AVA
How about trivia night at the Broken Prong? I text to my girlfriends. It’s been a few weeks since we made the other tables cry.
I don’t have a babysitter, Callie replies. Could we do drinks at my place? I’ll make frosé.
Sure, I reply immediately.
I’m sorry! Callie says. I know it’s more fun to get off the mountain!
She isn’t wrong. I spend entirely too many hours on this property. I haven’t had a real vacation in years. That’s the first thing I’m going to do when the sale of Madigan Mountain goes through—book a trip somewhere and put my two-week vacation on the calendar. It doesn’t matter where, just as long as I’m not responsible for calling a plumber if a pipe breaks or soothing a finicky guest when all the spa appointments are booked up.
In the meantime, Tuesday night is always girls’ night, no exceptions. And it wouldn’t be the same without Callie. Don’t worry about it, I assure her. We always have fun. What can I bring?
How about brownies? Callie suggests.
Then our friend Raven chimes in. I love Ava’s brownies! And so do my hips. I’m down for frozen pink wine at Callie’s.
“Ava!” my boss calls from the inner office. “Can you make my keys sing? I can’t find them!”
“Yep!” I yell back. “Hang on.” I wake up my computer and pull up the app I use to keep Mark Madigan organized. I hit a big orange button on the screen, and a moment later I hear the telltale chime of the hotelier’s keys in the other room.
“Found ’em!” he yells.
Of course he did. I pick up my hot chocolate mug and drain the last of my afternoon treat. In the text thread, Raven has sent us a funny gif of a woman drinking wine from a fishbowl. So I’m grinning down at my phone when a deep voice says. “Excuse me, is he in there?”
Before I can even look up, my heart skips a beat. That voice. It’s straight from my past. And by the time I turn my head to find him in the doorway, I’m already trembling.
Holy crap.
Holy.
Crap.
Reed Madigan is standing there. Right there on the carpet in front of my desk. I’m so startled that my hot chocolate mug slips out of my hands. It hits the slate coaster on my desk hard, and at a bad angle. And then my favorite mug—my lucky mug—makes an unholy cracking noise, before splitting into two pieces right in front of me.
Oh my God. Now I don’t even know where to look—at the ooze of chocolate spreading toward my keyboard? Or up into the startled eyes of the only man I’ve ever loved.
“Ava?” Reed says slowly. Like he can’t believe his eyes, either. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. So I’m just stuck here, staring at him with a flattened heart and a spinning mind. Although I’m not too startled to notice that Reed looks good. That dark wavy hair is just as thick as ever. And I’d forgotten how the dark scruff on his face accentuates the chiseled line of his jaw.
But a few details are new and unexpected—like the hipster glasses, which only accentuate his big, dark eyes. His navy suit and crisp, white shirt with a deep green tie are a far cry from the flannel shirts he wore when he was a college boy. The effect is much more stern, and also expensive.
Jesus Christ, that is just not fair. He looks hotter at thirty-two than he did at twenty-two.
That’s how old he was the last time I saw him—when he dumped me just before my February graduation from Middlebury College in Vermont.
“Ava,” he clips. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”
The unfriendly tone makes me die a little inside. But it also snaps me out of my haze. Ten years—that’s how long it’s been. My anger for him is like hot coals—toasty and dormant, but ready to flame up again. “I’m working,” I say sharply. “This is my desk.”
I try to bring the two halves of my mug together again. As if that would actually work. But my mind is full of static.
“Working,” he repeats slowly, as if I’d been speaking a language that’s new to him. “Here?”
“Here,” I say firmly. As if it’s perfectly normal to move to the tiny town where your ex grew up and take a job working with his father.
“For how long?” he demands, crossing his arms in front of a chest that’s even broader than it used to be back when we used to rip each other’s clothes off.
Do not picture him naked, I order myself, because things are about to get even more awkward. “Going on ten years now.”
His kissable mouth tightens. “Ten years?” His eyes narrow as he stares down at me.
So many times I’ve pictured this moment—coming face to face with Reed again. I always knew it would sting. And I always knew he’d be surprised.
But he sounds so bitter. I don’t know what to do with that. The Reed I knew in college was a little wild and a whole lot of fun. At least until the end.
Now we’re having a staring contest, and I don’t think I’m winning.
The door to Mr. Madigan’s office suddenly swings open, and Reed has to look away from me to face his dad.
“Okay, which son is this?” The older man rubs his chin. “Weston, right?”
My ex actually pales. “It’s Reed, Dad. Jesus. Are you okay? Why didn’t anybody tell me things had gotten so out of hand?”
Mark Madigan lets out a shout of laughter and grabs his son by both shoulders. “Reed! When did you become so gullible? Aren’t you always telling me that you’re the shrewd one in the family? You think I can’t recognize you? Christ—you’re wearing this same tie in your email avatar. Who shows up at a ski resort in a tie?”
Reed glances down at himself. “I came from work!”
A laugh gurgles out of me. Reed’s bafflement is too much. That suit, unfortunately, looks sharp as hell on him. It’s expertly tailored, and the white shirt shows off the subtle olive tone of his skin. The women who work at Reed’s office in Silicon Valley probably enjoy the view every time he walks through the office…
Stop it, Ava, I admonish myself. I don’t like Reed Madigan anymore. I wish he’d never turned up today, and I can’t wait to find out when he’ll be leaving.
I hope it’s soon.
“Dad, we need to talk,” he says.
“This is about the sale, yeah? I thought you might show up to ‘advise me.’” Mark makes air quotes with his fingers. “But I got a hell of a price for the place, Reed. And there’s a lot of cash upfront. Even you won’t be able to say this is a bad idea.”
“Cash upfront,” Reed says slowly. “How much cash are we talking about, here?”
His father raises one bushy eyebrow. “You worried about your cut?”
“No,” Reed spits. “Not at all. But I know how these deals work. I know the math. I know the pitfalls. I know where the bodies are buried, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Yeah?” Mark regards him quietly for a long beat. “If you care so much, maybe you should come home more often than every ten years. How’s that for math? You want a voice in what happens here? Then where the fuck have you been?”
Uh-oh. I brace myself, because Mark Madigan doesn’t raise his voice very often.
But Reed doesn’t yell back. His calmness is one of the things that drew me to him in the first place. He takes a slow breath, and I watch him visibly master himself. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Fair point.”
They stare at each other for another beat, until Mark lets out a sigh. “Look, come to the house with me. Meet Melody. Say hello…”
“Melody,” Reed says quietly. Like he’s trying out the word on his tongue.
“You’ll love her,” the boss says even as Reed’s face grows more skeptical. “We’ll have a few of her lavender shortbread cookies, and then I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about the offer from Sharpe.”
“Yeah, okay,” Reed says with a nod. “Good plan.”
“Let me grab my coat.” Mark heads back into his office, and Reed follows him.
I sit back in my desk chair, carefully moving the pieces of my cracked mug to the side. I can probably repair it once my heart rate drops back into the normal range. To keep my hands busy, I open a desk drawer and start looking for the super glue.
But I’m also eavesdropping.
“How long are you staying?” Mark asks his son.
“Few days,” is Reed’s reply.
I give a mental fist pump. I can survive a few days with Reed on the property. Then he’ll go away for ten more years, and I won’t have to think about him again.
“I’ll need a room,” Reed adds.
“Talk to Ava,” his father replies. “Ava! Can you make my keys sing one more time? And find a room for Reed?”
“Sure!” I call, reaching for the keyboard. The tracking beacon I put on Mark’s keychain gets a lot of use. I tap the screen a few times, and the telltale strains of Let It Snow begin to trill again from somewhere in the inner office.
“Found ’em!”
Before I’m ready, Reed appears in front of my desk, that grumpy frown still on his face.
Bracing myself, I paste on as cool an expression as a girl can muster when she’s looking up at the one man who destroyed her heart.
“Dad says I should ask you for a room. But I can go to the front desk if that’s easier.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I handle all the comp rooms.” And the room blocks. And the wedding bookings. And the long-term rentals, the entertainment bookings, all major purchases, and about a thousand other things.
I am the backbone of Madigan Mountain, and Reed has no idea at all.
With this calming thought, I reach for my keyboard and click over to the reservations system. It’s only November, so we have some availability, especially in the best, most expensive hotel suites.
A sobering thought makes my fingers stall over the keyboard. If I put Reed in the renovated Vista Suite, he might never want to leave. That room has a jacuzzi tub in the glass-walled bathroom where you can watch the sun set over the mountain while you soak. There’s also a big-screen TV and a fireplace. It’s like a slice of heaven.
But I need Reed Madigan gone. The sale of the resort will be good for everyone involved. It will make the Madigan family even richer than they already are. It’ll allow Mark Madigan to retire, and that man is ready to start this new chapter of his life. He deserves it.
Last but not least, it’s going to give me a promotion and a raise. And—best of all—a two-week vacation. I haven’t had more than a few days off in a row in five years.
Reed Madigan is not going to screw this up for his dad, who’s finally found happiness. Or for me. I won’t allow it.
“Okay, wow, we’re pretty booked up,” I say, squinting at the screen. “You might have to stay with your dad and his new wife.” That ought to get him out of here. Even cool, collected Reed wouldn’t be immune to the awkwardness of sleeping in his childhood bedroom while elsewhere in the house his father behaved like a lovesick newlywed.
“There must be something else,” Reed insists. “It’s only November.”
“Yes, but…” I nod rapidly, because lying doesn’t come naturally to me. “It’s the Penny Ridge Brewfest this weekend.” That’s the honest truth, although Madigan Mountain is too far out of town and too pricey to fill up on a Brewfest weekend before the ski season properly begins.
“What about employee rooms?” he asks. “Don’t try to tell me that you’ve got a full house of lift operators this early in the season.”
“Right, right.” He’s just given me another evil idea. “That’s a good plan. I can put you in a staff room.” We’ve got space on the property for more than thirty staff members. There are twelve employee apartments, plus a two-story lodge containing dormitory-style rooms.
Think Dirty Dancing, only with less dancing and more snow. It’s hard to staff a seasonal ski mountain in a tiny town, so we need to make it easy for seasonal workers to stay nearby. The smaller rooms aren’t stylish, but they sure are convenient for housing the youngsters from Denmark and Germany and New Zealand who spend their winters working for low pay and a free ski pass.
“I’ll take it, whatever it is,” Reed mutters.
“Suit yourself!” I reach into a drawer and fish out a key. It’s for unit number twenty-five, which is the smallest, darkest one. The heat pipes clank, and there’s a wicked draft under the door.
But that’s the key I offer him. And I’m not even sorry.
