They were supposed to fly back Friday evening.
They didn’t.
The storm saw to that.
It rolled in Friday afternoon as they were finishing their last walkthrough.
One minute the sky was clear.
The next, clouds piled over the peaks like dirty wool.
Snow started as a flurry.
Became a curtain.
“Flight’s canceled,” Gillian announced, reading from her phone in the half-finished lobby. “Airport’s closed until at least tomorrow morning.”
“Of course,” Charlotte muttered, staring out at the whiteout.
Doug shrugged.
“Welcome to the mountains,” he said. “You get a free night.”
The GM at their small hotel was unruffled.
“Happens all the time,” she said at check-in. “We’ve got backup generators, plenty of blankets, and a chef who doesn’t mind being snowed in. You’re safer here than on that road.”
“Reassuring,” Dominic said.
They were given their same rooms.
Separate wings.
Same creaky floors.
Same bar downstairs.
“Dinner?” he texted at six.
> Charlotte: Room service. I’m wiped.
> Dominic: Fair. Get some sleep. You’ve been herding grown men with power tools all day.
> Charlotte: Occupational hazard.
> Dominic: Night, Ms. Reid.
She put her phone down.
Stared at the ceiling.
Sleep didn’t come.
Her mind replayed the week.
The way he’d stepped between her and a swinging crane reflexively when a gust of wind had caught it.
The way he’d argued with the HVAC consultant about vents in the kids’ wing until the man had grudgingly agreed to reroute.
The way he’d quietly taken a call from Milo in the hallway, voice soft, answering questions about dinosaurs with more patience than she’d ever seen him grant a CFO.
He was…in.
Not halfway.
Not as a curiosity.
In.
With Aspen.
With her.
With Milo.
The thought made her feel both safer and more exposed.
At nine, she gave up on sleep and padded downstairs in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, hoping the bar would be quiet enough for her to sit in a corner and read the emails she’d been avoiding.
It wasn’t.
It was bustling.
Locals mixed with stranded guests.
A fire roared.
Snow hammered at the windows in thick sheets.
Dominic sat at the bar, alone, nursing a glass of something amber.
Of course.
He saw her instantly.
His gaze flicked down to her bare legs, up to her face.
Heat flared across her skin.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked as she slid onto the stool beside him.
“Apparently my brain thinks storm plus altitude equals panic,” she said.
“Join the club,” he said, nodding at her.
“Water,” she told the bartender before he could ask.
“We’re out,” he deadpanned. “Only whiskey.”
“Then ice,” she said.
He laughed.
They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the snow.
“It’s funny,” she said softly. “We build these…palaces. Lobbies. Spas. All this…control. And one good storm still reminds us we’re…tiny.”
“Humbling,” he agreed.
“My mother hates being humbled,” she said.
“Most people in our tax bracket do,” he said.
She snorted.
“Speak for yourself,” she said. “I get humbled at least twice a week by a person under three feet tall.”
He smiled.
“How is he?” he asked.
“Confused,” she said. “But in a…good way, I think. He asked yesterday if Dom was…my brother.”
He choked.
“Your brother,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “I said no. He thought for a while. Then said, ‘Is he Lina’s brother?’”
“And you said…?” he asked, amused.
“I said, ‘No, he’s…just Dom,’” she said. “He seemed…satisfied with that. For now.”
“For now,” he echoed.
A group of skiers at the other end of the bar burst into song, off-key and loud.
The bartender turned the music up to drown them out.
It didn’t work.
Thunder rumbled faintly overhead.
“Do you like storms?” he asked.
She considered.
“I like them if I don’t have to be anywhere,” she said. “If I can…watch. But if I have a flight? A meeting? A board call? I hate…anything that interrupts my schedule.”
“Control freak,” he said.
“Says the man whose calendar is color-coded to within an inch of its life,” she shot back.
“Fair,” he said.
The lights flickered.
Dimmed.
Came back.
A murmur rippled through the room.
“Generators,” the bartender said. “We’re good.”
Charlotte released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“You really are scared,” Dominic observed quietly.
“I have a child who doesn’t sleep through the night during thunder,” she said. “Storms are…less charming now.”
“You think about him when you’re away,” he said.
“All the time,” she replied.
“Me too,” he said.
Her chest squeezed.
“He likes you,” she said.
He stared at his glass.
“Does he?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she said. “He…asks about you. ‘Is Dom coming? Where is Dom? Does Dom have a dino?’”
He laughed, the sound choked.
“I should buy a dinosaur,” he said.
“You should buy five,” she said. “He’ll want to introduce them to his.”
“That seems like a gateway drug,” he said. “Next thing you know, I have a house full of plastic land mammals.”
“Welcome to parenthood,” she said. “Step on one at two a.m., see God.”
He smiled.
She watched his profile in the firelight.
Strong nose.
Sharp jaw.
The slight furrow between his brows that appeared when he was thinking hard.
He turned his head suddenly, catching her staring.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Liar,” he said.
She sighed.
“I was thinking…” She hesitated. “About…sliding doors.”
He waited.
“What if we’d…done this differently,” she said. “In London. What if you hadn’t left before dawn. What if you’d…given me your real name. What if I’d called. What if we’d…tried to…start with honesty, instead of…this.”
He swirled the whiskey in his glass.
“You think it would have…worked?” he asked. “Us. Without…all this.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We were…different people then. Or…less…finished.”
“I was an asshole,” he said.
“So was I,” she said. “We were…selfish. Hurt. Hungry.”
“We still are,” he pointed out.
“Yes,” she said. “But now we have…reasons. Then it was…habit.”
He chuckled.
“Do you wish it had gone differently?” he asked.
She stared into her water.
“Yes,” she said. “And no.”
He lifted a brow.
“Very decisive,” he said.
“If we’d done it differently,” she said slowly, “maybe we wouldn’t have…made him.”
He sobered.
“Right,” he said.
“I can’t…wish that away,” she said. “No matter how much…easier…something else might have been.”
He nodded.
“Me neither,” he said. “I used to think…if I ever had kids, it would be…planned. Intentional. A line item. Instead, he’s…a glitch in the code. And yet…he’s the best thing I’ve ever accidentally done.”
Her eyes filled.
“You didn’t do anything,” she said. “I did. I…decided.”
“Yes,” he said. “And…I’m grateful you did. Even if I wasn’t there. Even if I didn’t know. I’m…glad he exists.”
She looked away.
“Say that louder,” she murmured. “The universe might hear you.”
“It should,” he said. “It owes him.”
The room dimmed again.
Then surged.
Thunder boomed, closer this time.
She flinched despite herself.
He noticed.
“You really don’t like it,” he said.
“It’s…loud,” she said weakly.
He slid off his stool.
“Come on,” he said.
“Where?” she asked.
“Upstairs,” he said. “Before the lights decide to take a nap for real.”
She hesitated.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re jumpy,” he said. “You’re tired. You’ve been balancing on scaffolding in boots that were not made for it. Come on.”
She relented.
They climbed the stairs side by side.
The hallway lights flickered again as they turned down the corridor to her room.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Of *course* the power grid would choose *this* week to be dramatic.”
He chuckled.
“Drama recognizes drama,” he said.
She shot him a look.
“Don’t,” she said.
He held up his hands.
Her keycard beeped.
She pushed the door open.
He lingered in the threshold.
“Text me if the lights go out,” he said. “Or if you…need anything.”
“I’m not afraid of the dark,” she said.
“You are afraid of storms,” he said. “And being alone in them. I recognize the look. I’ve seen it…in the mirror.”
Her chest tightened.
“I’ll be fine,” she repeated.
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Goodnight.”
She watched him walk down the hall toward his room.
The lights flickered.
Went out.
Completely.
There was a collective groan from somewhere downstairs.
“Generators, my ass,” she muttered in the darkness.
Her phone lit up.
> Dom: You good?
She typed with fumbling fingers.
> Charlotte: No power. Fine. Just…very…aware of weather.
> Dom: Open your door.
She hesitated.
Then did.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the emergency strips along the baseboards.
His silhouette appeared out of the gloom.
He held up his phone, flashlight on, casting weird shadows.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
He stepped closer.
“Before you argue,” he said, “I’m not…moving in. I’m just…making sure you don’t fall over a chair in the dark and sue the hotel.”
“You’re very litigious tonight,” she said.
He smiled.
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
Thunder rumbled again.
She flinched.
He saw.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“Oh God,” she muttered.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the bed.
She sat, more from surprise than obedience.
He sat on the floor with his back against the bed, facing the window.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Being furniture,” he said.
“Furniture,” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “Chair Dom. Thunder buffer. Hallway monitor. Take your pick.”
Despite the fear, she laughed.
“This is ridiculous,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “So is being afraid of noise we both know statistically won’t hurt us. And yet, here we are. Humans are ridiculous.”
“You’re not…leaving,” she said.
“No,” he said simply. “Not until the lights come back on. Or until you fall asleep. Whichever comes first.”
She swallowed.
“This breaks…rules,” she said.
He nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “But…not the important ones. I’m not touching you. You’re not touching me. We’re not talking about London. We’re just…sharing space. While the sky yells.”
She sighed.
“Okay,” she said softly.
They sat in silence for a while.
The storm raged outside.
Lightning flashed.
Thunder crashed.
She jumped once so hard her hand landed on his shoulder.
He went still.
“Sorry,” she whispered, snatching it back.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly.
He didn’t move closer.
He didn’t make a joke.
He just…sat.
Steady.
Warm.
Present.
Her breathing slowed, matching the rise and fall of his shoulders.
After a while, the storm moved on.
The thunder grew fainter.
The rain softened.
Her eyes drooped.
She lay back on the bed without quite deciding to.
Her last coherent thought was that she could hear his heartbeat if she listened hard enough.
She woke to sunlight filtering around the curtains and the hum of the heater.
The power was back.
The storm was gone.
And the spot on the floor by her bed was empty.
On the bedside table, beside her phone, was a note on hotel stationery.
It said, in his tight, deliberate handwriting:
> You snore when you’re finally relaxed. > > It’s weirdly comforting. > > – D
She laughed, half-embarrassed, half…something else.
She picked up her phone.
A text awaited.
> Dom: Breakfast in 30? We need to get you to the airport before the mountain changes its mind again.
She typed back.
> Charlotte: Did you sleep at all?
> Dom: I can sleep on the plane. And in board meetings.
> Charlotte: True.
> Charlotte: Thank you. For last night.
> Dom: Anytime. > > (Literally. Text me at 3 a.m. if thunder ever tries to bully you again.)
> Charlotte: Don’t make offers you’ll regret.
> Dom: I won’t.
She set the phone down and pressed the note flat on the table with her palm.
Lines were shifting.
Rules were bending.
But for the first time, it didn’t feel like something breaking.
It felt like something…growing.
Messy.
Unpredictable.
Alive.
Like snow melting off a mountain in the first sunlight of spring.
And somewhere between the storms and the slow burns and the steel and the stone, a new shape was forming.
Not yet solid.
Not yet safe.
But no longer imaginary.
Like a hotel on a hill that had existed in her mind for years before the first foundation was ever poured.
She was terrified.
She was hopeful.
And, for the first time in a long time, she was not facing any of it alone.