Page 13

The applause feels hollow, echoing across the sleek conference room as Editor-in-Chief Vivian Mercer holds up the latest issue of Venture magazine. My feature article on Angel's Peak dominates the cover—a breathtaking panorama captured during that golden sunset on my last evening there. My name sprawls across the bottom in elegant serif font: Cloe Bennett .

"This, people, is how you write a travel piece." Vivian taps her manicured nail against my byline. "Authentic. Immersive. Without turning into some invasive exposé on the locals."

Her praise should warm me. Instead, the air conditioning chills my skin despite the April sunshine streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The Manhattan skyline stretches beyond the glass—jagged, magnificent, utterly foreign after six weeks back in the city.

My colleagues nod appreciatively, several offering congratulatory smiles. I return them automatically, muscle memory taking over where genuine emotion fails. The article has already generated record engagement metrics, subscription bumps, and industry buzz. By every professional measure, it's the pinnacle of success.

So why does it feel like I'm standing at the bottom of a mountain I no longer want to climb?

"Shall we break for lunch? Cloe, my office at two." Vivian dismisses the editorial team with her typical brisk efficiency.

I gather my notebook, running fingers across the embossed leather cover—a gift to myself after my first major byline three years ago. Back when every achievement felt significant, every editor's nod validating. Before a mountain guide with storm-gray eyes and calloused hands showed me what it meant to genuinely connect with a place.

With a person.

A person unwilling to fight to keep me.

Jackson's face materializes in my mind, unbidden but never unwelcome. The stern line of his jaw softening as he finally allowed himself to laugh. The reverent way his fingers traced ridgelines on maps. The vulnerability in his voice when he finally spoke of Emma.

"You've been somewhere else for weeks."

I startle at Vivian's voice. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing me with the same penetrating gaze that's made her legendary in publishing circles. At forty-five, she embodies metropolitan success—tailored charcoal pantsuit, sleek silver bob, posture suggesting both authority and ease in wielding it.

"Just distracted by the Bainbridge assignment," I lie.

"Bullshit." Vivian steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her. "Your work is impeccable as always. But you're here—" she taps her temple, "—about sixty percent of the time. The rest of you never came back from Colorado."

My cheeks burn. Vivian has always possessed an unnerving ability to see through professional facades. It's what makes her both an exceptional editor and a terrifying boss.

"The Angel's Peak piece is your best work. Know why?" She doesn't wait for my response. "Because you actually gave a damn. You weren't just observing life—you were living it."

The truth in her assessment stings.

"The Simpson feature next week, then the magazine celebration at The Atrium. After that..." She scrutinizes me over sleek reading glasses. "Maybe we discuss some adjustments to your arrangement here."

Ice water floods my veins. "Are you firing me?"

Vivian's laugh is genuine, if short. "Quite the opposite. I'm trying to keep the best writer I've ever hired from sleepwalking through a career she's outgrown." She moves toward the door. "Wear something spectacular tomorrow night. The Atrium event is bringing every publishing heavyweight in the city."

She pauses at the threshold. "Oh, and Cloe? Whatever's holding your attention in Colorado? Might be worth examining why it's got such a grip."

The Atrium glitters with Manhattan opulence—a glass-domed sanctuary twenty floors above Columbus Circle, where crystal chandeliers refract light across white marble floors and verdant living walls. String quartet music weaves through the murmur of industry conversations. Champagne flows freely, paired with canapés crafted by some Michelin-starred chef whose name is highlighted in the invitation.

I adjust the neckline of my dress—midnight blue silk that cost more than I’m willing to admit—and plaster on my networking smile. Fashion editor Renata Marks approaches, trailing a cloud of exotic perfume.

"Darling, absolute triumph with the mountain piece." She air-kisses near both my cheeks. "Though honestly, who knew there was anything worth experiencing in some obscure Colorado town? Did you have to sleep in an actual cabin?"

My fingers tighten around the champagne flute. "Angel's Peak has unexpected depth."

"Well, it translated beautifully. Though I can't imagine spending more than the absolute required time there." She shivers theatrically. "No proper restaurants? No boutiques? What did you even do?"

Learn to navigate whiteout conditions.

Watch sunlight transform mountainsides into cathedrals.

Feel truly alive for perhaps the first time in my life.

"Research," I reply instead, taking another sip of champagne that no longer satisfies. The vintage Krug leaves nothing but bitterness on my tongue now.

Across the room, Vivian holds court with several publishing executives. She catches my eye, subtly tilting her head toward them—a clear invitation to join the career-advancing conversation.

Three months ago, I would have immediately gravitated to that circle, armed with carefully rehearsed insights and strategic questions. Now, I find myself moving toward the floor-to-ceiling windows instead, seeking the comfort of the open sky.

The city sprawls below in all its electric glory—a constellation of human ambition and ingenuity stretched across the darkness. Beautiful in its way, yet utterly different from the star-strewn sky above Angel's Peak. Here, even the brightest stars are rendered invisible by the city's relentless illumination.

Just like pieces of myself have become invisible amid professional aspirations.

"Ms. Bennett?"

I turn toward the unfamiliar voice—a young attendant in crisp black attire.

"Someone’s asking for you at reception. Says it's important."

Curiosity pulls me from my window refuge. Perhaps a latecomer from the West Coast bureau? Or another editor hoping to poach me, as occasionally happens at these functions?

The elevator bank sits removed from the main celebration, soft lighting replacing the brilliant display of the main hall. I round the corner and stop dead.

Jackson Hart stands by the reception desk.

My heart performs a complex acrobatic sequence in my chest. He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal button-down—clearly his version of formal attire—with his hair actually combed, though one rebellious wave falls across his forehead and curls above his brow. He looks simultaneously uncomfortable and determined, shifting his weight in shoes that appear suspiciously new.

"Jackson?" His name escapes in a whisper.

He turns, his expression transforming from uncertainty to something akin to relief.

"Cloe."

Just my name, in that low, slightly rough voice that's haunted my dreams for six weeks. He takes a half step forward, then stops, suddenly seeming aware of our surroundings—the sleek modern lobby with its abstract art and uniformed staff.

"What are you doing in New York?" The question emerges more breathlessly than intended.

"Reading." His lips quirk in that almost-smile that I've missed with embarrassing intensity. From his jacket pocket, he produces a folded copy of Venture magazine. "You made the mountain sound beautiful."

"It is beautiful."

"Not the way most city people see it."

We stand in suspended animation, three feet apart yet separated by worlds. Behind me, string music and cultivated laughter filter from the celebration. Before me stands a man who belongs to granite peaks and pine forests, looking as out of place in this chrome and glass environment as a wolf in a perfumery.

Shadows linger beneath his eyes, suggesting troubled sleep. The familiar scar across his left knuckles stands out against tanned skin, but something in his posture has shifted—a subtle easing of the rigid guard he maintained on the mountain.

"You didn't mention Emma in the article." He says this quietly, gratitude evident in his tone.

"It wasn't my story to tell."

His eyes hold mine, storm-gray intensity that sees beyond practiced social veneers. "But you told all the other stories perfectly. The mountain after fresh snow. The way light changes the north face at sunset. That ridiculous coffee shop where Mabel threatens customers who request almond milk."

A startled laugh escapes me. "She nearly banished me when I asked for soy."

"She references 'that city girl journalist' at least twice weekly." His expression softens. "The town misses you."

The unspoken question lingers between us—does he?

Jackson shifts, reaching into his jacket again. This time he withdraws a small object, cradling it momentarily before extending his hand toward me.

A compass rests in his palm—vintage brass with a weathered leather case, clearly well-used but meticulously maintained.

"Emma's," he says, answering my unasked question. "It's saved my life more times than I can count."

The significance of this offering steals my breath. I make no move to take it, understanding the magnitude of what he's sharing.

"There was an accident on the north face three weeks ago." His voice remains steady, but tension threads through his posture. "Family of four. Intermediate hikers who ignored weather warnings. Got caught in a sudden spring storm."

My journalist's instincts prickle. "The Sandovals? I saw something online?—"

"All four made it down alive." His jaw tightens. "But only because someone went up after them."

Understanding dawns slowly. "You led a rescue. The exact kind of rescue?—"

"That killed Emma. Yes." His eyes meet mine unflinchingly. "I've spent years avoiding those calls, letting others take the high-risk rescues. Telling myself it was because they were better qualified."

"But really, it was fear," I finish softly.

"Turns out I was more afraid of living half a life than facing that mountain again." Something vulnerable crosses his expression. "Your article arrived the day before the call came in. Reading how you saw Angel's Peak—how you saw potential where I only saw pain—it shifted something inside of me."

He extends the compass again, this time with gentle insistence. "Emma would want you to have this. She believed tools should go to people who'd use them to explore, not those who'd lock them away as memorials."

My fingers brush his as I accept the compass. Its weight feels significant beyond its physical presence—a talisman of both past tragedy and future possibility.

"Jackson, I don't understand why you're here."

"That storm on the mountain?" He gestures vaguely upward as though the snow-capped peaks of Colorado might be visible through Manhattan's light pollution. "You called it a whiteout in your article. Said it was terrifying and beautiful at once—how everything familiar disappeared, forcing you to navigate by other means."

I nod, remembering the disorienting swirl of white, the way Jackson became my only reference point.

"I've been living in a different kind of whiteout since Emma died." His voice drops, meant only for me despite the empty lobby. "Using grief as an excuse to stop moving forward. Reading your words, I realized I've been deliberately staying lost."

He steps closer, the subtle scent of pine and mountain air somehow still clinging to him despite the city surroundings.

“The day after the rescue…” His voice scrapes raw, words dragged from somewhere deep. “I hiked to Emma’s favorite summit.” He looks up, eyes shadowed with memory and something fiercer—something new. “First time since she died. I told her about you.”

A string quartet surges in the distance, each note winding through the cold Manhattan air like a thread pulling me toward him. The music crescendos—sharp, aching—as if the whole world knows what he’s about to say.

“I can’t keep living between what was and what might be.” His hands flex at his sides. Not shaking. But close. Those hands that pulled me out of the storm and held me through the night. Calloused. Steady. Honest.

“I guide summer expeditions on Angel’s Peak. But winters…” His voice dips, low and rough, eyes never leaving mine. “I could base winters wherever your work takes you. Manhattan, if needed.”

A pause. Not hesitation—just breath. Just the beat before everything changes.

“I should’ve asked you to stay.” His voice is hoarse with the weight of regret. “You certainly gave me enough opportunity to ask. I realize that now. I’ve thought about it every damn day since I let you walk out of my life.”

His eyes lock on mine, unflinching. “I want to be with you. I need to be part of your life.”

Each word hits like a heartbeat—steady, deliberate, devastating.

“Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.” He takes a slow step closer, like he’s afraid he’s already lost me. “I’m in.”

The words hang between us, weighted with everything he’s never said. His jaw tightens, and for the first time, his eyes flicker—not with resolve, but with fear. The kind that lives deep in the bones. The kind that only comes when you care too much.

“But only if…” His voice breaks slightly, barely audible over the pulse roaring in my ears. “Only if you still want me. If I haven’t already wrecked this beyond repair.”

His shoulders go still. Braced for the blow.

Not because he doesn’t mean every word.

But because he’s terrified it might be too late to say them.

It couldn’t be more perfectly Jackson Hart.

No grand gesture. No fanfare.

Just a man, standing in the middle of a city he doesn’t belong to, offering his heart like it’s the only thing he has left—and the only thing that matters.

A laugh escapes me—sharp, stunned, soaked in disbelief, and something dangerously close to joy.

Jackson’s brow furrows. His jaw tightens. That flicker of uncertainty flashes in his eyes, like he’s bracing for rejection. Again.

I take a breath, pulse skittering. “I shouldn’t have walked away.”

His gaze snaps to mine.

“I gave you every chance to ask me to stay, but I should’ve stayed anyway. I told myself I was giving you space, letting you go with dignity.” My throat thickens. “But the truth is, I left my heart in Angel’s Peak. And the minute I got back here, I started figuring out how to get it back.”

His expression shifts—hope warring with disbelief.

“Yesterday, I submitted a proposal to Vivian—my editor at the magazine,” I add, stepping closer. “Remote work. Based in Angel’s Peak. Travel for major assignments. Quarterly office visits.”

His breath stutters. “You?—”

“It’s already approved. I start next month.” The words settle between us, anchoring something that had been weightless and uncertain for too long. “I tried convincing myself I belonged here. That Angel’s Peak was just another story. But?—”

“The mountain gets in your blood,” he says.

“No.” I shake my head, locking eyes with him. “ You did.”

He exhales like I just punched the air back into his lungs.

Then he moves.

One step. Two. And I’m in his arms, hauled against his chest with a force that steals my breath.

His mouth crashes down on mine—hot, hungry, claiming.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s weeks of want. Of regret. Of everything we didn’t say. His hands grip my waist, fingers digging in like he’s making sure I’m real.

I kiss him back just as hard.

Around us, the gala swirls—clinking glasses, muted laughter, a string quartet playing something delicate and expensive.

But I only feel him—solid and steady and finally mine.

* * *

Still thinking about Cloe and Jackson?

Yeah… we are too.

If you want just a little more of their happily ever after—one more moment that’ll make you smile, sigh, and maybe clutch your Kindle a little tighter?—