Page 18 of Tempted By The Forbidden Mountain Man

And I smile back.

Rivera's right. He called it. Jake's right. My abuela was right. The bravest thing isn't securing the perimeter or clearing the building or maintaining professional distance. The bravest thing is standing in the ashes of a dead bonfire, telling a woman you love her, and meaning every word.

The closing ceremony goes off without a hitch. Because of course it does. Because Sloane Whitfield doesn't do hitches.

And when it's over, when the last guest has left, when the string lights come down and the hay bales get stacked, when Rivera takes the final perimeter sweep and Jake texts a one word review of the weekend (clean), I'm waiting in the parking lot. Clean henley. The one pair of jeans I brought. My abuela's silver ring on my right hand because she told me to wear it when something matters.

Sloane walks out of the lodge at eight on the dot. Hair down. A dress I haven't seen before, deep green, fitted. Heels that make her legs look endless. She stops when she sees me leaning against my truck.

"You clean up well, Morales."

"You're beautiful, Whitfield."

She blushes. Sloane Whitfield, the woman who stared down a heat lamp vendor and negotiated cedar post removal before sunrise, blushes at a compliment in a parking lot.

I open the passenger door. She gets in. Her hand finds mine on the center console before I even pull out of the lot.

And we drive into the October night, the mountains dark around us, the stars thick overhead, toward a corner booth at Paolo's where I'm going to spend the next two hours learning everything about this woman that three days couldn't teach me.

Because three days was enough to fall.

The rest of our lives is for everything else.

EPILOGUE

SLOANE

SIX MONTHS LATER

The spring retreat opens in forty eight hours, and I'm standing in the middle of the Ember Lounge at seven AM with a clipboard in one hand, a thermos of Sage's autumn blend (which Sage now makes year round because I threatened to cry if she stopped), and the quiet, bone deep satisfaction of a woman who bet on herself and won.

Six months. Six months since a bonfire weekend turned my entire life sideways. Six months since I signed Noah's retainer, packed up my Vancouver apartment, and moved into a mountain town where the barista knows my coffee order, the hairstylist does my braids every two weeks, and the man I love makes me breakfast before I leave for the venue every morning.

The Ember Lounge looks incredible. Spring theme. Wildflower arrangements on every table, sourced from a grower in Nelson that Venus connected me with. Soft green linens. Candles in amber glass votives that catch the light from the floor to ceiling windows. Outside, the mountains are doing that thing they do in April where the snow line retreats just enough to show green underneath, and the whole valley looks like it's exhaling after a long winter.

My phone buzzes.

Talia:

Spring retreat press kit going out at noon. Vancouver Magazine confirmed coverage. You're getting a pull quote on the front page of the lifestyle section.

Me:

WHAT.

Talia:

Direct quote from the editor: "Club Crimson's event programming has undergone a creative transformation that positions the brand as the premier experiential destination in the Kootenays." That's you babe. That's all you.

Me:

I'm going to throw up.

Talia:

Throw up later. Celebrate now. Dinner tonight? Noah's grilling.

Me: