“Then you know we need to do something.”
I take a slow sip of my drink to keep myself from snapping again. It’s not their fault. They’d tell me it’s not my fault. But I’m the one who took off for nine years. Maybe if I’d stuck around—maybe if I had been strong enough—I’d have caught the problem earlier.
Maybe I could have turned it around without bringing in investors.
“I’m handling it.”
Nine years… I probably would have spent five just trying to convince my dad to get his head of out his ass. And if he didn’t—when he didn’t—I’d have figured out away around him.
“By ripping out windows?” Sierra's sharp, accusing voice cuts through the room. “By 'relocating' a century of history?”
“That's not—” I turn to face her, and the sight of her still wrecks me. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair mussed from my fingers. She looks like she just gotthoroughly kissed by someone who knows exactly how she likes it.
Because she did.
By me.
And her brothers are standing five feet away, oblivious.
For now.
Well, except Nolan. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he’s definitely thinking.
“The window seat stays,” I hear myself say.
Sierra blinks. “What?”
“I said it stays.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration and something softer tangling in my chest. “For now. I have more immediate concerns.”
“That's why we're here. Well, one of the reasons. The immediate concerns. The lodge needs something big. Something splashy. Something that'll get people here even without snow.” Caleb bounces on his heels, way too fucking energized for being up all night.
I usually find his boundless energy entertaining.
Right now, I just want to pop him in the mouth. Or tie him to a chair so he’ll just stop moving already.
“There's supposed to be snow,” I mutter.
“Sure. Any day now. But until then—” Caleb spreads his arms wide like he's about to announce the second coming. “We can have a festival.”
Yup, pop him in the mouth it is. “A what?”
“We do a massive event. Outdoor activities, food, music, the whole experience.”
“It’s a ski resort and mountain with no fucking snowwith Christmas just over a week away. What whole fucking experience?”
Roman perks up giving him his full attention “Just give him a chance. He might be onto something here.”
“Event planning takes months,” I say carefully. “We have five minutes to plan the actual events let alone how to market them. Then there’s making sure it doesn't turn into a disaster. Or a lawsuit. Preferably both.”
“So we take a few days to set up.” Caleb waves off my concern like it's a gnat.
An inconvenient, logical gnat.
“Lock down the schedule, rally the troops, get the word out.”
“We’d hit peak kick-off season for events like this,” Roman adds. “Or what would be peak season if Mother Nature wasn't being a vindictive bitch.”
“Snow or Shine. We kick off at the end of the week. Maybe a pre-festival warmup Thursday and head right into the weekend full of activities that carry through to Christmas Eve the following Wednesday. Lumberjack competitions. Hot chocolate bars. Ice sculpture—okay, maybe not ice sculpture if the weather doesn't cooperate, but you get the idea.”
