Page 90 of On the Slopes of Tahoe
I roll onto my back and bring her with me. She may not know it, but her words were exactly what I needed to hear.
“You’ll always have me, and I think you’re all I need too, Willow Bear.”
We lie there quietly for a couple of minutes, and just when I think she’s fallen asleep, she speaks.
“I miss Tahoe. This doesn’t feel like home anymore.”
“I know.” I choke back my own pain, not wanting to add it to hers.
“And I miss Rory,” she whispers.
I close my eyes and steady my breathing. “Yeah, me too.”
We fall asleep, and I don’t call Rory.BecauseI miss her, and Willow misses her, and I don’t know how to talk to her andnotmiss her.And she doesn’t call me either.
CHAPTER FORTY
Rory
Is this a joke?
It must be a joke.
I’m staring at my computer screen, sitting in the lodge at Empyreal, and I think I might cry.
Friday, March 28, 2025
From: [email protected]
Subject: Potential Partnership
Ms. Anderson,
I came across some photos you took recently for John and Bree Tanner and was incredibly impressed. They mentioned you were in the beginning stages of building a new business with a focus on elopements. To be completely honest, this is a market we atSacramento Weddings Magazinewould like to cater to and showcase more, which is where this email comes in. I think we could work together in a way that could be mutually beneficial. Would you be available for a virtual meeting on Monday where we could discuss this further? Let me know at your earliest convenience.
I’m a workaholic, so I’ll have access to my email all weekend.
Sincerely,
Tyler Plum
Marketing Director,Sacramento Weddings Magazine
I pinch my arm.Yup, I’m awake, and damn that hurt.I type out the fastest reply in the history of mankind, do a quick read-through for any typos, and hit send before I can think better of it. Then I watch my inbox with bated breath for all of a minute before Tyler’s reply pops up.
I have a ten o’clock meeting with the marketing director for a major wedding magazine on Monday. Is this real life?
My chair scrapes against the stone floor when I jump up with a little squeal. The dwindling number of people still sipping hot cocoa or drinks from the bar all turn to look at me. I give an awkward wave and sit back down, doing a little wiggle in my chair instead of a happy dance next to it.
This is huge. This is huge, right?
I grab my phone and the desire to tap on Breck’s number almost overpowers me, but I don’t give in. I’ve been avoiding that particular contact for weeks now.
Instead, I hit the name of the very first person in my favorites… Wes. It rings three times before he accepts my FaceTime request. His face is smushed against his pillow and his hair is mussed. Oh crap, it’s like six in the morning in Sydney. He groans out my name, so it sounds more likesmoresthanRoars.
“Sorry!” I say, and he flinches. “Sorry,” I say again, quieter this time. “I forgot what time it is there.”
