Page 8 of The Lodge

It takes a moment to reorient myself. My notes—while thorough—are a mess, and the momentum and magic I felt last night are slow to return. I scan all the highlighted parts, read over my many questions. It’s enough to get started, I decide. I can draft a skeleton chapter and flesh it out more once I’ve talked to Sebastian.

Four hours later—after I wade through another long voice memo that mostly focuses on Sebastian’s musical influences and the idols who made him want a solo career in the first place, followed by two writing sprints and some edits on the pages I drafted last night—I’m in need of a break.

Sebastian still hasn’t written back.

When I opened my closet upon arrival, I discovered several boxes, all adorned with the simple gold-embossed logo of one of the village shops, along with a pair of skis and a helmet. Affixed to one of the boxes was a handwritten card:If these don’t work, they have more in the village. Charge whatever you want to the room.—Seb

I don’t want to know how Sebastian Green guessed my exact size based purely on my social media feeds and our two Zoom meetings, but the ski clothes he gifted me all fit to perfection. Everything is in my favorite colors, too—lilac and white with gold accents—and the snow goggles are iridescent pink Oakleys. I feel like an Olympian, or possibly even an astronaut; I’ve never worn such fancy ski gear in my life, only decades-old hand-me-downs from my mother and her sister.

I tie my hair into a pair of short braids, pulling out a couple of sandy-blond strands at the front like snowboarders always do, and tug on a cozy knit hat. It’s mustard yellow with a faux-fur pouf, the only thing that doesn’t quite match the rest of my outfit.

It feels strange to wear ski clothes again after all this time. Our family went every year while I was growing up—until we didn’t. Lauren was a late surprise, born just before my twelfth birthday.

After she came along, our vacations stopped: our parents didn’t want to travel with a new baby, didn’t want to travel with a toddler, three kids were outrageously more expensive than expected…

I blame my brother’s appetite for that; he hit a gigantic growth spurt around that same time and devoured everything in sight. I devoured pop culture instead, books and movies and music, an escape that erased—at least temporarily—the bitterness I felt about how drastically our family dynamic had changed.

Silver lining, at least: I never would have pursued a career in entertainment journalism had pop culture not been such a refugefor me in my teens. I wouldn’t be writing Sebastian’s book at all, let alone writing Sebastian’s book in a place likethis.

I head out to the elevator landing, ski gear in hand. My eyes land instinctively on my mystery neighbor’s door—the boots are gone, the puddle of water wiped away like it never existed.

I happen to be staring at the door when it opens.

Out walks a guy with shoulder-length wavy hair and a slightly overgrown five o’clock shadow, chiseled cheekbones, and the lean, muscular build of someone who’s led a very athletic life. My gaze flickers down to his feet—sure enough, there are the boots—then back up to his remarkably handsome face. His eyes are an intense shade of deep brown; his eyebrows are dark and unusually thick. He looks vaguely familiar, a little like one of Chloe’s favorite tennis players, the one from Greece.

After the briefest flash of surprise—to see a stranger on this private penthouse floor at all, no doubt, let alone one who’s staring a hole through his door—the corner of his mouth turns up into a cocky half grin.

“What?” I say, hugging my skis and poles close to my chest as my cheeks grow hot. “It’s a really lovely door.”

A really lovely door. That’s the best I could come up with to explain my staring? I’m going to die.

He turns, crossing his arms as if to study the frosted-glass placard that readsPENTHOUSE B.“Oh, yeah,” he says with a serious nod. “People come from all over the world just to see it.”

“Clearly,” I reply. “I just got in yesterday.”

“Have you seen any other interesting things in the short time you’ve been here? Coffee tables, footstools?” He pulls his door shut and comes to stand beside me in front of the elevator.

Only when he reaches past me do I realize I forgot to push the button.

My cheeks grow even hotter. Who stands in an elevator lobby just forfun, without pushing the button, only to get caught staring at someone else’s door?

“Honestly,” I say quickly, hoping he won’t get the wrong idea, “I haven’t left my own place since I got here, so I’m taking in the sights for the first time.”

“Ah,” he says. “Going up on the mountain?”

The elevator dings, and he gestures for me to go first. The skis and poles are unwieldy—one of the skis gets caught on my way in, and he has the decency to help me instead of giving me a hard time about it.

“Maybe notallthe way up,” I admit. “It’s been a minute since I skied.”

“They’ve got great instructors at the ski school,” he says as he presses a button marked with a star. “Private lessons, too.”

Sebastian did tell me to charge whatever I want to the room—maybe a private lesson wouldn’t be the worst idea.

“Where do I sign up for those?”

“Right here,” he says, flashing a grin that rivals that of any of the celebrities I’ve spent my entire adult life writing about.

“Right here,” I repeat. “In the elevator?”

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