"It's just a first draft. I need to walk the site again tomorrow to check the foundation." He stretched, rolling his shoulders. "But it feels good. Using my degree for something real instead of sitting in meetings where no one asks my opinion."
The transition had happened faster than either of us expected.
After the meeting with his parents—after the yelling, the tears, and the awkward handshake that passed for reconciliation—Tobias had called Tristan.
"I want to come back," he said. "To the company. But on my terms."
I watched him pace the apartment, phone pressed to his ear, laying out his conditions: no more decoration, no moreempty chair at board meetings. He wanted real projects. Real responsibility.
And he wanted to start in Hudson Valley.
"There's development potential here," he explained to me afterward. "The area's growing. Dad's been looking at properties upstate for years but never had anyone to run point. Tristan's too busy with the Manhattan projects."
"So you'd be—what? Opening a satellite office?"
"Eventually, maybe. For now, I'd be the family's eyes on the ground up here, scouting properties, managing renovations, and building relationships with local businesses." He paused. "Like the Grandview."
I stared at him. "You want to do business with my hotel."
"I want to help your hotel." A small smile. "The cottage project is a trial run. If it goes well, there's talk of a spa expansion and maybe additional guest cottages on the north grounds."
"Does Ronan know about this?"
"Ronan's the one who suggested it."
That floored me. Ronan Beck, who trusted no one and ran background checks on his own staff, had reached out to a Langford about renovation work.
"He called Tristan," Tobias explained. "Asked about family-owned contractors who could handle historic preservation. Tristan mentioned me and said I was looking for projects in the area." A pause. "I think your boss has a soft spot for you."
"Ronan doesn't have soft spots."
"Everyone has soft spots. Some people just hide them better."
His father had taken longer to come around.
The first few calls had been stilted. Awkward. Richard Langford discussed property values and market trends like he was talking to a junior associate instead of his son.
But gradually, something shifted.
"He asked about my design ideas yesterday," Tobias told me one evening, surprise in his voice. "Actually asked. And then he listened."
"That's good."
"It's weird." He shook his head. "Twenty-six years of being invisible, and now he wants to know what I think about load-bearing walls and zoning regulations."
"Maybe he's trying."
"Maybe." A pause. "He still can't say the word 'boyfriend.' Keeps calling you 'the person Tobias is seeing.' But he asked when you're free for dinner. That's something."
It was something. More than I'd expected, honestly. Richard Langford wasn't going to win any PFLAG awards, but he was making an effort. Showing up in the ways he knew how.
I watched Tobias work for a while.
The way his brow furrowed when he concentrated. The way he chewed his pen cap—a habit I'd learned to find endearing instead of annoying. The way he'd occasionally mutter to himself, working through problems out loud.
This was who he was supposed to be. Not the hollow-eyed runaway who'd stumbled into my life weeks ago. Not the perfect Langford heir performing a role he'd never wanted.
This. Blueprints and coffee cups and muttered calculations. Building something real with his own hands—or at least his own mind.
