The nickname hit me like a fist to the chest. How long since I'd let him call me that? How long since I'd let him close enough to try?
Before I left, I could at least make Gil breakfast. Return the gesture from last night. Show him through the one language I spoke fluently—-food—-that there was a real person underneath all the walls I'd built.
What would he think when he found it? Would he be angry I'd left without waking him? Would he understand I needed to do this?
By five-thirty, I'd made my way to Gil's kitchen as quietly as possible. The main room was still dark, his bedroom door closed.
I already knew my way around from Friday night when I'd made those chocolate-covered strawberries. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, Valentine's Day morning, making breakfast for the man I'd spent months hating.
Only now, nothing about it was manipulation.
Now, it was real.
French toast. But not basic French toast—-brioche with cardamom and orange zest. The kind I used to make at the lodge for special occasions. My hands moved through familiar motions while my mind spun with everything I'd say to Danny, everything I'd have to confess to Gil. The orange zest came out uneven—-my fingers weren't as steady as they should be. I had to start the first batch of toast twice because I wasn't paying attention, the edges burning while I stood frozen, imagining his face when I showed up after six months of silence.
Homemade whipped cream flavored with vanilla bean. Fresh berries macerated with a touch of sugar and lemon. Applewood smoked bacon cooked until crispy. A proper omelet with the dried herbs I found in his pantry—-thyme and chives.
I lost myself in the work even as anxiety thrummed through my body. Whisking eggs and cream until my wrists ached, the repetitive motion keeping panic at bay. Zesting orange, cardamom warming the kitchen as I added it to the custard. Slicing thick pieces of brioche and soaking them until they were saturated but not falling apart. The bacon sizzling in one pan while I heated another for the toast. The knife slipped once, nearly catching my thumb. I was falling apart while creating something beautiful, using the precision of cooking to control the one thing I could when everything else was chaos.
The toast turned golden-brown, the edges caramelizing perfectly. I plated it the way my training had taught me—-composition mattered as much as flavor. A dusting of powdered sugar. The berries arranged just so. A small pitcher of warm maple syrup.
I covered it all to keep it warm, poured coffee into an insulated carafe, and found a notepad in the kitchen drawer.
Gil—-
I woke early and couldn't sleep, so I made you breakfast. Thank you for your patience and kindness. I need to take care of something this morning, but I promise I'll be back, and I'll explain it all—-about who I am and why I bid on you.
—-Ruby
I set the note where he'd see it, propped against the coffee carafe.
Then I bundled into my coat and stepped out into the February cold.
THE WALK TO THE SKIpatrol building took twenty minutes through snow-covered paths. Dawn was just breaking, painting the sky pink and gold above the mountains. My breath came in white puffs, boots crunching on packed snow.
The Pinnacle looked different in early morning light. Peaceful. Beautiful. I could see what Gil had built here—-not with anger this time, but with something closer to wonder.
The ski patrol office sat near the equipment sheds, a small building with light already glowing through the windows. I could see Danny's silhouette through the glass, moving around inside.
My pulse hammered. I hadn't spoken to him in six months. Hadn't let him close enough to explain, to talk, to be anything other than a symbol of loss.
I knocked.
Uncle Danny opened the door. His weathered face showed immediate guilt, then hope—-his whole expression opened, eyes brightening, mouth curving upward before he caught himself.
"Ruby-girl..." His voice cracked on my old nickname.
I stepped inside, closed the door behind me. The office smelled like coffee and worn leather, wood and snow gear. Maps pinned to walls, equipment hung on hooks. Uncle Danny looked good. Healthy. His eyes clear, his shoulders relaxed in a way I hadn't seen in years.
Not broken. Not diminished.
Happy.
"We need to talk," I said, dropping into the chair across from his desk. "About Gil. About the lodge. About all of it."
Uncle Danny poured coffee, set a mug in front of me, then sat. For a moment we just looked at each other across the scarred wooden desk.
"I've been hoping you'd come," he said quietly. "I need you to listen. Really listen. Can you do that?"
