Padlocked

The road to the hills was narrow, winding, and blessedly free of people who wanted something from Aaron Legend.

For the first time in weeks, that felt like a luxury.

Rain threatened beyond the windscreen, turning the distant mountains a murky shade of blue.

Aaron loosened his tie with one hand while steering around a bend with the other, his expression darkening when his phone lit up in the passenger seat.

Three missed calls.

Two emails marked urgent.

One message from his secretary reminding him that the board expected his revised projections by Monday morning.

He turned the phone facedown.

For a man who had spent most of his life being told what he ought to do, he was remarkably bad at telling people to leave him alone.

Perhaps that was what happened when you were raised by Patrick Legend.

His grandfather had possessed an extraordinary talent for making even affection feel like an obligation.

Every opportunity came with expectations.

Every achievement came with a reminder of what was still required.

Every decision Aaron made was apparently an audition for a role he had never particularly wanted.

And now Patrick was dead.

The funeral was over.

The condolences had slowed.

The company had settled into its familiar machinery, swallowing its grief and moving on as if the man who had controlled half their lives had merely stepped out for a meeting.

Aaron had inherited his grandfather's position, his responsibilities, his reputation, and an office large enough to make a person feel insignificant.

He hadn't inherited any useful instructions on what to do when the person you'd spent your life trying to impress was no longer there to impress.

His jaw tightened.

He wasn't going to spend the weekend thinking about Patrick.

That was the entire point of coming here.

The lodge had been recommended by someone who assured him that the views were spectacular, the food excellent, and the mobile reception unreliable.

The last part had sealed the deal.

He wanted two days without board members, family obligations, or well-meaning people asking how he was coping.

He especially wanted no more dinners with Eleanor, who had spent the previous evening discussing his future with the confidence of someone ordering from a menu.

Marriage, she had suggested, would be good for him.

Aaron had wondered whether she meant marriage or a legally binding arrangement to ensure he ate dinner at reasonable hours.

He'd smiled, excused himself, and driven toward the hills.

Now, as the first drops of rain struck his windscreen, he wondered whether he'd been optimistic about the weather.

He was beginning to suspect the mountains had their own opinions about his weekend.

By the time Aaron reached the lodge, the rain had become a determined assault.

The building stood among tall pines, its stone walls and broad windows glowing warmly against the gathering darkness. Smoke rose from a chimney, and the porch lights illuminated a scattering of guests hurrying indoors.

It looked peaceful.

Aaron was immediately suspicious.

Peace, in his experience, was usually the moment before someone asked him to sign something.

He parked, retrieved his overnight bag, and strode inside.

Warmth enveloped him, carrying the scents of woodsmoke, coffee, and something deliciously buttery from the kitchen. A fire crackled in the main lounge. Beyond the windows, the mountains were disappearing behind a curtain of rain.

The manager greeted him at reception with a smile that suggested he hadn't yet discovered the many ways a guest could ruin his evening.

“Mr. Legend. Welcome to the lodge.”

“Aaron is fine.”

“Of course, sir.”

Aaron glanced at him.

The manager's smile faltered. “Aaron.”

“Much better.”

After the formalities, Aaron accepted his key and headed upstairs. His room overlooked the valley, and for a moment he stood by the window, watching the wind bend the pine branches.

No calls. No meetings. No one telling him what he ought to become.

He set his phone on the bedside table.

Then it rang.

He stared at it.

The caller's name appeared on the screen.

His secretary.

Aaron declined the call.

“Two days,” he muttered. “Is that so unreasonable?”

Thunder rolled across the valley.

He took it as agreement.

He went to the restaurant.

For approximately forty minutes, his plan of peace worked.

Then came the crash.

It was loud enough to shake the window and send him upright from the armchair. A second later, someone shouted in the corridor.

Aaron walked towards his room.

The manager hurried past, followed by two staff members, all wearing expressions that suggested the building had developed a personal grudge.

“What happened?” Aaron asked.

“A tree came down in the storm, sir.”

“On the building?”

“Part of it. We've had some damage to the roof and the adjoining rooms.”

Aaron looked toward the end of the corridor.

His room was there.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Of course it was.

“I'm terribly sorry,” the manager said ten minutes later, standing in Aaron's room while rainwater dripped steadily into a bucket near the window.

A branch had smashed through the outer section of the room, leaving broken glass, damaged furniture, and a draft cold enough to qualify as a personal insult.

Aaron looked at the ceiling.

“Tell me the tree is still alive.”

The manager blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. I was attempting to find the silver lining,”he replied wryly.

“I'm afraid the damage is extensive. We can arrange another room, but we're completely full tonight.”

Aaron turned slowly.

“You're telling me that in a lodge this size, in the middle of a storm, there isn't one available room?”

“The roads are becoming difficult, and we have several guests who arrived unexpectedly.”

“Wonderful. Perhaps I should sleep on the tree.”

“There's one possibility,” the manager said hastily. “A suite on the second floor. One of the rooms is occupied, but the adjoining bedroom is available. The shared sitting room has a fireplace, and the rooms have separate doors and bathrooms.”

Aaron regarded him.

“You want me to share a suite with a stranger.”

“Only the common area, sir. You'd have your own room.”

“How reassuring. Does the stranger know he or she's acquired a roommate?”

The manager hesitated.

"It is she"

Aaron sighed.

“Please tell me you've at least asked her.”

“She's aware of the situation. She agreed, provided her privacy is respected.”

“Then I suppose I can behave like a civilised adult for one night.”

The manager looked visibly relieved.

Aaron picked up his bag.

“One night,” he repeated.

Outside, thunder cracked again.

He had a feeling the mountains were laughing at him.

Elise had been at the lodge for less than an hour when she discovered that the universe had an irritating sense of timing.

She'd come here to work.

Not to relax, despite what the travel brochure suggested. Not to admire the scenery, although the mountains were admittedly beautiful. And certainly not to spend the evening making polite conversation with strangers.

She had a laptop, an unreliable internet connection, and a security problem that needed solving before morning.

The lodge had been a last-minute decision after she'd helped resolve a serious breach for one of its associated businesses. Adrian Vale, who apparently believed gratitude should be expressed through accommodation rather than money, had arranged the stay.

She had accepted because a quiet room in the hills sounded considerably more appealing than another evening at home listening to her mother discuss eligible bachelors.

Her mother had recently developed the alarming conviction that her inability to maintain a conventional career was directly connected to her inability to maintain a conventional relationship.

She disagreed with both diagnoses.

She wasn't incapable of finding a job. She simply refused to spend the next decade doing something she hated because it came with a respectable title and predictable working hours.

As for marriage, she had yet to meet a man who made her think surrendering her freedom would be a sensible exchange.

She'd settle for one who could hold an intelligent conversation without explaining the world to her.

The bar was not high.

Apparently, it was still too high.

A knock interrupted her work.

She glanced at the door. “If this is about dinner, I'm perfectly capable of starving independently.”

The manager appeared, looking apologetic.

“I assure you, dinner is available.”

“Then I'm already fond of this establishment.”

“Unfortunately, there's been an accident. A tree has damaged another guest's room, and we're completely booked. I wondered if you might allow him to use the adjoining bedroom in your suite.”

Claire leaned back in her chair.

“Is he dangerous?”

“No, miss.”

“Insufferable?”

The manager hesitated for half a second too long.

Claire sighed. “That's not encouraging.”

“He'll have his own bedroom and bathroom. You'll only be sharing the sitting room.”

She glanced at the storm outside, then at her laptop.

“Separate doors?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don't see a problem. Provided he understands that my room is off-limits.”

“Of course.”

“And if he snores, he's your responsibility.”

The manager's expression suggested he hadn't encountered that particular clause in his hospitality training.

“I'll inform him.”

“Excellent. I'm very reasonable when properly accommodated.”

When he left, she returned to her screen.

She had no idea who the unfortunate stranger was, and she didn't particularly care.

They could occupy the same suite without becoming acquainted. People managed that every day in hotels, airports, and family gatherings.

She had perfected the art of being civil without being available.

It was one of her more useful skills.

Aaron arrived at the suite shortly afterward.

The manager showed him the shared sitting room, pointed out the two bedroom doors, and assured him that his fellow guest had agreed to the arrangement.

Aaron inspected the room.

A fireplace. A sofa. A coffee table. Large windows rattling under the wind.

Acceptable.

“Your fellow guest is working,” the manager added. “She asked not to be disturbed.”

“An excellent policy. I wish more people would adopt it.”

The manager gave a nervous laugh.

Aaron set down his bag and removed his coat.

He had no intention of disturbing anyone. He'd take a shower, order dinner, and spend the evening ignoring his phone.

It was a flawless plan.

For nearly twenty minutes.

Then the adjoining bedroom door opened.

A woman emerged carrying an empty mug.

She was barefoot, dressed in comfortable dark trousers and an oversized sweater, with her hair gathered carelessly at the back of her head. She looked as though she'd been interrupted halfway through solving a problem and was prepared to hold the entire world responsible.

Her gaze landed on Aaron.

She stopped.

He stopped.

For one brief, absurd moment, neither spoke.

Then she glanced at his coat, his watch, and the expression on his face.

“You're the displaced guest.”

“And you're the charitable stranger.”

“I wouldn't go that far. I was promised a quiet evening.”

“I was promised a room.”

“Then I suggest we both lower our expectations.”

Aaron stared at her.

She stared back.

Something flickered at the corner of her mouth, as if she were fighting the urge to smile.

He found that unnecessarily distracting.

“Do you always greet people like they're an administrative inconvenience?” he asked.

“Only when they arrive looking like one.”

His eyebrows rose.

Interesting.

Most people who spoke to him for the first time were either excessively polite or visibly intimidated. Occasionally, someone attempted confidence and ruined it by checking his reaction every few seconds.

This woman didn't appear to care whether he approved of her.

It was irritating.

It was also, he had to admit, refreshing.

“I'm Aaron,” he said.

She considered him for a moment.

“Elise.”

He offered no surname, and neither did she.

An unspoken agreement settled between them. First names only. No unnecessary details. No obligations beyond sharing a roof until the weather improved.

“Right,” Aaron said. “Elise. I assume you've been informed that I won't be invading your room, stealing your belongings, or making conversation unless absolutely necessary.”

“How reassuring. I was particularly worried about the conversation.”

“I can be remarkably quiet.”

“Then we may yet survive the evening.”

She walked past him toward the small coffee station.

Aaron caught the faint scent of her shampoo as she passed. Something clean and warm, with a hint of citrus.

He immediately disliked that he'd noticed.

Claire filled her mug and turned back.

“There's coffee. I wouldn't recommend it, but it's available.”

“Is that a warning or a review?”

“Both.”

He glanced at the machine. “I'll take my chances.”

“That's generally how people end up disappointed.”

“Do you always have the last word?”

“Only when the other person keeps providing opportunities.”

Aaron's mouth twitched.

He wasn't smiling.

He absolutely wasn't.

“I'm beginning to understand why the manager looked relieved when I agreed to share the suite.”

“Perhaps he wanted to avoid a law suit or realised you needed supervision.”

“Perhaps he realised you were the problem.”

“Then we'll have something in common.”

She took her mug and returned to her room.

Aaron watched the door close.

Then he looked down at the coffee machine.

He'd driven two hours into the mountains to escape people.

Instead, he'd acquired a sarcastic stranger with an excellent verbal evisceration skills and no apparent instinct for self-preservation.

He poured the coffee.

It tasted terrible.

“Elise,” he muttered to himself, “It is going to be a very long night.”