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MAKAYLA

“ H old the plane!”

I sprint, but I’m too late—the boarding gate is already locked.

“I’m sorry, boarding has finished, and we can’t let anyone else on,” a clerk says.

“But I can see it right there,” I tell her, pointing to the jet idling outside the window.

“Boarding is complete, ma’am,” she says, her tone flat.

“Please, you don’t understand. I’m supposed to meet my brother in Stockholm, and if I’m not on that plane, he’s going to be so disappointed. He needs me there,” I say, my voice rising.

She shakes her head. “Would you like me to look for the next available flight?”

“I want a seat on that flight,” I say, jabbing my finger toward the window.

The ticket taker sneers. “Ma’am, do I have to call security?”

I can almost see the dismayed look on Bryan’s face when I do make it to Stockholm. It’s a look I will never be able to live down. As if the universe hasn’t tested me enough these past couple of weeks.

I exhale. “Fine,” I say to the ticket clerk. “I’ll take another flight.”

“Right this way.” She leads me to another computer terminal, then leaves to finalize the paperwork for the flight I just missed.

I drum my fingernails on the counter, impatience thrumming through me.

Maybe Bryan’s already settled into the chalet.

I hope he’s enjoying the mountain views and good company.

I wish I were with him, but I’m staring at an eight-hour flight and who knows how much time before the next plane takes off.

The ticket clerk returns and gives me a tight smile. My heart stutters, still hoping for the best.

“How many passengers will be traveling with you?” she asks.

I look around. “It’s just me.”

“Would you be open to a layover in London?”

“Sure.”

“Great,” she says. “There’s a flight leaving in an hour from Gate A15.”

I exhale. “Thank you.” One hour isn’t so bad. I wasn’t expecting a layover, but beggars can’t be choosers. I grab the ticket from her and hightail it to the right gate.

This time, I’m among the first to board.

I make my way to my seat, thrilled that I scored a window.

I open the shade to look out at the tarmac.

Airport staff buzz around like bees as they load our bags into the plane.

I hunt through my carry-on for my earbuds and sync my phone to the plane’s Wi-Fi.

I’m all ready to go by the time the last passenger arrives.

The Wi-Fi flickers and the ride turns bumpy, but as long as I can stare out at the clouds and the faint curve of Earth below, I’m content.

During my London layover, I kill two hours nursing a coffee and sampling local pastries, even splurging on a flaky Cornish pasty.

Touching down in Stockholm, I don’t expect anyone to meet me, though I’ve texted Bryan.

“He needs his rest; I’m the one who’s late. I’ve got this,” I tell myself.

I grab my bags, already wishing I’d packed lighter. I haul them up the long ramp to the front door and step inside, barely noticing the shift from outdoor frost to the lobby’s cozy warmth.

The place is stunning with three enormous Christmas trees lighting up the lobby.

Tinsel and tiny white lights sparkle everywhere, and I love how the decorators have kept it professional yet still warm.

“Makayla?”

A gentleman in his mid-fifties approaches, glancing at his phone between steps. At first glance, he looks like a movie-perfect chauffeur. He wears a dark suit and leather gloves, his silver hair neatly trimmed, his smile warm. Right then, my phone pings with a text from Bryan.

“Your driver should be at the airport—Hans. Great guy,” he writes.

“I’m Makayla,” I tell the silver-haired gentleman.

“I’m Hans, your driver. Allow me to take your luggage,” he says.

I can’t help but smile. “Honestly, I’m so tired, I wouldn’t dare stop you.”

“Please, it’s my pleasure.”

I’d almost forgotten how fluent most Swedes are in English; he even nails a faint American accent. Grateful, I let him carry my luggage and follow him across the parking lot to a sleek yet sturdy SUV, its taxi light glowing and license neatly taped to the windshield and rear doors.

He loads everything into the back, then helps me climb in. “Make yourself comfortable. It’s about a two-hour drive.”

“Thank you.” I sink into the seat, doing exactly that.

You’re almost there, Makayla. Almost there.

T he Golden Stag crowns a ridge of snow-capped mountains that glitter like diamonds under the starry sky. The sight gives me pause. It’s gorgeous—a blend of classic architecture and modern lighting—and I’ll bet the views are even more breathtaking in daylight.

Hans brings my luggage all the way in, then politely shakes my hand and leaves me to marvel at the even more impressive interior, starting with the sumptuous lobby clad in festive red velvet and gold tinsel.

I can’t stop staring at the centerpiece—a massive crystal chandelier that sparkles overhead.

Still, I have a bed to crash into, so I look around for the front desk.

I spot my brother napping in an armchair across the room. He opens his eyes, sensing my presence. I’m moved by his insistence on meeting me at the end of my journey, when he could have been sleeping in his own bed.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, giving him a hug. “It’s been a day.”

“You could have come with me three days ago,” he says.

“When we first made these travel plans, I had a job. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to take any time off,” I say, my voice low.

“But you’re here now,” Bryan says, still trying to catch up.

“I quit, and I’d love to give you the details, but right now I can’t even think straight,” I reply. “Give me a night to sleep on it, and I’ll explain what happened in the morning.”

“Of course,” he says. “The most important thing is that you’re okay. Are you okay?”

“I’ll be better after a shower and a solid eight hours of rest,” I promise. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I think I finally got the kick in the rear I needed to open that winery.”

“Makayla, that’s great. You’ve always been passionate about wine,” he says. “Mom and Dad would be thrilled for you.”

“I know they would,” I say, a quiet pang tugging at my heart.

Bryan walks me up to the reception desk and takes control. He gets my key card and hands it to me before grabbing both of my bags and heading toward the elevator.

“I can carry one,” I protest. “I’m tired, not helpless, big bro.”

“No way,” he says. “I’ve seen that look before. If I don’t help, you’ll toss my Power Rangers action figures out the window again.”

I shake my head. “That was one time.”

“I never found the Blue Ranger,” Bryan says, adding a dramatic pout.

“Stop,” I say, too tired to laugh.

“Fine,” he says, punching the elevator button. “I’ll just make sure you get to your room and then leave you in peace.”

I sigh. “Sorry. I’m out of sorts and taking it out on you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “It took me hours to unwind after my flight, and mine was a lot smoother.”

There’s a moment of silence and I lean against him. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and gives me a reassuring squeeze. The elevator doors slide open, and we pile in with my bags crowding our feet.

“Before we get to your room,” Bryan says, drawing a deep breath.

“What?” I ask.

“I have some friends who’ll be sharing your suite. I hope you don’t mind.”

“As long as I have a bed to crawl into for the rest of the night, I’m good,” I tell him.

“Of course,” he says. “You still have your own bathroom—there’ll just be other people in the common areas.”

“That’s fine,” I say. At this point, I don’t care if my suitemates are circus clowns, as long as they can stay quiet for a few precious hours.

“Great,” Bryan says.

The elevator glides to the second floor and opens onto a common area nearly as grand as the lobby. Bryan turns left and leads me down a hallway fit for Buckingham Palace.

I take a moment to appreciate the splendor. Tomorrow morning, I’ll wake up in the lap of luxury and truly be able to enjoy my surroundings. I can’t wait to sink into the comforter and stretch out on a ten-thousand-dollar mattress.

Bryan pauses where the hallway splits. “One more thing,” he says. “I’m sorry—you’re exhausted, and this is terrible timing.”

I raise an eyebrow.

He sets my bags down and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a tiny velvet-lined box and flips it open, revealing a stunning diamond solitaire on a gold band.

My brain jolts back to life. This must be why Bryan asked me here.

“Holy smokes. Is that what I think it is? You’re proposing to Callie?” I gasp, flinging my arms around him. “I’m honored you’d want me here for this!”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, sis,” he says.

I take the box from him and lift the ring out for a closer inspection. The cut is perfect, and the gold band is neither too thick nor too thin. I slip it back into its cushion and hand it over.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

“I hope so,” Bryan says, worry creasing his brow.

“Are you kidding?” I ask, giving his arm a gentle pinch. “She loves you. You know that.”

“Still… What if she has something else in mind for the proposal?” he asks, panic edging his voice.

“We’ve never really talked about it. What if she wants a waterfall?

Or a beach at sunset with a thousand candles?

I chose this place because she’s always raving about the mountains in winter, but now I’m second-guessing everything.

What if I blow it and she decides she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life with me? ”

“That’s ridiculous,” I tell him. “You’re overthinking this, Bry. First, that top-grade rock alone would earn you an instant yes. Second, she loves you so much you could propose with a cereal-box toy ring and she’d still say yes.”

“You could’ve led with the ‘she loves me’ part instead of the ‘she’s going for the diamond size’ part,” Bryan says, half smiling.

I laugh. “I stand by my words. And you know it. These are just proposal jitters, big brother. From what I’ve seen, this place is perfect—a ski chalet in the mountains is a ten out of ten on the romance scale.

Plus, I’ve heard you two tossing around baby names and even preschool options.

She’s ready to settle down, and you’re her guy.

Now, where’s this suite so I can get horizontal ASAP? ”

Bryan laughs. “Don’t let your suitemates hear you talk like that.”

“Why? Who are they?” I ask, suddenly suspicious.

“You remember the Anderson triplets?” Bryan says.

His innocent question, tossed out as if it were completely irrelevant, hits me like a runaway train. It feels like a kick to the gut, and I fight not to double over. I brace a hand against the wall, the cold marble grounding me.

“The Anderson triplets,” I say under my breath.

“Clearly, you remember them,” Bryan says, amusement coloring his voice. “They were always over at the house?—”

“I was there, yes,” I assure him.

The problem isn’t that I forgot Bryan’s three best friends—it’s that I’ve spent far too much time remembering them. The last time I saw them, I was in high school, and I couldn’t wait to be a woman so they’d look at me differently.

Here I am—a woman with a few boyfriends in the rearview and a heart hungry for more.

I never forgot the gorgeous, fun-loving guys my brother spent most of his youth with. I had a massive crush on them—not just on one, but on all three. They were identical, yet each had his own quirks.

I could tell them apart only because I’d spent years studying their subtle differences. I used to make up any excuse I could to be in the room when they were around. I even taught myself to play Grand Theft Auto just to share the same couch with them—elbow to elbow in deliciously cramped quarters.

“I’m going to be sharing a suite with…”

“The triplets,” Bryan finishes for me. “Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” I say, my voice higher than I’d like. “I haven’t seen them in years, but we’ll pick up right where we left off. I just want a shower.”

“And then get horizontal?” Bryan says with a grin.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Here it is.” He points to a doorway across the hall.

I swipe the keycard, holding my breath the whole time.

“Let me take your bags inside for you,” Bryan says.

“I’ve got them,” I say. “You’ve done enough—I don’t want to bother you anymore.”

“It’s not a bother,” he says.

I step inside the suite, barely registering any of the decor.

It’s open concept, with three plush leather couches curved around a massive wall-mounted TV.

In the back, a full-sized kitchen with marble countertops is tucked behind an island and four bar stools.

Four doors branch off to what must be separate bedrooms; only one stands open.

“That must be mine,” I say.

Bryan brushes past me to haul my luggage into the open bedroom. But I hang back, eyeing the three other doors and the triplet treasure hidden behind them. How am I supposed to survive an entire vacation with the three hottest men on the planet?