“You should go now.” That’s all I can manage before I turn my back to him.
He doesn’t respond. Just…leaves.
Chapter 14
Lanter Bridge gifts us a half-day Friday reprieve since tonight marks their Anniversary party—an annual tradition of champagne-fueled networking that apparently no new hire should miss.
By evening, when Wendy’s car pulls into my driveway, I’ve managed three extra hours of sleep and have almost banished my hangover from existence. My body no longer feels like it’s been trampled by a herd of hippo, which counts as progress.
I smooth the wrinkles from my sleek black dress, a careful choice that skirts the line between professionally appropriate and quietly flirtatious. After one last glance in the mirror, I grab my clutch, head downstairs, and slip into Wendy’s waiting car.
“To the land of the rich and famous,” she announces, pulling away from the curb.
Our destination: The Alpenglow Grand—the crown jewel of Maplewood Springs’ hospitality scene. I’ve never actually crossed its threshold, but I’ve drooled over enough travelmagazines to recognize its reputation for opulence. For locals like me, it’s always been the place where “other people” go—tourists with platinum credit cards, celebrities seeking mountain seclusion, and apparently, Lanter Bridge employees during anniversary celebrations.
The moment we step inside, my breath catches. No glossy magazine spread could possibly capture the reality before me. The Grand Veranda unfolds like a dream, masterfully blending old-world charm with modern luxury—hand-cut limestone walls frame a heated infinity pool designed to mirror the hot springs nestled in our mountains.
I whirl in place, neck craned back, utterly awestruck by The Aurora Glass Ballroom’s soaring magnificence. Two-story glass walls, specifically engineered to showcase the Northern Lights during winter galas, now capture the fading sunset in panels of amber and gold. Above us, vaulted ceilings reach forty feet high, supported by massive wooden beams that must have come from ancient forest oaks. Wrought-iron chandeliers, twisted to mimic the branches of local maples, cast honeyed light across the sea of guests below.
But it’s the colossal floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace dominating the far wall that literally stops me mid-step. Heat emanates from its crackling heart, drawing the crowd in to marvel at its beauty. My mind boggles at what renting this entire space for a single night might cost. Clearly, Judy Hawthorn’s taste in venues matches the elegance of her designer wardrobe.
“Wow,” Wendy murmurs beside me, eyes wide as saucers. “This is next-level fancy.”
I nod, suddenly conscious of my dress among the crowd of impeccably styled attendees. While not exactly underdressed, there’s a clear difference in the quality of what I’m wearing. Some people look like they belong in The Great Gatsby.
A jazz quartet plays in the corner, their smooth notes floating beneath the hum of conversation. The mingled scents of expensive perfumes, aged whiskey, and cedar wood create an intoxicating atmosphere of privilege and comfort.
Wendy’s fingers circle my wrist as she drags me toward the bar. I follow willingly, eyes scanning the crowd for Jake’s tall figure. The mere thought of him sends an unwelcome jolt of dread through my system. Since the pipe incident, I’ve been caught in an emotional no-man’s-land, wanting both closure and distance in equal, impossible measure.
At the bar, Wendy orders wine for us both. I accept my glass with a smile, holding it mostly for appearance’s sake. The memory of my last drinking adventure remains too fresh, making me sick to my stomach at the mere scent of fermented grapes.
As the dance floor fills with laughing, swaying couples, a tall man from accounting—Brandon, I think—approaches us, extending a hand toward Wendy with a hopeful smile.
“Care to dance?” he asks, his voice almost drowned by the swell of music.
Wendy glances at me, her expression torn between excitement and loyalty.
“Go,” I insist, shooing her with my free hand. “Have fun. I’ll be fine right here with my… grape juice.”
She squeezes my arm in thanks before melting into the crowd, leaving me alone with my barely touched wine. The music’s quickening tempo sends a dull throb through my temples.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice the shadow falling across the bar until a voice—deep, familiar, and entirely too close—breaks through my reverie.
“You look absolutely incredible.”
I spin around and see Jake, handsome in a navy suit that hugs his body like it was tailored only for him. The dim ballroomlights catch the angles of his face, highlighting the jawline that seems to have gotten sharper with age. He looks so good, I have to fight the urge to bite my lower lip and give him the wrong impression.
“Thanks,” I manage, taking a strategic sip of wine to hide whatever expression might be betraying me. “You clean up nicely, too.” I turn away from him as I wait for the gag reflex to subside. No more alcohol for me tonight.
When it finally does, I find his lips tipped into that same crooked smirk that used to make my teenage knees go weak, and for one dangerous second, I’m seventeen again, waiting for him to kiss me under the bleachers.
“This is definitely a step up from those barn parties we used to go to,” Jake says, loud enough to cut through the music, his gaze sweeping the glittering ballroom before returning to mine. A genuine laugh escapes me before I can stop it, memories rising fast and bright. “No bonfires or hay bales tonight,” I say. “Just fancy cocktails and jazz.”
“The hay sure came in handy when we needed a moment alone.”
His words hang between us, heavy with meaning. Those nights tumble through my mind with painful clarity: us sneaking away from the crowd, finding a quiet corner in the loft where moonlight streamed through gaps in the weathered wood. Lying on scratchy hay that somehow felt like the softest bed in the world when his arms were around me. Gazing up at stars framed by the open hayloft door, whispering promises I was naive enough to believe.
Nostalgia wraps around my chest like a vice, squeezing until I can barely breathe. I need to end this conversation, find some excuse to walk away before I say something foolish. But before I can cobble together an escape plan, Jake extends his hand toward me in invitation.
