A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain)

REED

I watch out of the corner of my eye as Ava and the chef discuss dinner. It’s tempting to say that she looks exactly the same. After all, she’s just as beautiful now as she was at twenty-two. She has the same bright, intelligent eyes. She listens with her whole being, and her smile still lights up her face.

But I can see changes. Her face is leaner, which makes her eyes look enormous. And she’s rocking a V-neck silk blouse that’s much more sophisticated than the clothes she wore in college.

She looks incredible. It’s hard to look away. I wonder how I ever walked away from this woman.

I did, though. And I’m going to do it again in a few days. Of course I am.

Although it will feel strange to drive back to the airport and cut ties again—with Ava, and with Madigan Mountain. When I was a young man, I gave both of them up. At this very moment, I can’t say for sure that it was the right decision.

But it happened. So I have to live with it.

My head is too muddled to work, so I get up, taking my laptop bag with me. I leave Ava and the chef and head to the front desk to get a key to the Vista Suite.

The young woman working there gets flustered when she realizes who I am. “I can have it ready in thirty minutes, Mr. Madigan,” she says, gripping a walkie-talkie that they must use to page the housekeeping staff. “I’ll make sure it’s our highest priority.”

“I’ll wait if your staff is busy.”

“It’s no problem, sir. Do you have baggage?”

We all have baggage. “It’s handled. See you in thirty.”

An hour later, I’ve moved my things from the worst room in the staff quarters into the appropriately named Vista Suite. The living room windows provide sweeping views of the mountain range. In the bedroom, I find a king-sized bed done up with crisp white linens. There are thickly woven bathrobes hanging in the luxurious bathroom beside the soaking tub.

I haven’t seen a Madigan Mountain guest room for over a decade, and I honestly didn’t know the place was this nice. Someone’s been keeping things spiffy. The decor is appealing, with rustic touches like flannel throw pillows with an artistically rendered mountain goat sewn onto them and furniture in an Arts and Crafts style.

I think of Ava, and I wonder what role she’s played in making this place what it is today. It still startles me to think that she’s been here the whole time, but my annoyance has been replaced by curiosity. Does she like working in hospitality? Is she good at it?

Is she dating anyone in town?

At that thought, I mentally slap myself. It’s none of my business. I’m here to help my father sell the resort and then go right back to California. Ava’s life no longer intersects with mine. Lord knows I did that girl enough damage already.

Back in the suite’s living room, I turn on the gas fireplace and settle in on the leather sofa, kicking my feet up onto a wooly footstool. And then I open up the sales contract and get to work making notes and jotting down questions.

I may have a bad history with this place, but I won’t let my family make any big mistakes.

At six o’clock, I put on a suit and head down to the bar adjacent to the lobby. It’s gotten a glow-up, too. The bar itself is new, with sleek wood and a slate top. There are a dozen barstools and several high-top tables with votive candles flickering merrily on them.

There are two couples seated at one end of the bar, deep in conversation. I pick a stool at the other end. I recognize the bartender from the canteen this morning. She drops a cocktail menu down in front of me. “What can I get you?”

“Wow.” I scan the offerings, and I’m impressed. The menu looks more like a San Francisco gastropub’s than what you’d find at a family ski mountain. “I’d love a ginger martini.”

“We’re out of that, sorry,” the bartender says curtly.

“Oh.” I squint down at the menu again. “Okay, sure. Could I have a Lillet and Tonic?”

“Sorry, we’re out of that, too.”

I look up at her. She’s about thirty, brown hair, pretty face. Her nametag says Halley. And there’s menace in her eyes. Interesting. “How about this—what can I have?”

“A warm Bud Light or a Shirley Temple.”

I bark out a laugh. Then I glance down at a trio of open wine bottles, each one vacuum-stoppered for freshness. I point at one of them. “A glass of the pinot noir, please. And if you try to tell me it’s sold out, I’m calling bullshit.”

Wearing an unhappy expression, she pulls down a shining wine goblet and pours me a skimpy portion. “That will be twenty-five dollars, please.”

“For a…” I think better of arguing. “Fine. Here.” I pull thirty dollars out of my wallet and drop it onto the bar. “Keep the change.”

If this woman tends bar all the time, I can explain at least a million dollars’ worth of the hotel’s heady valuation.

A moment later I forget all about the crazy bartender, because Ava approaches the bar, and I practically swallow my tongue. “Good evening,” I stammer.

“Evening,” she says stiffly, slipping onto a barstool.

“You look beautiful,” I say, because I can’t stop staring. She’s wearing a dark blue wrap dress made of touchable velvet. The design is modest, but somehow guarantees that I’ll spend the whole evening drawn to the V of exposed skin at the neck. She’s paired the dress with heels that would look appropriate in an office setting, but also make her legs look a mile long.

And she’s done something tricky to her eyes, with dark lashes and sultry lids.

Fuck me. It’s going to be a long night.

“Thank you,” she says stiffly. Then her eyes travel watchfully to the door. “The Sharpes haven’t arrived, have they?”

“Not that I noticed,” I tell her. But it turns out she wasn’t even asking me. The bitchy bartender shakes her head and puts a cocktail napkin down in front of Ava. “Whatcha drinking, babe? And don’t worry, I poisoned Reed’s drink.”

I actually choke on my sip of wine, and the woman tips her head back and laughs.

“Halley!” Ava yelps. “That is not funny. Don’t make that joke when the Sharpes arrive.”

She’s still laughing, while I’m trying not to cough up a lung.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t scare off your golden goose. Nobody wants to see you running this place more than me.”

Interesting. “Is that the deal?” I ask Ava when I can breathe normally. “If Dad leaves, you’re getting promoted?”

“Yes,” she says, lifting her blue eyes to mine. “But only because he wants to retire. This is his choice.”

“Oh. I have no doubt.” My father is almost unrecognizable to me. I’d been texting my brothers about it earlier, trying to explain how jolly he’s become. Like aliens got him and put a happy person in his body.

Even Crew replied with a Wow.

But that doesn’t mean the Sharpes are trustworthy. “Did you get that promotion in writing?” I ask Ava. “Because I didn’t see anything in the deal memo or the contract about who will manage the new entity.”

She gives her head a reluctant shake. “No, I don’t have it in writing. But the Sharpes offered me the job. They said I was the natural choice.”

“I’m sure you are. Just get it in writing,” I say quietly. “Ask for a two-year contract. That’s long enough to make it expensive for him to replace you, but short enough that he shouldn’t balk.”

Ava doesn’t thank me for this advice. She gives me a furious glance instead. And then her gaze travels to where the bellhop is helping someone through the front doors.

It’s not the Sharpes, though. It’s Sheila. “Hey, lady!” I wave to my assistant.

She spots me, hands off her suitcase to the bellhop, and then comes bouncing across the lobby.

“Wow, she’s way too young for you,” the bartender carps.

“Halley,” Ava groans. “Nobody asked you to wade in.”

“It’s what I do,” she says.

My fresh-faced assistant leaps onto a barstool beside me. “Listen, boss man. Let’s talk about my next raise.”

I laugh. “Sorry?”

“You should be. Your dumb spreadsheet is waiting in your inbox. I had to work on it while wedged into a middle seat between two man-spreaders. So I want you to upgrade me to business class on the way home. And I want a cocktail.”

“How about a ginger martini?” the bartender offers, reaching for a shaker. “You look like you deserve one.”

“Hey!” I complain. “You said you were out of those.”

She gives me an evil grin. “They’re only for people I like. Ava? Martini?”

“Sure,” my ex-girlfriend says. “Thanks.”

“I’m still mad at you,” Sheila continues.

“Take a number,” I mutter. “What did I do now?”

She pins me with a glare. “I had to text Harper on your behalf.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s an option anymore.”

The bartender snorts.

I ignore her. “She’s pissed off?”

“You could say that. Of course, I assumed you’d called her when you said you would. So I texted to ask if she wanted to keep the reservation.”

“I dialed!” I say, trying to defend myself. I remember pulling up her number this morning. But then Ava had said something, and I put Harper right out of my mind. “I was, uh, interrupted. And I didn’t try her again.”

Sheila just rolls her eyes. “Should I send roses? Although there’s really no point. She’ll know they’re actually from me.”

“No,” I grunt. “I’ll call to apologize.” I can’t believe I forgot to call Harper. Again. That was rude. We aren’t really a couple, though. It’s casual.

Although it’s pretty telling that I walked around that gorgeous hotel suite upstairs and never once thought of her, even while staring at the king-sized bed.

“The other reason I’m mad at you—”

“Ooh, there’s more?” the bartender asks, shaking up a cocktail.

Sheila glances toward the other two women. “Hi, I’m Sheila. I work for Reed.” She glances at Ava. “Was I interrupting something? I’m sorry.”

“Not at all,” Ava says, glancing toward the door. “I’m just waiting for the same dinner meeting. Please continue to tell Reed his flaws. We are highly entertained.”

Sheila puts her hands down on the bar. “I can’t believe I haven’t been here before. Reed could be entertaining clients on the ski slopes with me to help out. Who would plan a golf weekend when they could come here?” she demands, looking up at me.

“It’s complicated,” I say grumpily. “Will you stop bitching me out if I let you run up your room service bill?”

She picks up my phone and hands it to me. “I will stop bitching if you call Harper.”

“Fine.” I drain my wine glass and carry my phone a few paces away for some privacy. Naturally, I end up apologizing to Harper’s voicemail. “Hey, I’m so sorry about my sudden change of plans, and it was really thoughtless of me not to call. I’m at my family’s resort in Colorado, where I haven’t been for more than ten years, and it’s complicated. But I hope I can make it up to you when I get back to town. Please take care of yourself, and I apologize for the change of plans.”

By the time I hang up, the Sharpes have arrived. Ava is all smiles now, shaking hands with three gentlemen of various ages, and their entourage. The three men wear matching gray suits and red ties, which means they are Grant Sharpe I, II, and III. I’d seen them wearing the same getup in a picture on their corporate website, but I assumed it was just for the publicity photo.

But no. The three generations wear matching suits right here in our lobby.

“That’s an interesting look,” Sheila murmurs at my elbow. “You’d never see that in Silicon Valley.”

“You wouldn’t see it in Colorado either,” I whisper. “They’re from Texas.”

“That explains the hats,” she murmurs, referring to the ten-gallon cowboy hats that some of the entourage wear.

The Sharpes have brought accountants and lawyers with them. I paste a calm smile on my face and approach the group. “Evening. I’m Reed Madigan.” I offer my hand in turn to the Sharpes.

“Reed!” exclaims Sharpe number one. “You can call me Grandpa. It’s great to meet one of Mark’s sons.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” For an old coot, he has a firm handshake. And at point-blank range I can see that their red ties all bear a family crest, centering on an S made from a snake.

It’s a look.

He releases my hand to take Ava’s. She’s expecting to shake, but he raises her hand to his mouth and kisses it. “And who is this lovely creature? Your wife?”

Well, fuck. That’s awkward.

Ava’s expression cools. “I’m Ava Aichers, the associate manager. We’ve spoken on the phone. I work closely with Mark on day-to-day operations.”

“I told you about Ava, Pops,” says Sharpe number two. “She’s the one who put together that presentation on occupancy stats.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Ava,” the old coot says. “You look too sweet to be the manager.”

“Looking sweet is actually very useful in business,” Sheila pipes up beside me. “They never see you coming. And then you go for the throat.”

“Is that right?” The old man laughs.

Ava flashes my assistant a grateful smile.

The youngest Sharpe buttonholes me next. “You’re the son who became a ski racer,” he says.

“Briefly,” I correct him. “The only one of us who became a superstar athlete is Crew. I tore my ACL during my first European tour, and that was the end of my racing career. So I went to business school instead.”

“Stanford, I hear. Your father brags about you.”

Challenge, I nearly say. Dad wouldn’t bother to brag about me. “Stanford, right. Got my MBA about seven years ago.” But I’d lay odds that he didn’t hear it from my dad. This guy probably googled all of us. I’d do the same if I were buying a family-owned company.

“And here he is,” Sharpe says.

I look up to see my father approaching. He looks the part of the prosperous mountain man, wearing a crisp blue shirt and a dark blazer. He’s hand in hand with Melody, and they’re both smiling.

Melody is good for him, I realize. I should be happy for him. If only he hadn’t dragged us through hell after our mother died, I might feel less ambivalent about it.

Ava waits a moment until my father has a chance to shake hands. Then she steps in to herd the cats. “Shall we go in to dinner?” Ava asks. “Hardy will make sure your bags are brought directly to your rooms.”

“Lead on,” the eldest Sharpe says. “We’re ready.”

I follow Ava toward the Evergreen Room, trying not to notice how that dress hugs her body. Now that I’m over my shock at finding her in Colorado, the distance between us feels all wrong. It could have been me who helped her zip up that dress. It could have been me who’ll sit beside her at dinner.

But I’m the one who left. At the time, I was sure it was the right choice for both of us. We were too young, and I was too broken on the inside to be the man she needed.

But once upon a time, for a few glorious weeks, I’d pictured a future hand in hand.

I’d never felt like that about anyone before. Or since.

Not even close.