Chapter 2

I push through the doors to The Old Saloon, which are, ironically, really heavy, but Joe says it’s to keep the tourists out.

Not that he’s very successful in doing that, or wants to do it. He likes to act the grump, but really he loves how much his bar is loved, because if you’ve been to Aspen enough times, you know The Old Saloon is one of the best places for après-ski.

A hidden gem , Condé Nast Traveler once called it.

Joe thinks it’s because all the Europeans have been watching too many American cowboy programs on the TV and want to experience old-timey America. I know it’s because of his wife’s eggnog—once you taste it, there’s no way you’re not coming back for more. Famous around here because of its secret recipe, no one knows what she puts in it, even Joe, but she swears it cures you of all illness, and I’ve never seen anything to suggest otherwise.

Getting a fever— Martha’s eggnog . Sinus infection, headache, chills— Martha’s eggnog . Don’t want to hit the slopes today? Get some of that eggnog down you, girl, and clip into those skis.

My theory is there’s enough bourbon in it to start a bonfire if you hold a match too close, therefore one glass and any germs within a fifty-yard radius are killed by the fumes. But hey, that’s just me.

Most of the locals from around here take it up the mountain in a hip flask. At least if you don’t get down safely, you’re too drunk to notice.

Shaking myself clear of the snow falling outside, I hang my jacket on the rack by the entrance and look around. The fire blazing in the center grate is creating enough warmth to have the windows steamed up. It’s busy. Almost every table is full with patrons in various stages of skiing undress—cozy knits, thick jackets, fur-lined boots—all screaming money, money, money.

Because that’s what Aspen’s about. For most people.

“Haven!” Joe shouts over the Christmas rock ’n’ roll and heavy chatter as he spots me sneaking past the bar, hoping not to be noticed. “What time d’you call this?”

Dang it.

“Um…five?” I reply, knowing full well what the time is and why he’s wearing an expression of annoyance. Even more so than usual, not that I ever take it seriously. Joe’s bark is way worse than his bite.

“Yeah. Five. So how come I’m only seeing you for the first time today?”

I move into a space in the middle of the bar left by a group of guys taking their drinks, and I lean over the counter.

“You know I had to go to the bank today. I didn’t have time for lunch, I’m sorry.”

His face softens, and one bushy eyebrow shoots up as he watches me flail about, my hand moving blindly under the counter trying to find the jar of spicy crackers I know is always here. Except it’s not there.

“Looking for these?” he asks, removing the missing jar from the shelf behind him and sliding it over the smooth wooden bar top into my waiting hands.

I grin sheepishly and pop the top. Just like the eggnog, these crackers are Martha’s secret and arguably more addictive. In fact, maybe they do have crack in them. They’re that addictive. Probably best not to ask.

He peers at me, watching me shove a handful into my mouth. “Don’t tell me that’s the first thing you’ve eaten all day?”

I shake my head, because it’s true. I did eat today. I had a cinnamon bun followed by a gingerbread house I’d broken.

Not the most nutritious breakfast, but I haven’t had time for anything else, including lunch, which I have here every day without fail—except today, obviously. Not sure Joe believes me though, considering I’m inhaling the crackers so quickly they’ve barely touched the sides.

“There’s a chicken schnitzel waiting on the table with Saylor. But you know if you see Martha, tell her you had it at lunchtime.” He winks. “Or I’ll never hear the end of it about not feeding you properly. Not that you’re not a grown woman an’ all.”

I push up on the bar so I can kiss his cheek. “I love you, Joe.”

“Go and eat something.”

Moving through the crowds, ducking underneath the huge tray laden with empty glasses, which Mike, one of the Saloon servers, is carrying, I spot my best friend sitting at our usual table over in the corner, and breathe a sigh of relief.

“Hey.” I drop down in the booth seat opposite her, head falling back on the plush leather surround, and finally let the weariness of the day take over.

Probably should have had lunch.

“You look exhausted.” Saylor points out the obvious.

“I am.”

“Well, what happened? How’d it go?” she asks right as she slides out of the booth and runs off in the direction of the kitchens, only to return thirty seconds later carrying a plate with what I know is my lunch five hours too late. “I was instructed to make sure you ate this as soon as you arrived.”

Even the sight of it has my mouth watering. The thinnest breadcrumbed chicken and a giant heap of mashed potatoes stare up at me. I can’t pick up my fork quickly enough.

“Omigawdsohungry,” I manage to garble around the first mouthful before going back in for the second. “Dyoueat?”

Saylor blinks as she tries to figure out what I’ve just said.

“Did you eat yet?” I ask, picking up a glass of water I assume is mine, to rinse the two huge mouthfuls I inhaled.

“That was here when I sat down.”

I just about manage to stop the splutter erupting from me, but not Saylor’s grin erupting from her .

“Kidding. It’s yours. Poured fresh by me, and yes, I did eat when I got here an hour ago .” Her eyebrow lifts pointedly, because I was also supposed to be here an hour ago.

“Sorry—”

“It’s fine, gave me a chance to scope out the visiting hotties. There are some good ones in here tonight.” She finishes her assessment of the bar and its patrons and turns to me. “It’s December now, and I think we need to start having a little fun. You definitely need a fling or two this Christmas.”

My mouth is too full to respond, which Saylor takes as a sign to steamroll right through.

“You haven’t had sex with anyone since that guy in the summer, right? I haven’t hooked up with anyone since Halloween. We need to rectify it, Havey, it’s too long. Let’s make this holiday a memorable one.”

“I don’t have time for fun.” I scoop up a forkful of mashed potato.

“That’s not true…”

“Hey, do you want to hear about my day or not?

Sitting forward, I pull out the rolled-up file I’ve had wedged into the back of my jeans. Saylor takes it and removes the thick wad of papers I’ve been carrying around most of the day. All different documents, all pertaining to my life in some way, and all telling me what I’m too nervous to believe could be true.

The disaster of my life for the past four years is almost over, and I can start to rebuild. Or simply start.

“How did the meetings go?”

“As well as I could have hoped.” I shrug.

“And the business?—”

“It will be fully mine once the remaining debt is paid off.”

“Shiiit.” She hisses out, her vowels elongating because Saylor also can’t believe I’m quite there.

Everyone in this town knows my dad died. Only Saylor, Joe, and Martha know that the reason I’ve been busting my ass for the four years since, was to pay off the sixty-plus grand in medical expenses he left me, which the insurance didn’t cover.

Money I did not have.

Out of habit, I glance over at the wall of photos running down the side of the bar, homing in on the one of my dad with his arm around Joe, his best friend. If you’re close enough, you can just about make out a ten-year-old me, in the far background next to some freshly planted saplings.

During the winter, my dad, Wyatt Wylder, was the guy you came to if you wanted the biggest and best Christmas tree. Through the trees grown on our land, bordered by the national forest, he supplied the hotels and restaurants in the area, plus all the local ski lodges and private homes being prepared for demanding holiday guests. We also owned a tree store—yes, store—which my mom had started, where you can buy anything you need for decorating at Christmas, plus the tree.

In the summer he was no less busy.

All the trees cut through the winter made way for new saplings to be planted and grown over the following years. In the peak months he would take out guided trips to Talisker Summit, a flat stretch of the Rocky Mountains range on the edge of our land. A perfect setup for campfires and star gazing, from which you could see miles and miles of Colorado’s mountains and Aspen’s valley far below. He’d talk and talk, telling tales of old Aspen, about the magic of the town and how you could still find silver if you looked hard enough.

I first noticed my dad was sick five years ago. He wasn’t waking up quite so early, he was tired more easily, and it was taking him longer to cut the trees. It turned out he’d known a good while more than that. He’d known he was getting sick, and instead of asking for help when he could, he decided he needed to protect me, until it was too late. My blood still boils when I think about it. Think of all the time we lost together, because he thought I couldn’t cope with more bad news so soon after my mom died.

The upshot? After he passed, I discovered he’d been juggling my mom’s medical bills by downgrading his own care and, as his sole next of kin, once his life insurance was paid out, it was up to me to cover the shortfall.

What I also hadn’t realized until my father died, is how coveted our small piece of land is. Seven hundred acres of prime Aspen real estate. The vultures circled, offering huge sums of money, but even when I’d cry myself to sleep wondering how I would ever pay the bills, I knew that I’d never sell the ranch. If he hadn’t while he was alive, there’s no way I’d sell it now he was dead.

My dad had built the house from scratch. It was where I’d been born. It was where my mom’s ashes were scattered next to the tree under which Mr. Frosty, our Newfoundland, was buried. It was my history. All twenty-five years of it, and if I ever met someone and had a kid, I would want them to grow up with the same experience.

By some miracle, I’d kept hold of it.

Four winters of selling trees. Four summers of taking tourists camping every day and saving my tips. Along with waiting tables in the evenings, and working the counter of Aspen’s famous bakery, serving coffees to the pre-ski morning crowd, I have almost paid off everything.

The pile of papers on the table in front of me is proof.

I spent the day in meetings with the bank manager, the insurance representatives, and the mortgage guy, all of whom told me the same thing.

“I have seven grand left to pay. And I could make that in tips alone if I get a few good tables this holiday.” Aspen’s clientele is generous, if nothing else.

“And then Wylder Ranch becomes Haven’s Holistic Yoga Retreat or whatever we’re calling it?”

I chuckle, picking up the water, wishing it was something stronger. I need something stronger. “Nah, I think it’ll always be Wylder Ranch. For the holidays anyway.”

“But yoga for the summer?”

“We’ll see how it goes.” I shrug. “It might be a disaster.”

Two years ago, I took a lady up to Talisker Summit. It had been a quiet weekday trip, just her and me. She’d come from L.A., where she owned yoga and Pilates studios. As soon as we’d reached the flat ground, she’d rolled out her yoga mat and proclaimed it to be the most beautiful view she’d ever seen.

I’d joined her on the ground, and she’d guided me through a practice.

Hand on my heart I could honestly say that afterward, sitting there looking down at the valley, two years of stress and grief released from me. I cried for a solid two hours.

Professional? Absolutely not.

But on the way back, the lady had asked if I’d ever be interested in running yoga retreats up there. Specifically, her retreats. It was a perfect space, she’d said. No cell reception. No disturbances. Just the earth and sky, and a whole lot of stars.

She’d left me her business card, and I’d stared at it every day for a year before I finally decided to call her up and ask her what the retreat would entail. Long story short, this summer, Wylder Ranch is hosting its very first yoga weekend.

“I think yoga people are way too chill to have disasters,” Saylor shot back. And if it wasn’t obvious, Saylor Anderson is a big supporter of any plans that get me living my own life.

“Okay, I need more than water.” I stand, picking up my empty plate to drop into the kitchen. “You want a beer or eggnog?”

“Beer. Otherwise, you’ll be peeling me off the floor.”

“Lightweight.” I grin.

“Yeah, that’s why you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I call over my shoulder.

After saying a quick hi to the guys in the kitchens, and stealing a fry from the hot pans, I make my way to the bar. Even in the thirty minutes I’ve been sitting down, it’s now so busy there are no spare tables. The space running down the left of the bar where the pool table is housed is also full. It’s getting hot. Sweaty hot.

I’m peeling off my sweater when I notice a guy standing next to the jukebox, staring at it like it ate his last quarter, and I swear he’s about to kick it. But that’s not what has me detouring over there, because that goddamn jukebox needs to be kicked on the regular.

No, ma’am.

It’s the low-slung black jeans that does it. The ones hugging thick thighs and a firm, rounded ass, and tucked into a pair of worn leather brown boots that look like they’ve been pulled on in a hurry, given the way the laces are hanging loose. It’s also the cozy knit sweater he’s wearing—the unofficial uniform around here, except this one has me wanting to reach out and touch it. See if it’s as soft and cozy as it looks, stretched across a broad back and even broader shoulders.

He’s the epitome of Aspen clientele, but at the same time set so far apart from everyone else in here I can’t look away. He scrubs both hands through his light brown hair, and the way he tugs on the ends has me quickening my step.

“You okay there?”

My entire core clenches. Deep blue eyes briefly flash to mine before returning to the offering in front of him. His left hand grips the edges of the jukebox, and the neon light flashing along the sides catches the large gold signet ring sitting askew on his pinkie.

I grasp my fists and fight the urge to straighten it. Or run my fingers through his hair.

Jesus. Saylor was right. It’s been far too long since I’ve had sex.

“It’s all Christmas music.”

I pause, because that’s not what I was expecting him to say, because, duh, it’s Christmas. I also wasn’t expecting the accent, which definitely isn’t American. Though, given how he looks like he fell out of a Ralph Lauren “quintessential Englishman” ad, I probably shouldn’t be too surprised.

“It’s the holidays. What did you want? Slipknot?”

He scoffs out a thick, gravelly laugh, and through the light five-o’clock shadow covering his cheeks, I see deep dimples pull in. Shit. This guy’s as hot from the front as his ass suggests.

“Christ, no…” he begins, then stops. “Wait, you’re not a fan, are you? I’m not about to dig myself a hole am I, and insult you?”

I slowly shake my head. “They’re a little shouty for my taste.”

“Oh good, me too.” He turns back to the jukebox and huffs as the pages flick. “All bloody Christmas.

“Since you’re not after festive music, or Slipknot, what are you looking for?”

“Literally, anything else.”

I realize I’m hanging on to every word he says because even the most boring words, like literally —that pop of the T —sound goddamn amazing when they drop from his very full lips.

LIT -RALeee.

I close my mouth before I drool all over him and check over my shoulder to make sure no one’s looking. Stepping in next to him, I punch in a code that brings up the music selection Joe uses for the other eleven months of the year, and flick through until I find what I need.

“I can only offer you Michael Bublé, I’m afraid. But it’s enough that most people in here—including Joe—won’t notice it’s been switched.”

“Excellent, I can live with Michael Bublé. Thank you very much.” The hottie flashes a toothy, almost heart-stopping, white smile. And my eyes focus on those dimples again. “But who’s Joe?”

“He owns the place.” I nod over to the bar, where Joe is currently yelling something at Mike. “And he loves Christmas.”

Hottie taps a long index finger to the side of his nose. “Got it, it’ll stay our little secret.”

It’s all I can manage to smile back, instead of gawp like I want to.

Yup. I really need to have sex.

Four years of working to pay off my parents’ debts has left me very little time to myself. I mostly flop onto my bed every night, exhausted, occasionally reaching into my bedside drawer for one of my battery-operated friends if I haven’t already fallen asleep. I don’t have time to date, but I have had the occasional hookup with a tourist, because it’s easy and feelings don’t get in the way.

But, as Saylor reminded me, it’s been too long since I did that either.

That’s why my mouth’s pooling with saliva, and I’m having to force myself to blink.

Not just because this man in front of me is the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life. Aspen is full of hot guys, especially at this time of year when they’re all wrapped up in cable knit like a present waiting to be opened.

“Thank you.” This time I force myself to step away before I do something really embarrassing.

“No, thank you for saving me from listening to Christmas music for longer than I need to.”

One more step back. There, this is a much safer distance. “You’re welcome.”

“So, you’re local I take it, seeing as you know the jukebox trick, and Joe the owner. Any recommendations on what to do while I’m here?”

“Yeah, make sure you try the eggnog,” I call over my shoulder.