Page 22 of The Lodge

I blush. “I was wondering if you could send someone up with a new key, or maybe I could come down and get one?”

Across the island, Tyler brushes a maple syrup glaze onto the salmon while the oven preheats. I don’t even see a cookbook.

“I’ll send someone up,” Julie assures me, sounding confident and professional and very kind to not give me a hard time about my mistake. “Don’t worry—Tyler’s locked himself out atleastten times.”

“No wonder he has you saved in his phone!”

She laughs. “We go back a lot longer than that,” she says. “But yes, I’m sure it didn’t hurt.”

Julie promises someone will be up in the next half hour. I’ll be cutting it close for my call with Sebastian, but as long as maintenance arrives on time, I should still be able to make it. I slide the phone back across the island just as Tyler puts the salmon into the oven. He’s wearing bright red oven mitts, reminiscent of lobster claws.

“Oven mitts? Even though the pan isn’t hot?”

He grins. “Spoken by someone who’s never burned herself on a preheated oven rack.”

“Touché,” I say. “So you and Julie—she said you go way back?”

He sets the oven timer, then leans back against the counter. “Known her since I was a kid, yeah.”

“Did you ever date?”

“Definitely not—she’s like a sister to me.”

“So you grew up around here, then?”

“I did,” he says simply, then takes a sudden interest in rummaging around his refrigerator drawers. “Sorry, I forgot to ask what you wantwithyour salmon. I’ve got some salad greens—but no dressing.”

“What kind of monster doesn’t have salad dressing?”

“The kind that doesn’tlikesalad dressing.”

“What do you, like… put on the salad, though?”

“Fruit, nuts, seeds, goat cheese,” he says. “Whatever I have on hand.”

“Well, I’ll eat whatever your favorite combo is,” I say, because fruit and goat cheese does sound pretty good. “Surprise me.”

Ten minutes later, the salmon is done and there’s a bowl full of greens, goat cheese, apple slices, and walnuts in front of me. Tyler cracks a bit of fresh pepper over the top, and I have to admit, it looks great. I take a bite of salmon, and it’s even more amazing than it looks.

“I think you might be in the wrong profession—not that you’re a bad ski instructor,” I quickly amend. “Do you do this for all the girls who lock themselves out?”

“Oh, yeah,” he replies, not missing a beat. “One hundred percent of the time.”

“Let me guess, I’m the only one who’s done it?”

He grins, tucks that stray piece of hair that doesn’t want to stay put behind his ear. “Don’t get many people staying up here, to be honest. I can’t remember the last time I saw anyone else on this floor.”

“Probably because it costs a bajillion dollars a night to stay here,” I say. I don’t even want to do the math on how much it’ll cost for the entire month.

“Writing must be pretty lucrative,” he says, and I laugh so hard I nearly spit out my spinach, especially because I don’t think he meant it as a joke.

“I could say the same for ski instructing. I’m only here because someone else is paying.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, my job doesn’t pay that well, either. Julie’s family owns the resort—she took over when her dad died a while back. I get a friends-and-family discount.”

Sothat’show he affords this penthouse. I’m hit with a surprising sense of relief: that he’s not just some rich guy, obsessed with money—and obsessed with everyoneknowinghe has money—like Blake was.

“How long have you lived here?”

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