Invisible unless you know where to look.
Behind it sits the elevator.
My elevator.
A silent steel box that moves through the bones of the hotel like a ghost.
Hidden exits on every floor. From the penthouse suites to the lobby, ballrooms to the grand hall.
No staff member knows it exists. No guest ever sees it. And I hold the only key card that makes it run. My great-great-grandfather installed the system when the hotel was under construction. He believed a man should always be able to observe his kingdom without being seen.
A philosophy I’ve come to appreciate.
Diana clears her throat lightly. “Porter.”
My gaze returns to her. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if you will be having dinner here tonight. I’ll be working late, and I thought maybe we could dine together. Or perhaps grab a nightcap later?”
I glance back at the computer screen.
Harleigh’s photo stares up at me again. I take another sip of scotch.
Then I lean back in the chair and say calmly, “It’s been a long day. I think I’m just going to have food brought down to take home this evening.”
Diana’s smile falters. It’s always the same question and the same answer.
“Another time?”
A patient smile spreads across my face. “Of course.”
The drive back to Wildhaven Storm Ranch is a relief.
All day, I’ve been inside polished hallways, trying my best to memorize names and faces while listening to a choir of voices echoing in the high ceilings. The moment my tires leave the paved county road and turn onto the familiar gravel drive, my entire body relaxes.
The mountains stretch wide in the distance, the late afternoon sun turning the peaks orange and purple. Wind moves through the tall grass, and the ranch spreads out across the valley, welcoming me home.
My shoulders drop.
No marble. No chandeliers. No people judging what I’m wearing.
Just Wildhaven.
I pull my old Kia beside the main barn and shut off the engine. For a second, I sit there, gripping the steering wheel.
The dashboard rattles softly as the motor settles.
“You did good today,” I mutter to the car.
It’s probably ridiculous to talk to a car, but this one and I have history.
Four years of driving back and forth between Wildhaven and Laramie. Snowstorms. Late-night drives home for long weekends and holidays. Flat tires. Check Engine light. Coffee spills.
It deserves respect.
I grab my messenger bag from the passenger seat, shove the door open with my hip, and step into the familiar smell of hay, leather, and horses.
God, I love that smell.
