Page 2 of Saving it with My Best Friend's Brother

My hands smoothed over my pencil skirt—thank God I’d chosen one of my better business outfits. Through the window, I watched him pause at the entrance, adjusting his tie with the same precise movements I remembered from our debate club. Even then, he’d carried himself with that quiet confidence that made people lean in when he spoke.

His footsteps echoed across Grandpa’s hand-laid hardwood. Sophie’s heels clicked a rapid staccato as she led him toward my office, her expression bouncing between hope and worry—the same look I’d seen on every employee’s face lately.

I remained frozen behind my desk, pulse drumming against my ribs.

“Hey, Amelia,” he said in a deep voice. His words echoed from my doorway, giving me an unwelcome chill. “We need to talk.”

I lifted my chin, meeting eyes as dangerous as I remembered. “Let me guess. My father sent you.”

Hunter’s expression softened at the edges, just enough to make my chest ache. “I’m here to help.”

“I don’t need help.” I squared my shoulders, fighting the urge to step back as his cologne teased my senses. “Especially not from you.”

He stepped into my office, closing the door with a quiet click that seemed to seal my fate. “Actually,” he said, holding my gaze, “you do. And I’m not leaving until we save this resort.”

I stood, needing the height of my heels beneath me. “Save the resort? That’s a bit dramatic, even for you.”

Hunter set his briefcase on my desk, the soft leather out of place among my scattered papers. My stomach dropped when he pulled out a document with that familiar letterhead—identical to the quarterly report I’d been avoiding.

“Your father sent me the numbers, Amelia.” The gentleness in his voice made my teeth clench. “The resort lost over two hundred thousand dollars last quarter alone. Your occupancy rate is at thirty percent, and your operational costs—”

“I know my numbers.” I snatched the paper from his hand, resisting the urge to crumple the damning evidence of my failure. Each figure represented a broken promise—to our staff, to the families who’d trusted us for generations, to Mom’s memory. “What I don’t understand is why you’re involved. Shouldn’t you be in Coleman, running your marketing empire?”

A familiar half-smile played at his lips, the same one that used to make my teenage heart flutter. “Marketing empire? Is that what you think I do?”

“Isn’t it?” I gestured toward his suit, trying not to notice how perfectly it fit across his shoulders. “CEO Hunter Miller, turning small businesses into overnight successes?”

He loosened his tie, and the casual gesture sent my thoughts to places they had no business going. “What I do is help businesses realize their potential.” His eyes swept around my office, lingering on the family photos. “And Pine Haven? This place has more potential than anywhere I’ve seen in years.”

Something in his tone made me pause. I studied his face, searching for the condescension or pity I’d expected, but found only sincerity. And something else—something that echoed that moment at the christening, when the music had slowed, and the rest of the world had faded away.

“You know nothing about running a resort,” I argued, but the words felt weak even to my ears.

“No,” he agreed, moving to stand before the window where the fog was finally lifting from the mountains. “But I know about turning around failing businesses. And I know you, Amelia.”

The morning light cast his profile in sharp relief. “Do you?”

He turned back, and the intensity in his gaze made me grip the edge of my desk. “I know you’re brilliant at hospitality management. I know how your guests light up when you remember their grandchildren’s names or anniversary traditions.” He took a step closer. “And I know you’re too proud to admit when you need help.”

“That’s not—” The protest died in my throat as his cologne wrapped around me, bringing back memories of his hand warm against my back as we’d danced.

“Your father didn’t send me, Amelia. I asked to come.”

My breath caught. “What?”

“When he mentioned the resort was struggling, I volunteered.” He ran a hand through his hair—that familiar gesture from our high school debate club when he was choosing his words carefully. “Because I knew you’d never ask for help yourself, and because—”

“Because what?”

The sunlight caught his face, highlighting the determination in his expression. “Because I’ve seen what this place means to you. Every time you talk about Pine Haven, your whole face lights up. You love it here.” His voice dropped lower. “And I will not stand by and watch you lose it.”

I turned away, blinking back sudden tears. Through the window, Mrs. Henderson sat with her morning coffee, teaching that young family her secret hot chocolate recipe—the same one she’d taught me twenty years ago. “It’s not that simple. The problems here run deeper than marketing strategies and occupancy rates.” My fingers traced the old woodwork beneath the window. “This place... it’s my family’s legacy. My grandfather built it from nothing. He wanted families to have a place where they belonged. If I fail—”

“Hey.” His hand on my shoulder was warm, steady, achingly familiar. “You haven’t failed. You’re just stuck. Let me help you get unstuck.”

I wanted to shrug off his touch, to prove I could handle this alone. But exhaustion weighed on my shoulders like fresh snow. I was tired of pretending everything was fine during staff meetings, tired of juggling bills and maintenance emergencies, tired of watching everything my family built slowly crumble while I smiled and assured everyone it would be okay.

“What’s your plan?” I asked finally, turning to face him.

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