Chapter 7
Graham
Idon’t go back to Snowy Summit Retreat right away. I should. I have emails waiting, investor questions queued, a message from my CFO, and a dozen fires I could put out before dinner. But instead, I sit in my SUV in the lodge parking lot, engine off, hands still wrapped around the steering wheel.
I’ve been up here three times before today. Three times I saw the same thing: rotting wood, aging stone, water damage, foundation issues, financial risk. Today, I didn’t see any of that first. I saw Willow.
The way she walked those forgotten halls like she was moving through a memory made real. The way her voice softened when she talked about the tree. The way her eyes shone in that corner suite, reflecting the mountains like they belonged to her. She made the lodge feel like a place worth fightingwith,not against. She made me feel …
I cut the thought off immediately. This is not who I am. Not how I operate. Except … apparently it is now. I run a hand over my jaw, the tension there a dull throb. Damn her.
Damn the way she looks at me like she’s weighing every inch of my soul and finding it either lacking or something she doesn’t want to understand.
I start the SUV reluctantly and head down the mountain. Snow drifts across the windshield, soft but relentless, turning the world into a quiet blur.
When I pull into the Snowy Summit parking lot, the glow of holiday lights halos the building in gold. Inside, the lobby is warm, filled with guests in ski gear and soft chatter. A fire crackles in the stone hearth. I should feel at ease here. This is an environment of luxury, order, and structure. But, I feel restless.
Carla is setting mugs of hot cider on a tray when she spots me. “Oh! Mr. Sinclair, you look like you’ve been out in a storm.”
“I toured the lodge again,” I say.
She pauses, studying me. “And how’d it feel this time?”
I open my mouth, then close it. What would I even say? That the place suddenly feels like it has a heartbeat? That it isn’t just a project anymore? That Willow’s memories are haunting every room I walk?
Her eyebrows lift knowingly when I don’t answer.
“Some places don’t show their truth right away,” she says softly.
“Is that so?”
“It is in Hope Peak.” She gives me a warm, small smile. “You’ll figure it out.”
I murmur a thank you and take the elevator up to my suite. The moment the door clicks shut behind me, silence rushes in. It’s too quiet. I loosen my tie, toss it onto the chair, and stand in the middle of the room like a man who forgot what he camein for. My briefcase is on the table. Inside, I have the revised proposal, Atlanta’s sketches, and structural notes from Holden.
I flip everything open, spreading the papers out. Numbers stare back at me at first. Cost projections, revenue models, occupancy forecasts. This is where I normally live. The world of certainty. Clean lines. Clear decisions. But today, none of it hits right.
I push the papers aside and grab a blank notepad. For a long moment, I just sit with my pen hovering and my mind full. Then I start writing. Not numbers. Not margins. Ideas.
Scale back retail.
More community integration.
Highlight historic beams.
Less glass. More stone.
Preserve the fireplace at all costs.
Local artisan partnerships.
Fall & Winter festival potential.
Open house event for townspeople.
I write faster and it feels good – like a project with soul, not just strategy. On the second page, my pen hesitates before writing a single line I shouldn’t even be thinking:
Make it a place she would be proud of.I stare at those words until they blur slightly. What the hell is happening to me?
