Page 1 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

Chapter One

Larkin

“No,”I say out loud, my hands death-gripping the steering wheel. “Come on. Are you serious? Don’t do this to me.”

I push down on the gas pedal just a hair harder, the needle nearly hitting 25 miles per hour, the softwhumpof the snow chains on my tires the only sound since I’d turned my music off a couple miles back so I could concentrate on driving.

A quick gust of wind shakes the evergreens arching over the road, sending a huge lump of white snow right onto my windshield.

“Stop it,” I tell the weather through gritted teeth, my windshield wipers working overtime. “I wanted one day without snow. One day, was that so much to ask?”

I drive through a clearing in the trees, and without their cover the snow falls thick and fast on my car. Apparently, a day without snowwastoo much to ask.

Not that there was snow in the forecast. Nope. When I checked this morning, that stupid smiley sun on my weather app gave me a false sense of security about heading into the mountains today. At least I had the snow chains with me, and by some miracle the instructions were clear and easy to understand.

Which is nice, because this California girl doesnotdo snow. I’ve been skiing once and sledding twice in my entire life, and frankly, I find the cold weather alarming and the idea of frozen things falling from the sky rather troubling.

And yet, here I am.

I drive over a slight crest, still going twenty-five miles per hour, still white-knuckling the steering wheel, and all of a sudden there it is on the slope facing me, enormous and stately, looking like a building taken from a fantasy novel and plopped down in the front range of the Rockies.

The Centennial.

There are luxury hotels and there areluxury hotels, and this is the italicized latter of the two. It was built in the 1890s as an escape for the ultra-wealthy of the Gilded Age, and as a place for the mining barons of the time to stay and relax while they visited their holdings in Colorado.

There’s no luxury like Gilded Age luxury. It’s my first time here but I’ve seen photos of the interior, anddamn. Not only is the place huge, but everything in it is absolutely beautiful. Huge marble fireplaces. Expensive Persian rugs. Every room has a California King four-poster bed and a jacuzzi tub in the bathroom.

And I’m going to be here for three months, alone with four other people I’ve never even met. I’m just hoping that signing up for this artists’ retreat wasn’t completely insane, because it’s starting to feel that way.

What if you don’t get along?

What if the others are weird, or loud, or party too much?

I take a deep breath in and out, forcing myself to relax my hands a little. I tell myself for the thousandth time that everything will be fine — the others are probably other artists, just like me, who are looking forward to spending a few months working on their craft in relative solitude while The Centennial Hotel is closed for the winter.

The road flattens out, and it doesn’t take me long to drive the rest of the way up to the massive building. The view from here is incredible, winter weather notwithstanding — if it were clear, I’d be able to see almost to Kansas, but even now the snow and fog are highlighting the mountains into sharp relief, canyons and crags looking majestic and a little spooky.

I pull up to a stop right in front of the huge wooden doors. The driveway is plowed, but that’s all, so I just park there. I can figure out where my car should stay for the winter later, because right now I just want to go inside where it’s warm and I won’t have to drive anymore, and let Poppy know that I made it here alive.

Our interactions have been somewhat limited, but I get the feeling that Poppy’s a worrier. She just has that vibe, you know?

I take a deep breath, cup my hands around my mouth, and blow the warm air through my gloves, giving myself one last pep talk before I open the door into the swirling chill of the outdoors.

Just do it.

Just go.

It’s not going to get any warmer if you wait.

In one big movement, I open the car door and practically launch myself out and toward the front of the hotel, leaping up the steps two at a time in my new snow boots, pulling my hat down on my head and jamming my fists into the pockets of my extremely puffy down coat.

I can’t believe I’m about to spend three months here. Thirty seconds and I’m already half way to hypothermia.

Just as I’m about to knock, the door swings open.

“You made it!” Poppy exclaims.

Chapter Two

---