Page 92 of The Lodge

I guess we’ll find out.

“I’m just gonna—”

I let my sentence hang in the air as I slip into his penthouse, carefully shutting the door.

I don’t see him. He’s not at the kitchen island, where his laptop sits, a reminder of this morning’s first unexpected turn. I still haven’t eaten anything—not that I have an appetite right now.

“Tyler?” I call out.

He doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t take long to find him in his living room, tuning his guitar. I guess we all have our stress outlets.

“Hey,” I say, sinking into the closest armchair, its leather soft against my skin. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His brows pinch together as he continues tuning his guitar. I’m no musician, but he seems to be making things worse instead of better.

“I can go if you want,” I offer when he doesn’t reply.

“You can stay,” he says.

But he doesn’t say any more, so I stay quiet, too.

Finally, he gets his guitar in tune—relatively—and starts playing an intricate, delicate melody. The chords feel hopeful, then melancholy, before building into something that feels more like a question, unresolved and begging for answers.

It’s utterly captivating, this front-row view of his talent. Hedoesn’t sing, but I wish he would—if his guitar skills are any indication, his time in True North only showcased a fraction of what he’s capable of, musically.

When he eventually stops, the silence feels too loud.

He perches lightly on the back of the armchair, twisting his guitar so it hangs by its crossbody strap like a backpack. I’m still sitting in the chair, but he feels much too far away. When I’ve made my way around to him and we’re standing face-to-face, he tugs me in closer, one hand on each of my hips.

I drape my arms loosely across his shoulders and press my forehead to his; with him sitting like he is and me standing, we’re pretty much the same height.

“Today has been a lot, yeah?” I say.

Tyler sighs, shifts his arms so they’re wrapped around my lower back, and pulls me into a tight embrace. I bury my face in his neck, press a kiss to the soft skin where it meets his collarbone.

“I… don’t know what to do.” His voice is muffled in my hair. “I…Shit. Alix. Don’t move, okay?”

Every muscle in my body tenses at his tone, but I do as he says.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

“Drone outside my window,” he says, then mutters another curse.

“Do you think it can see us?”

“Any drone equipped to fly in weather like this has got to be some high-end gear. So… yeah. The camera’s probably as good as it gets.”

Would they even know who they were looking at? For Tyler’s sake, I really hope not.

“They’re probably just checking out all the windows to see if they can spot Sebastian,” he adds, an afterthought.

Little do they know that Sebastian isn’t theonlypaparazzi-worthy face around here. For the first time since arriving at Black Maple Lodge, it occurs to me that the world will be far more interested in what’sbehindthese top-floor, panoramic windows than the majestic views outside them.

A moment later, I feel the tension melt out of Tyler’s body.

“It’s gone,” he says.

We stay rooted in place for a long time—me holding on to him, him holding on to what very well might be the last day of his peace and privacy if we can’t get Sebastian and his paparazzi friends off this mountainfast. But with how much snow has fallen—and how hard it’s still coming down—I suspect we’re all stuck here together for a while.

---