So does mine.”
He studied her.
“Did you tell her?” he asked. “About…him.”
“Yes,” he said. “She cried. Then she made lasagna. It’s her coping mechanism.”
“She sounds…healthy,” she said.
He huffed a laugh.
“Healthier than most of the therapists I’ve fired,” he said.
“You’ve fired therapists?” she asked.
“Three,” he said. “They kept telling me to ‘sit with my feelings.’ I don’t sit well.”
“Understatement,” she muttered.
“And you?” he asked. “Therapy?”
She hesitated.
“Yes,” she said. “A little. After he was born. When I realized I was…scared all the time. Of everything.”
“Postpartum?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” she said. “Not…full-blown. But enough that I’d wake up at three a.m. to make sure he was still breathing. For months.”
His eyes softened.
“Me too,” he said.
She blinked.
“What?” she asked.
“Now,” he said. “Since I found out. I wake up and…imagine things that could go wrong. Cars. Allergies. Strange men in parks.”
“That last one is you,” she pointed out.
“Exactly,” he said. “My brain has terrible taste in horror movies.”
She smiled.
The plane dipped slightly as it began its descent.
The mountains rose up, sharp and close.
“Scared of flying?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Scared of…what we’re landing into.”
“A construction site,” he said. “Dust. Noise. Overconfident foremen.”
“And us,” she said quietly.
He didn’t look away.
“We’ll…figure it out,” he said. “One footing at a time.”
***
Aspen hit her in the chest the moment they stepped off the small plane.
The air was thinner, clearer. Colder, even in early fall.
The mountains ringed the valley like dark blue walls, their peaks dusted with snow that would be full coverage in a few months.
The drive to the site wound up a narrow road cut into the side of a hill, pines hugging close on both sides.
Peter narrated incessantly from the backseat.
“That’s the turnoff to the town center,” he said, pointing. “We’re partnering with that bakery on morning pastries. Their croissants changed my life. And that—” He gestured out the other side. “—is the sledding hill. We’re planning Sunday night cocoa parties there.”
Dominic sat beside Charlotte in the SUV’s middle row, absorbing everything.
“It’s…beautiful,” he said.
“Wait until you see the views from the lobby,” she said. “You can see three peaks. Four if you lean.”
“Five if you stand on a chair,” Peter added.
“Health and safety nightmare,” Gillian murmured from the front passenger seat.
The site itself was a controlled chaos.
Cranes.
Scaffolding.
Men in hard hats shouting over the whine of drills.
The skeleton of the hotel rose from the slope in pale concrete and steel, the beginnings of its glass skin glinting in the sun.
“Wow,” Dominic breathed.
It was the first time she’d heard awe in his voice that wasn’t tempered by strategy.
“Welcome to my mess,” she said.
“Welcome to *our* mess,” he corrected.
They were met by the site manager—a weathered man named Doug with a thick mustache and a clipboard—and a small army of subcontractors.
For the next three hours, they trudged through half-built hallways, ducked under scaffolding, clambered over temporary steps.
“You’re sure this is kid-friendly?” Dominic joked at one point, trying not to bang his head on a low beam.
“By December it will be,” she said. “By then this will be a cozy corridor with twinkle lights and a hot chocolate cart.”
“Hot chocolate,” Peter echoed. “With optional marshmallow art.”
They argued about stone.
Peter fought hard for a veined gray slab that cost as much as a small car.
Dominic pushed for a slightly warmer, cheaper alternative that he claimed would “photograph better on Instagram.”
“What’s our ratio of in-person to online revenue?” he asked Doug at one point.
“We’re not open yet,” Doug said, confused.
“In general,” Dominic clarified. “For Steele, it’s shifting. I assume it is for Reid too.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “But this lobby is…first and foremost for the people in it. Not the people liking photos of it.”
“And those people also take photos,” he pointed out. “If it looks cold in pictures, they’ll say it feels cold in person. Even if it doesn’t.”
“Perception is reality,” Gillian murmured.
“God, you’re both infuriating,” Peter muttered. “Fine. Warm stone. But I’m vetoing those ugly sconces in the bar.”
“Done,” Dominic said instantly.
Charlotte laughed.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.
“A little,” he admitted.
They checklisted their way through the kids’ wing.
“Climbing elements need more padding,” Dominic noted, tapping a half-installed structure.
“We’re within code,” Doug said defensively.
“We’re not aiming for *within code,*” Dominic said. “We’re aiming for ‘no trip to the ER in your first hour here.’”
“Thicker mats,” Charlotte agreed. “We can find the budget. We’ll take it from the unnecessary marble in the adult sauna.”
“I am deeply offended,” Peter said. “Marble is never unnecessary.”
“We’re over budget,” she reminded him.
“Marble is *especially* necessary then,” he retorted.
By the time they reached the top floor—the future adults-only sanctuary—Charlotte’s legs ached and a fine layer of dust coated her hair.
They stood in what would one day be a serene lounge, currently a box of raw concrete and exposed beams, and stared out the open space where floor-to-ceiling glass would eventually be.
The view was obscene.
Mountains in all directions.
Trees blazing with fall color lower down.
A sky so big it felt like you could fall into it.
“Worth it,” Dominic said quietly.
She nodded.
“This is why we’re doing it,” she said.
He glanced at her.
“No,” he said. “This is why *you* did it. You saw this before any of us did.”
She swallowed.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He looked away first.
“Okay,” Gillian said briskly, clapping her hands once. “If we don’t get our litigious asses back to the hotel soon, I’m going to pass out, and then who will tell you no?”
“God forbid,” Dominic murmured.
***
Their accommodations for the trip were at a smaller, established property in town—charming, wood-heavy, with creaky floors and excellent coffee.
“I booked you in separate wings,” the GM said cheerfully when they checked in. “Per the…instructions.”
Charlotte coughed.
“Of course,” she said.
Her room was on the third floor, overlooking the town’s main street. When she opened the window, she could hear faint music from a bar down the block and smell woodsmoke from someone’s fireplace.
She tossed her bag on the bed and sat for a moment, staring at the rough-hewn beams on the ceiling.
Her phone buzzed.
> Dom: 6 PM. Bar downstairs. To go over notes. Purely professional, obviously.
She snorted.
> Charlotte: You spelled “liability waivers” wrong.
> Dom: That too.
> Charlotte: Fine. 6:15. I need a shower. I smell like concrete dust and male ego.
> Dom: Rude. Accurate.
She smiled.
Then stood, stripping out of her dusty clothes.
Under the hot spray of the shower, she let her mind drift for the first time all day.
Not to stone samples.
Not to occupancy projections.
To him.
To Milo.
To the sight of the two of them in the park, swing chains wrapped in big hands, small hands clutching plastic.
Her body responded treacherously.
Heat.
Tightness.
Need.
She pressed her forehead against the tile.
“Don’t,” she told herself quietly. “Not now.”
She had rules.
No kissing.
No bed.
No blurring lines while they were still drawing them.
She would stick to them.
Even if some traitorous part of her wanted to remember what it felt like to let go in his arms.
She got dressed in jeans and a soft black sweater, blow-dried her hair, swiped on mascara and balm.
At 6:17, she walked into the bar.
He was already there.
Of course.
He sat at a small table near the fireplace, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with the faintest trace of the day’s work. Two glasses sat on the table—one filled with something amber, the other with sparkling water and lime.
“Hi,” he said, standing as she approached.
“Hi,” she replied.
She slid into the chair opposite him.
He nodded toward the glasses.
“Whiskey. Water,” he said. “Or both, if you want to live dangerously.”
“Water,” she said. “I have to be functional tomorrow when Peter inevitably cries over grout.”
“He’s very emotional about minerals,” Dominic agreed.
They went over notes.
Tiles.
Mats.
Sightlines.
“Kids’ club door needs a better lock,” he said, jotting something down. “One that can be opened from the outside but not easily from the inside by tiny escape artists.”
“You’re thinking of Milo,” she said.
“I’m thinking of all the Milos,” he said. “But yes.”
She smiled.
Their knees brushed under the table.
Neither of them moved away.
At some point, the conversation drifted.
“Did you ever come to places like this as a kid?” she asked, waving a hand vaguely to encompass mountains, lobbies, the concept of vacations.
He shook his head.
“Closest we got was the motel turning on the ‘Vacancy’ sign,” he said. “Sometimes Grandma would let us go in the pool…after hours. When all the guests were asleep.”
“Rebel,” she murmured.
“You?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “All the time. Ski trips. Beach trips. ‘Site visits’ that were really…family vacations where my mother still took calls in the lobby.”
He watched her.
“Did you like them?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And no. I loved the…places. Hated the…expectations. Every vacation came with…lessons. ‘Watch how the staff moves. Listen to how the concierge phrases things. Notice which guests we want and which we…tolerate.’ I was always…studying. Not just playing.”
“You were in training,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Whether I wanted to be or not.”
“And now?” he asked.
“And now I’m training…him,” she said softly. “Whether I want to be or not. Every time we walk into a lobby, he’s…absorbing. How I talk to staff. How they talk to me. What he can touch. What he can’t. I don’t want him to…inherit my…warped sense of normal.”
“You want him to know both worlds,” he said. “The marble and the motel.”
“Yes,” she said. “Without…resenting either.”
He nodded slowly.
“I can show him the motel,” he said quietly.
Her heart squeezed.
“You would…take him there?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Eventually. When he’s older. When he can understand that…where we came from isn’t…shameful. It’s…part of the story.”
She swallowed.
“I’d like that,” she said.
Silence settled, warmer now.
The fire crackled.
A couple at the bar laughed.
Outside, snowflakes began to drift, soft and tentative, past the window.
He watched one melt against the glass.
“London,” he said suddenly.
Her pulse spiked.
“What about it?” she asked.
“Do you ever…think about it?” he asked. “Aside from…the consequences.”
She took a slow sip of water.
“Yes,” she said.
The truth felt…dangerous.
“Me too,” he said.
She stared at him.
He didn’t look away.
“I know I hurt you,” he said quietly. “Leaving the way I did. Pretending it was…just another night. It wasn’t. I thought…if I stayed, if I asked too many questions, if I gave you my real name, it would become…something I didn’t know how to handle.”
“And now?” she asked.
“And now I know…nothing is harder to handle than…this,” he said. “Knowing what we made and knowing I missed…everything.”
Her chest ached.
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
“The night?” he said. “No.”
He shook his head.
“Never,” he said. “I regret…what came after. Or…what didn’t. The…silence. The…absence. But that night…” He met her gaze. “That was…one of the few times in my life I let go. Completely. It felt…like breathing. Like not being…on stage.”
Her eyes burned.
“Me too,” she whispered.
They stared at each other, the air between them thick.
His hand shifted under the table.
His fingers brushed her knee, light as a question.
She sucked in a breath.
“Don’t,” she said, the word catching.
He withdrew, instantly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She shook her head.
“I’m not,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
He huffed a laugh, strained.
“We’re…terrible at this,” he said.
“At…boundaries?” she said. “Yes.”
“At…wanting,” he corrected. “And not acting on it.”
She stared at the ring of moisture her glass had left on the table.
“I meant what I said,” she said. “No…kissing. No…more. Not while…everything else is so…fragile.”
“I know,” he said. “I respect that. I do.”
He paused.
“I also…want you,” he said simply.
Heat flared low in her belly.
She closed her eyes briefly.
“Stop,” she said.
“I’m not asking for anything now,” he said. “I’m just…telling the truth. I want you. I want…this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “And I want…him. And I’m trying very hard not to…screw up either by moving too fast.”
She looked up.
“You don’t do…slow,” she said.
“I’m learning,” he said. “You’re…teaching me.”
She laughed softly, incredulous.
“I’m a terrible teacher,” she said.
“You’re a very patient one,” he said. “With him. With me. With your mother.”
“She doesn’t deserve my patience,” she said.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But…he does. And you do. So…we go slow. For you. For him.”
“And for Aspen,” she added. “Which I refuse to have haunted by our…emotional debris.”
He smiled.
“We’ll haunt it later,” he said. “With…stories. And…kids’ footprints.”
“And Lego mines under the beds,” she said.
He shuddered theatrically.
“Nightmare,” he said. “We’ll budget more for vacuuming.”
They fell into easier talk after that.
Stories about childhood.
About first jobs.
About the most disgusting thing each of them had ever found in a hotel room.
(For him: a live snake.
For her: an unidentifiable smear on a bathtub ceiling accompanied by a note that read “Sorry!”)
At ten, they parted in the hallway on the third floor.
His room was two doors down.
They stood there a moment, facing each other, the quiet of the old building settling around them.
“Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight,” she echoed.
He didn’t lean in.
She didn’t step forward.
Their restraint felt like a physical thing, thick in the air.
He lifted his hand.
For a second, she thought he might touch her face.
He didn’t.
He just rested his palm briefly against the wall beside her head, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, not quite touching.
“I’m proud of you,” he said softly.
The words hit her harder than they should have.
“For what?” she asked, voice unsteady.
“For…this,” he said. “Aspen. Him. Telling the truth even when it’s…dangerous. All of it.”
Her eyes stung.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He dropped his hand.
Turned.
Walked away.
She went into her room and leaned against the closed door, heart pounding.
She wanted him.
She also wanted a future where wanting him didn’t blow up everything else.
For now, those two things felt…mutually exclusive.
She went to bed alone, the sound of the wind against the old windows lulling her into an uneasy sleep filled with snow and glass and the echo of a little boy’s voice asking, *Can I have a daddy later?*
***