Page 75 of Holiday Hopefuls
“Callie, this place is incredible.” He’s not wrong.
Situated in the mountains a couple hours west of Serenvale Springs, the main hotel is stunning. With its colonial revival influences, the impressive Aspen Point Lodge truly doescommand respect from all who visit. Crisp white paint coats the outside, and columns line the front porch spanning the entire front of the building. The dark interior contrasts the bright exterior, creating a welcoming feel with its roaring fireplaces and intricate carpets.
But we’re not stopping at the main building.
Opening the trunk, Oliver pulls out a medium suitcase and sets it on the ground before doing the same with my bags. It’s clearly new because a tag fastener is still attached near the handle.
“Really leaning into your love of brown there, Rhodes.” Brows raised, I nod to the case.
Pink tints his cheeks, eyes locking on mine. “I needed a new bag and it’s a great color. Warm,” he says, voice quiet.
“It’s your favorite, like dirt, if I recall.” Of course I recall. My mind is a dang steel trap. I remember everything, and man, is it annoying.
Must be all that broccoli I’ve eaten over the years. You know, once I decided it wasn’t toxic or anything.
Though it would be nice to not remember Alfred Robert Jensen’s great-grandkids in alphabetical order because I happened to look at his obituary one time fourteen years ago. But I do hope Brandon, Jake, and Kirsten are all doing well and have come to terms with the passing of their great-grandfather.
Oliver says nothing, opting instead to take in the view rather than answering his fake girlfriend’s awkward comment.
“Reception’s this way.” We may not be stopping here, but it’d be nice to not have to walk the rest of the way. Motioning toward the front door, I reach down to grab my bags, but he beats me to them. “I don’t think so, Rutherford.” Tossing my glitter-encrusted backpack over his annoyingly broad shoulder, he adjusts the handle of the green roller bag to suit his height.
Planting fists on my hips, I take in the sight before me. Even all bundled up, Oliver Grant Rhodes is still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own bags.”
“I know,” he nods.
Holding out my hand, I await the massive boulder that is my backpack to hit my palm.
Oliver juts his chin toward the main entrance. “Reception, right? Lead the way, my cocoa connoisseur.”
“No bag?”
Lowering his chin, a tiny smile teases his lips. “No bag. Not if I’m around.”
“This way, then. But I get to carry my new mug,” I say with false sternness.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Biting my lip to keep a stupid grin in check, I take off toward the front door. Christmas is in full swing at the lodge. Warm white lights line every door and wrap around every column, fluffy wreaths dot every window in sight, and picturesque trees stand erect on either side of the double door entrance. The snow-covered mountains in the background are just the star on top of the tree.
As we approach the front doors, the doormen open them like a well-oiled machine, while Oliver whistles under his breath. Though I’m not sure if it’s the doormen, the iron chandelier, or the full-size fireplace surrounded by wooden carvings that elicits the reaction.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Rutherford.” The familiar voice of Thomas Carson comes from behind the massive front desk at the opposite end of the lobby.
“Who’s that?” Oliver whispers.
“One of my favorite people here,” I answer in the same hushed tone, “Mr. Carson. He’s been the General Manager since I can remember.”
A man of sharp style, Mr. Carson is always dressed to impress. In his late fifties, Thomas has lost some of his native French accent since coming to the States. But he still makes mean madeleines from scratch and never fails to have some ready in our accommodations when we arrive. He meets us in the middle of the foyer, arms open in welcome. “It’s lovely to see you again, Ms. Rutherford. I can’t believe it’s been eight weeks since you and your family were last here.”
“It’s only been eight weeks?” Oliver asks.
Mr. Carson chuckles. “And who do we have here? Your significant other, I presume?”
Looping my arm through Oliver’s, I give him an encouraging smile. “Yep. This is my boyfriend, Dr. Oliver Rhodes.” Pride drips from my words while I wish in the deepest recesses of my soul that they were true.
Oliver holds out a hand, which Mr. Carson takes without hesitation. “It’s great to meet you, sir.”
Mr. Carson smiles, his tender-hearted nature reaching his dark eyes. “The pleasure is all mine, Dr. Rhodes. You must be quite the special man. Ms. Rutherford never brings her male friends on family getaways.” His eyes twinkle mischievously as they take in my shock at his admission.
