Page 8 of Christmas With The Tycoon

His hand lingers half a second longer than necessary before he lets go. “Didn’t say you didn’t,” he murmurs. His touch is strong and confident, like he doesn’t doubt for a second I’ll let him catch me.

Inside, the air is cold and still, carrying the faint scent of old wood and something sweet and long-faded like the ghost of Christmases past.

The lobby is dim, light filtering through dirty windows and cracks in the boards. Dust covers every surface, glittering in the shafts of pale sun. The reception counter still stands, its once-polished wood scarred and dulled. An old brass bell rests on top, green with tarnish.

Atlanta spins slowly, taking it all in. “It’s like walking into a photograph,” she whispers.

I move deeper into the room, boots crunching over broken glass and debris. My gaze catches on the far wall, where a faded mural of the surrounding mountains still clings, paint chipped but recognizable. I remember standing here as a child, tracing the painted ridgelines with my eyes, convinced I could feel the whole world contained in this lobby.

“What do you remember most?” Graham’s voice comes from just behind me.

I stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“You grew up coming here,” he says. “You said as much.”

Embarrassment rises in me.Had I sounded that sentimental? I don’t owe him this. He doesn’t get this part of me.

“Everyone in Hope Peak came here,” I say carefully. “It was the place for winter events. Holiday banquets. School dances. Fundraisers.”

“And you?” he presses, soft but insistent. “What was it to you?”

I should shut him down. Remind him that my personal history has no bearing on zoning codes. Instead, my mouth betrays me. “I remember the tree,” I admit. “Every year, right in that corner.” I point to a space where only a dead electrical outlet remains. “It was massive. Almost touched the rafters.”

Spencer chuckles. “Took six men to get it upright most years.”

“We’d have hot chocolate and carols and the worst homemade ornaments,” I continue before I can stop myself. “My grandmother always insisted we take our picture in front of it. Said it was ‘for posterity.’”

Silence settles, thick and strange. When I finally glance back at Graham, his expression has changed. There’s still calculation there. He’s always calculating, but something gentler has joined it. Understanding. Curiosity. A quiet kind of respect.

“This place mattered to you,” he says.

“It mattered to everyone,” I correct.

“Still,” he says. “You talk about it like it’s … family.”

My throat tightens. “Maybe it is.”

Holden clears his throat from behind us. “Structural assessment first, emotional revelations later, please.”

Graham recovers faster than I do, pivoting into business. “Right. The roof needs full reinforcement and replacement. Plumbing and electrical have to be replaced entirely. But the bones are solid, better than some active properties I’ve seen.”

He starts walking, and we follow through the lobby, past the closed doors of what used to be a lounge, into the great room. Even ruined, it’s breathtaking.

A massive stone fireplace dominates the far wall, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows. Snowy peaks loom beyond the glass, faint and majestic through the grime. The hardwood floor is warped in places, water-damaged from a leak, but the pattern is still visible.

Atlanta actually presses a hand to her heart. “Oh,” she says. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s a disaster,” Spencer corrects. “But a salvageable one.”

Graham stands in the center of the room, turning in a slow circle. “This,” he says, “is what we build everything around.”

I cross my arms. “Define ‘everything’ please.”

He glances at me. “You know the broad strokes from the proposal. Restoring the lodge. Creating a high-end winter retreat experience. Bringing in curated dining and retail.”

“Curated,” I repeat. “Is that the new word for overcrowded?”

He huffs out a breath that almost looks like a laugh. “Curated means intentional. Thoughtful. Limited.”