CEO Checked Into Small Mountain Lodge, Never Thought the Owner Would Make Him Want to Stay Forever
The Storm and the Lodge
The snowstorm hit just as Noah Vandermire’s Bentley struggled up the last steep incline toward what his GPS claimed was a lodge. From the outside, it looked more like someone’s oversized cabin than the five-star accommodation his assistant had promised.
Wind rocked the luxury sedan as fat snowflakes accumulated on the windshield faster than the wipers could clear them. He’d never make it back down the mountain tonight.
Noah slammed his palm against the steering wheel. This detour to the middle of nowhere would cost him the Westfield merger.
Three years of careful planning and negotiations were potentially ruined because his board insisted he take a mental health break before the final signing. His phone showed no service bars.
Exactly what he didn’t need when he was supposed to be reviewing final contract details. The Bentley’s tires spun against the snowy gravel as he pulled into what appeared to be a parking area.
Only two other vehicles occupied the space: a mud-splattered Jeep and an ancient pickup truck with a snowplow attachment. It was not promising.
Grabbing his leather overnight bag and laptop case, Noah made a dash through the swirling snow toward the covered porch. The wind cut through his Italian wool coat like it was tissue paper, instantly numbing his exposed skin.
He hadn’t dressed for a blizzard in the mountains. His wardrobe was selected for boardrooms and executive dining, not wilderness survival.
The heavy wooden door swung open before he could knock, releasing a blessed wave of warmth.
“Get in here before you freeze,” a woman’s voice, low and melodic, called over the howl of the wind.
“You must be my reservation.”
Noah stumbled into the welcoming heat of the lodge, stamping snow from his handmade leather shoes. He now realized they were entirely inappropriate for the environment.
The door closed behind him with a solid thunk, instantly muffling the storm’s fury.
“I’m Zoe Winters. Welcome to Whispering Pines Lodge.”
The woman extending her hand wore a thick cable-knit sweater over jeans. Her dark hair was gathered in a messy bun.
Her cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the fireplace crackling in the stone hearth across the rustic lobby.
“You must be Mr. Vandermire.”
Noah took her hand automatically, surprised by the firm grip and the calluses that spoke of physical work. This was something his own manicured hands hadn’t experienced in decades.
“Noah,” he said, his business-like demeanor faltering slightly under her direct gaze.
Her eyes were a startling blue-green, like mountain lakes he’d seen from his private jet.
“Well, Noah, you’re lucky you made it up here before the worst hit. They’re closing the mountain roads. You might be stuck with us for a few days.”
She didn’t sound particularly concerned as she moved behind a simple wooden counter to retrieve what looked like an actual metal key, not a key card.
Noah couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a hotel use physical keys.
“That’s not acceptable.”
The words came out sharper than he’d intended.
“I have a merger to finalize in three days.”
