Page 7 of Christmas With The Tycoon

He hesitates as if he wants to say something more, but thinks better of it. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the soft swirl of snow outside. I exhale shakily.

Rosie appears at my elbow almost instantly. “So … you were saying you don’t have feelings about him?”

“I don’t,” I say weakly.

“Mm-hm,” she muses, handing me another chocolate. “Keep telling yourself that, dear.”

Chapter 5

Willow

By the time we reach the turnoff for Hearthstone Lodge, my hands are cramping from gripping the steering wheel. The road snakes upward through the trees, snowy pines crowding the edge of pavement, limbs sagging under fresh powder. It’s beautiful in that wild, untamed way only Montana manages, but the higher we climb, the heavier my emotions feel. It’s been quite a while since I’ve driven this road.

“Almost there,” Spencer says from the passenger seat of my SUV, like he’s reassuring me instead of himself. “They plowed yesterday. Should be fine.”

“Should be,” I echo.

In the backseat, Atlanta’s practically plastered to the window, breath fogging the glass. “I can’t believe I get to see it again,” she says. “The photos don’t do it justice.”

“You’ve been up here already?” I ask.

“Twice,” she replies. “Mr. Sinclair wanted multiple assessments before moving forward. We did a preliminary walk-through with just the core team, then a follow-up with Holden and structural notes.”

Of course he did. I swallow around the sting of that, focusing on the road. This is his third or fourth visit. My first in what, ten years? I wasn’t avoiding it. Not exactly. Life just moved downhill away from whatever this place used to be for me.

Spencer clears his throat. “Don’t worry, Willow. It’s still standing.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

We pull into the parking lot at the top, tires crunching over packed snow. Another SUV is already there, dark and glossy, parked with the kind of precision that screams business. Graham’s. Naturally, he’s early again.

He’s standing near the lodge’s sagging front steps when we climb out, coat open despite the cold, hands in his pockets like he has all the time in the world. The wind tugs at his hair, at the hem of his charcoal overcoat. For a second, he looks less like a developer and more like some ancient figure from a snow-dusted painting.

His gaze finds me, heat slicing through the frigid air.

“Ms. Grant,” he says. “Thank you for coming.”

I shut my door a little harder than necessary. “It’s my job.”

His mouth curves slightly. “I’m beginning to understand that you don’t do anything halfway.”

Spencer joins us, clapping his gloved hands together. “Well, look at her,” he mutters, eyes on the building. “She’s rough … but she’s not done yet.”

I follow his gaze and the breath rushes out of my lungs. Hearthstone Lodge rises from the snow like a forgotten monument. The once-proud roof droops in places, heavy with ice. The wraparound porch sags, railings broken or missingcompletely. The stone chimney stands tall, streaked with time and weather. Windows are boarded or cracked, some fogged from the inside with years of dust and neglect.

Time didn’t ruin her. It just… marked her. She’s a wreck, but she’s still beautiful.

Memories hit in flashes -- my gloved hand gripping my mother’s as we climbed these steps; strings of colored lights along the eaves; laughter spilling from the great room; the smell of woodsmoke, cinnamon and wet wool. I swallow hard against the sudden sting in my eyes.

Atlanta bounces on her toes. “Look at those beams,” she breathes. “And the chimney! Can you imagine when the fire was going …”

“Let’s get inside,” Holden says, joining us with a clipped nod. “Before the wind picks up.”

Graham gestures toward the entrance. “Careful on the steps. They’re not completely stable.”

Of course he would know that. He’s walked them before. As we climb, a board creaks ominously under my boot. Graham’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my elbow to steady me. Heat flares where he touches me, sharp and immediate.

“I’ve got it,” I say, maybe too quickly.