Page 7 of Snow Storm

Instead of getting insulted, Lyric smiled at him and leaned on the counter. “So there’s this author, R.J. Ruiz? Have you heard of him? He just went viral for punching a guy out at a book signing.”

The name wasn’t familiar, and Claude didn’t do social media. It was a waste of time, and almost everything on there these days existed to incite rage. He was irritated enough on his good days and angry on his bad ones. And while he once did enjoy a good book, he hadn’t picked up anything in months. No, years.

Since taking over the Wrought Iron Resort from his uncle, he’d barely slept for the amount of work that needed to be done. Anytime he’d picked up a book, it was either one from accounting or one from his vendors.

“I haven’t heard of him. And I’m not sure why I’m supposed to care.”

“You’re supposed to care because we’re trapped out here all winter without contact with the outside world,andit’s sweet, sweet internet tea.” She smiled like she was swooning. “I love celebrity meltdowns. Check this out.”

She flung herself against the desk and tapped the phone screen with her thumb before Claude could tell her that he didn’t care.

The video began to play after a second of buffering. There was a familiar, white-noise sound of a crowd, and then two men came into focus. One looked like some smarmy corporate asshole in his suit, and the other was in jeans and a thermal. He was slightly chubby with wild, unkempt dark hair, and there was something about his face that captured Claude almost instantly.

The two men were speaking, but Lyric had the volume down to almost nothing, so he couldn’t make out the words. But whatever the corporate asshole said, the other one’s face crumpled like he’d just been told his dog died. And then something in his body language shifted. Claude knew that look—the look when every one of his social fucks had dried up and he had nothing left to lose.

Then he pulled his fist out and swung. He landed a right hook on the dickhead’s cheek, then turned on his heel and marched away. The video ended right after that.

“This man is a celebrity?”

“Kind of, I guess? His books are viral online, but he’s not really present on social media or anything. He’s done a few signings, but he was kind of a recluse, and now I’m thinking it’s because he has anger issues.”

Or maybe the corporate dickhead had it coming. Claude was the kind of man who preferred not to judge people at first glance. Mostly becausehewas nothing like he seemed, and he was tired of people making assumptions about him.

He’d been all but laughed off the property when he first showed up with his cardigan, iron-grey hair, and wheelchair. He’d greyed early, which made his age appear ambiguous, and his French accent made everyone think he was a pompous, rich dickhead. The wheelchair made people assume he was incapable of doing the hard work a ranch like Wrought Iron needed, and they all assumed he was going to turn it into some glamping European-style spa.

It had taken him months to earn the trust of his employees and years to prove that he had no plans of changing the thing his uncle had built.

He’d accepted the inheritance when Jean died because he needed a reprieve. When Jean passed, he had just quit his position at the Washington State University and was coming off a messy divorce after finding his ex-wife in his office, sleeping with his assistant. He was on the tenure track, but it was easy to give that up for a quiet life in the American mountain countryside where he didn’t have to worry about getting his heart stomped on.

Even if he had to be surrounded by happy couples year-round.

Most of the year, the resort was filled with people celebrating honeymoons and anniversaries, and almost all of his staff was married. He didn’t mind it so much. After Anabelle, he’d all but given up on the idea of love. If he’d been destined for a great one, it was long gone now. But he didn’t begrudge it to other people. It was just annoying when it was everywhere he turned.

In the winter, though, they operated with a skeleton crew, and he was looking forward to having a nice, lonely Christmas all to himself. He was seven years past his divorce, but some moments were more tender than others.

Seventeen years of devotion, then a twenty-something showed up to rock her world, and it proved to her that sometimes the grass actually was greener. Claude was more than over it. In fact, when he found her, he was more tired than anything. He never once cried, and after a long while of introspection, he’d started to wonder not just if he’d loved her but if he’d ever loved anyone at all.

That had been the biggest blow, but it was one he could live with. They separated amicably, and she moved back across the pond with her lover, and he headed for the mountains on his own, searching for peace.

They were on the back side, leaning toward a decade of being apart, and he realized he had no idea who she was these days or where she was living.

And either the best or worst part—he wasn’t quite sure—he didn’t care.

He had his life here, and he could say he was happier than he had ever been in his past. The resort was doing well. He invested, so even if it went under, he could still retire comfortably without having to go back into teaching. He had his own cabin, a nice little herd of Highland cattle, employees he now considered family, and a spa where he could get massagesanytime he needed them to keep his legs from completely seizing up on his bad days.

It wasn’t the worst way to wallow in his twilight years.

Though he felt like a traitor to his generation for calling forty-nine twilight. He was mostly feeling morose since it was the holidays, and he was almost ready to adopt and spoil a cat like it was his child and live the rest of his life lint-rolling fur off his black shirts.

“Why are you showing me this?” Claude finally asked when Lyric made no move to go show someone else the video. “I’m happy you care about celebrity tea parties or whatever you call them, but you know I don’t.”

Lyric burst into laughter. “You are such an old man. And I’m showing you because Aminah told me she thinks our late holiday booking is him. You know, the black tab guy?”

They had a system for organizing guests—different-colored tabs, though now that was figurative in their digital age—but he’d been told it was a holdover from when they had written records. Most of their guests were yellow tabs. Average people. They had platinum—politicians and movie stars who might come with paparazzi.

Black tabs were people with some sort of social standing who booked the spa not entirely voluntarily. A mental health recovery without therapy, though he’d had guests with a literal entourage of physical and mental health providers come through in the past.

But those were the diamond tabs. The ones who had more money than he could ever dream of.

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