POV Charlotte
I registered Dean's arms around me before I registered anything else—the solid warmth of him, the way his muscles shifted beneath his flannel as he steadied me, the scent of him mixed with machine oil that shouldn't have been comforting but somehow was.
My body had betrayed me completely, relaxing into his chest like it remembered something my mind had spent seven years trying to forget.
Idiot, I cursed myself silently. Pathetic, desperate idiot.
But I couldn't make myself move. Couldn't force my hands to stop pressing against the broad expanse of his back, couldn't command my lungs to breathe at a normal pace instead of this shallow, uneven rhythm that gave away everything.
"It's okay." Dean's voice rumbled through his chest, surprisingly gentle, vibrating against my cheek in a way that made my stomach flip. "The generator's not going to explode. It just needs a new belt. I've got you."
The words landed somewhere soft and dangerous, somewhere I'd boarded up years ago and covered with warning signs.
I knew I should pull away. I knew every second I stayed pressed against him was another brick crumbling from the wall I'd built so carefully.
"You can let me go," I managed, and my voice came out steadier than I expected, almost convincing. "My fear has passed. I'm fine now."
But neither of us moved.
His arms remained locked around me, solid and warm, his hands spread across my back like he was afraid I might shatter if he released me too quickly.
My fingers stayed curled into the fabric of his flannel, gripping harder than necessary, holding on to something I had no right to want.
Dean's breath came out in a heavy sigh that stirred my hair, and mine remained uneven, shallow, too fast—broadcasting every feeling I was desperately trying to hide.
"Charlotte? Are you here?"
Peyton's voice echoed through the shed, and I sprang backward so fast I nearly tripped over a toolbox.
My cheeks burned as I put distance between us, smoothing my sweater with trembling hands, trying to compose my expression into something that didn't scream caught.
My sister appeared in the doorway, phone in hand, her eyebrows rising as she took in the scene—Dean standing rigid by the generator, me flushed and breathless three feet away, the air between us practically crackling with whatever she'd interrupted.
"I've been trying to reach you for an hour," Peyton said, her tone carefully neutral in a way that meant she'd noticed everything and was choosing not to comment. "Calls, texts, nothing. My phone's been blowing up—half the spa staff wants to know when filming starts tomorrow because they want to participate. Maria's already planning her outfit, and you know how she gets when she doesn't have enough prep time."
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice into something approaching professional.
"Filming starts at nine. Peyton, you're first—soft lighting in the treatment rooms, the essential oils display, whatever poses photograph best for the wellness angle. Dean, you're scheduled for eleven, outdoor shots. I'll have my team set up by eight to catch the morning light."
I delivered the information to both of them without meeting Dean's gaze, my eyes fixed on a spot somewhere past Peyton's shoulder as my sister launched into a stream of questions about camera angles and whether downward dog or warrior pose would look better on Instagram.
I answered on autopilot, my mind still spinning from the feeling of Dean's arms around me, from the way he'd said I've got you like it was a promise he intended to keep.
* * *
The next morning dawned bright and cold, perfect filming weather.
Peyton's segment went smoothly—soft lighting filtering through the spa's windows, essential oils gleaming in their amber bottles, the whole wellness aesthetic coming together exactly as I'd envisioned.
My Seattle team captured her moving through sun salutations with practiced grace, her instructor's voice calm and soothing as she demonstrated poses that would make our audience feel relaxed just watching.
By ten-thirty, I went searching for Dean.
I found him outside near the festival grounds, and the scene stopped me in my tracks. He stood toe-to-toe with one of Tom's newly arrived contractors, their voices carrying across the snow with an edge that made nearby workers pause their hammering to watch.
"The stalls need to face east for morning light," Dean was saying, his jaw tight with frustration, one hand gesturing toward the half-constructed market framework. "Vendors have been setting up this way for fifteen years. The foot traffic patterns, the sight lines from the main lodge—there's a reason we do it like this."
The contractor—a thick-necked man in an expensive jacket that screamed city money—waved dismissively.
"I've built festival installations in Vail, Aspen, Telluride. I think I know what I'm doing better than some small-town handyman who's never worked a real construction site."
I moved forward, ready to intervene, but before I could speak, Tom appeared from somewhere behind the contractor, strolling over with that proprietary confidence I despised—hands in his cashmere coat pockets, smile sharp as a blade.
"Dean, maybe you should step back and let the professionals handle this," Tom said, his voice carrying that particular tone of condescension he'd perfected in boardrooms. "If you were truly qualified for this kind of work, everything would already be finished. The fact that this resort is still struggling after seven years of your... efforts... rather speaks for itself, doesn't it?"
I opened my mouth to defend Dean, fury rising hot and immediate in my throat—
"It's not necessary," Dean cut me off, his voice flat, his eyes never leaving Tom's face. "I don't need anyone fighting my battles."
He stepped forward, and something in his posture shifted, his shoulders squaring with the kind of quiet authority that came from years of actually doing the work.
"If you'd been here for seven years instead of me, there'd be nothing left to save. Every pipe in this lodge would have frozen. Every lift would have failed inspection. Every guest would have gone home telling stories about the resort that couldn't keep its lights on."
Tom laughed, utterly unruffled, the sound sliding across my nerves.
"Money solves problems, Dean. That's the lesson you've apparently never learned. With proper investment, this place could rival Aspen. It could be something instead of a fading postcard from someone's grandmother's vacation."
Dean didn't respond. He simply turned and walked away, his shoulders rigid with barely contained anger, his boots crunching through the snow with deliberate force.
I followed without thinking, my shorter legs struggling to match his pace. "Dean, wait. The filming schedule—we need to discuss the shots for this afternoon, the angles my team wants to capture—"
He stopped so abruptly that I nearly collided with his back, my hands coming up instinctively to brace against his spine before I caught myself.
When he turned, there was something fierce in his expression—not defeated, not broken by Tom's cutting remarks, but determined in a way that made my breath catch. His steel-blue eyes burned with the kind of fire I remembered from seven years ago, from closets and bedrooms and moments that had shaped everything that came after.
"Let's make some content," he said, his voice low and certain, rough with something that sounded almost like hope. "Show everyone this place is more authentic than any Aspen could ever be."