Page 10 of Snow Storm

Satisfied and still a little oily, he grabbed the wheels and gave a push toward the door. Daniel was waiting in the spalobby, and Claude beckoned him over to the desk, where he’d left his wallet and keys.

“This isn’t part of your Christmas bonus,” Claude told him as he pulled out two hundred-dollar bills.

“Are you ever going to exploit me for my services?” Daniel asked, shoving the cash into his pocket. “You know I’d do this for free.”

Claude grinned at him. “Let’s see how drunk I get on Boxing Day.”

Daniel threw his head back and laughed. “I know you’re anti-marriage, but if you ever want me to hook you up, I know a lot of men, women, and non-binary folks who’d love a silver fox with a sense of humor.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Claude said, deflecting his offer. “That’s just me being French.”

Daniel shook his head, then leaned over him to check his appointment schedule. “I think I’m going to head out. Nothing on the books until tomorrow. New guest, it looks like.”

Right. The one who’d had the meltdown and punched someone. He was a little concerned that the man was unstable, especially since he was coming on his own. Normally, when someone was having a crisis, they had at least a partner to help keep them in check. But the man, Harley James, was booked for himself and no one else.

But the file notes said he wasn’t a danger to himself or others. Claude wasn’t sure he trusted whoever made that claim, but he could defend himself and the rest of his staff if it came down to it. And he would. Regardless of the consequences.

“If he gives you trouble, call me in,” Claude said.

Daniel pulled back. “Will he?”

“I don’t think so. But just in case…”

“Uh. Sure thing.” Daniel looked a little uneasy, but he didn’t put up a fight, and Claude considered that a win.

He lingered a bit longer, mostly to avoid work responsibilities, but eventually, he headed back to his cabin to change into something more appropriate. He’d had wind tunnels built between the main guest building and the staff quarters, so he rolled comfortably along the carpeted walkways and let out a breath of relief when he got to his ramp.

It had snowed, but none of it stuck to the wood, so he rolled up without sliding around and opened his door, enjoying the burst of heat that hit him in the face.

He liked his little home. It was different from where he and Anabelle had lived in London, and it was wildly alien compared to his flat in Paris. And it only bore a small resemblance to the house they’d lived in when he was hired on to teach at WSU.

It hadn’t been his favorite place to exist, but he missed the Pacific from time to time with the blooming the cherry trees, and drizzling rain, and wild fish markets where he’d loved to sit and people-watch.

Nothing, of course, compared to his childhood in a little village in west Brittany. It was far away from anywhere a tourist would want to visit and nothing remotely like the Parisians. It had been quiet with no public transportation, and he had the thickest calves from walking everywhere. There was nothing to do, and he and his friends used to entertain themselves by stealing whiskey from their dads and getting drunk in cemeteries so old they could no longer read the inscriptions.

It was tucked away from everything—like a little planet all on its own. And he’d loved it.

It was probably why he felt so at home at Wrought Iron. It looked nothing like the place where he’d grown up, but the feeling of being distant from the cold, angry world was so similar. He knew some people found the ranch too quiet. It was why his employees all took months off for vacations when he could spare them. But he never minded.

In truth, Claude loved silence. The only time it had ever gotten to him was when he and Anabelle stopped speaking, and even that had resolved itself.

Now, he could be happy again in his quiet little bubble.

And when he was happy, he could still just…be.

The thought was oddly comforting as he stepped out of his chair and peeled away his sweats. His top drawer held socks that went all the way to his knees, which would protect his skin from the orthotics he wore whenever his legs weren’t feeling up to the task of carrying the weight of his body on their own.

He sat down and put his socks on before stretching his legs out. His feet were always a little limp, and his calves had atrophied to a fraction of the muscle he once had. He tried to flex his toes, but they didn’t feel like obeying in that moment.

Running hands over his knobby knees, he bent forward and strapped on the braces before sliding into his jeans and tucking in his T-shirt. He threw a warm sweater over that, then stood in front of his mirror and tried to order his hair. He still smelled like orange oil, but he’d lost the faint hint of euphoria on his face.

It never lasted, anyway.

Picking up his cane, he leaned heavily on it as he walked into his kitchen and grabbed a croissant out of the bread box. He hadn’t eaten enough, but he’d worry about that come dinner. The bread would tide him over, and there was coffee waiting for him in the lobby.

Slipping into his boots, he tested his balance, and when he was satisfied, he headed out the door once more and into the fray. Metaphorically.

Because the one thing the holidays did bring him was a little bit of stillness. And that was something he was happy to embrace.

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