Her jaw tightens. “Is that what you’re offering? Partnership?”
“I’m offering reality,” I say. “You know this town better than anyone. I know what it takes to make a project like this survive. We can waste time fighting each other … or we can argue our way into something that works.”
She studies me, eyes searching my face for whatever she’s afraid she’ll find. I let her look.
What I don’t say – what I can’t say – is that somewhere between the lobby and this room, my reasons shifted. The first time I came here, all I saw was potential profit. The second time, architectural opportunity. The third, structural viability.
This time, standing beside Willow in a ruined suite that still manages to feel sacred to her, I see something else: Legacy. Belonging. A chance to build something that means more than occupancy rates and investor reports.
I also see the way her hand trembles slightly as she lowers it from the window. I want to steady it. I want to steady her. Instead, I shove my own hands into my coat pockets and focus on the pitch.
“In the latest revision,” I say, “I scale back the lower commercial area. Fewer shops. More emphasis on localpartnerships. The lodge stays the visual centerpiece, not an afterthought.”
Willow’s brows knit. “And the people you’re courting? The ones with more money than sense?”
“Discerning travelers,” I correct. “Who will spend in town, not just on the mountain. You want Hope Peak businesses to survive the next decade? They need new customers, not just the same locals and occasional road trippers.”
Her shoulders sag the slightest bit. “I know that.”
“Then let me help bring them here,” I say. “Without turning this into the caricature you’re afraid of.”
Silence stretches between us. There’s dust in the air, glittering in a stray beam of light. Something about this moment feels suspended, like the entire lodge is holding its breath. Willow looks back at the view, then at me.
“I don’t trust you,” she says.
I nod once. I expected as much. “I know.”
“But …” She exhales slowly. “I’m starting to think you might actually care about more than just the bottom line.”
The admission lands like a small, fragile victory.
“I do,” I say quietly.
Her eyes widen a fraction at the honesty. Atlanta’s voice drifts in from the hall. “Holden, you have to see the framing on this door. It’s still in incredible shape!”
Spencer calls something back, his footsteps echoing farther down the corridor.
For a brief, dangerous moment, it feels like this room is its own world … just Willow, me, and the ghosts of what Hearthstone used to be.
“You know,” I hear myself say, “the first time I walked this place, it was just another property. Old, neglected, full of headaches. I saw numbers. That’s it.”
“And now?” she asks, and I don’t answer instantly.
Now I see the way your voice breaks when you talk about the tree. I see the way this view lives in your memory. But more than anything, I see that if I bulldoze the past, I bulldoze you with it.
“Now,” I say instead, “I see … why people fought so hard to keep it alive as long as they did.”
Her gaze softens, just a fraction.
“Keep talking like that, Sinclair,” she says, “and I might stop assuming you’re the villain in this story.”
I allow myself a real smile this time. “Careful. I’m not used to playing the hero either.”
She huffs out something that might be a laugh, turning back toward the doorway. “We’ll see which role you earn.”
As she passes me, her shoulder brushes my chest. If I were a braver man, I’d reach for her, pull her close. But that would be inappropriate. No woman has affected me like Willow. My money doesn’t win her over. And who knows about the rest of me. She’s her own woman, the town manager who will fight the town’s battles. She makes my heart feel something it’s never felt. But I can’t act on it. Not now, probably ever.
I watch her walk down the hall, boots leaving fresh prints in the dust. The lodge groans softly in the wind, a tired old beast waiting to be woken. And God help me … I’m beginning to wonder whether she’s the only one who knows how to tame it.
