Back with His Twins for Christmas

Chapter 5

* Present time *

I forced my spine straight, forced my voice into something approaching indifference.

"It's Charlotte for you, Dean." Each syllable was a blade. "And I see you're still here, playing handyman."

"Still here," he echoed, and his tone held nothing—no warmth, no anger, just the flat neutrality of a stranger. "Someone had to keep this place breathing while you were playing house in Seattle."

The words hit like a slap and I stepped forward before I could stop myself. Close enough to smell motor oil and something achingly familiar underneath—pine and soap and him.

"Playing house?" My voice dropped to something lethal. "Is that what you call it when someone builds a life? Or does that only apply to people who don't run away from their responsibilities by turning them into betting games?"

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath stubbled skin. For a moment, the mask slipped, and I saw something raw flash across his face—confusion? Pain?

But then it was gone, replaced by that infuriating professional distance.

"Mommy, why are you using your scary voice?" Leah's question shattered the moment.

Dean's gaze snapped to my daughter, then to Noah standing quietly beside her, and I watched his expression shift through a dozen micro-emotions too fast to catalog.

His eyes tracked between them and me.

"Well!" My mother's voice sliced through the tension with desperate brightness. "Lunch! We should have lunch to celebrate Charlotte's homecoming. Dean, you'll join us?"

"Can't.” Dean wiped his hands on a rag with deliberate slowness, not meeting anyone's gaze. "Heating's out in the west wing, and you've got three arrivals tomorrow. I'll have the lift inspection report by evening, Richard."

He nodded toward my father with professional courtesy and moved past me, close enough that his arm brushed mine.

The contact sent electricity shooting through my entire body, and I hated myself for the involuntary shiver that followed.

He paused at the door, his back to us, shoulders rigid with tension.

"Those are beautiful kids, Charlotte." His voice was flat and cold. "Tom must be proud."

Then he was gone, leaving me trembling with fury and something else—something that felt dangerously like longing. But my thoughts, like those of the twins, were filled with lunch.

Their stomachs growled as we walked to the dining hall.

The dining room looked the same as I remembered—heavy oak table, mountain views through frost-etched windows, my mother's china arranged with meticulous care. But the meal that followed stripped away any pretense of normalcy.

"Three months." His voice broke on the timeline. "The bank gave us three months to pay eighteen months of backed mortgages, or they take everything."

I opened the folder he slid toward me on the table and nearly vomited.

Red ink bled across every page. Final notices. Disconnection warnings. A cease-and-desist from the county if safety violations weren't addressed.

The Evergreen Peaks Resort—my parents' empire, their legacy, their life—was dying by paperwork.

"Jesus Christ," I breathed. "How long has this—"

"Why didn't you call me?" The question came out accusing. "I have savings. I could have—"

"After what we did?" My father's laugh was bitter as black coffee. "After we chose our reputation over our daughter?"

The twins were exploring with staff, thank God. They didn't need to see their grandparents stripped down to raw desperation.

"The Christmas Festival is our last chance, Charlotte."

My mother's voice had lost its earlier brittleness, replaced by something raw and desperate.

"If we can pack this place for the holidays, prove viability to the bank..." She trailed off, then forced herself to continue. "We need someone who understands modern marketing. Social media. All the things we're too old and too proud to learn."

"So I'm your Hail Mary." It wasn't a question.

"You're our daughter." My mother reached across the table, her fingers finding mine. "Who we failed. Who we abandoned when you needed us most. And we've regretted it every single day since."

I looked at her—really looked. Six years of regret had carved itself into her face like erosion on stone. My father seemed smaller, shoulders bent under the weight of pride's price.

"I'm not saying everything is forgiven," I said carefully. "But I'm here. And I'll do everything I can to help save this place."

My mother's eyes filled with tears and father cleared his throat roughly and nodded, unable to speak.

It wasn't an absolution. But it was a start.

I spent the afternoon touring the property with a notebook, cataloging disasters.

The website looked like it had been designed in 2005 and never updated. Half the outdoor signage was faded beyond legibility. The brochures in the lobby featured photos of staff members who'd retired years ago.

The bones were still beautiful—the mountain views, the cozy lodge architecture, the genuine charm that no amount of neglect could completely erase.

But the flesh was failing, and without serious intervention, the skeleton would collapse entirely.

I was making notes about the spa facilities when maternal radar kicked in. The twins had been quiet for too long.

I found them in the last place I wanted to look.

"—and that's why hamsters can't ski, but maybe with tiny skis?" Leah's voice echoed from the maintenance workshop. "Like really, really small ones?"

"Maybe," Dean's low rumble replied, amused. "But their center of gravity might be an issue."

I froze in the doorway.

Noah—my silent, withdrawn Noah who wouldn't let strangers within three feet—sat on Dean's workbench.

His precious broken truck, the one he'd carried everywhere for two years, the one he screamed if anyone tried to touch, rested in Dean's large, calloused hands.

Their dark heads bent together in concentration, Dean's fingers guiding Noah's smaller ones as they worked on the damaged axle.

"See how the pin goes through here?" Dean's voice was gentle, unhurried, nothing like the cold professional from earlier. "You have to line it up just right, or the wheel won't spin smooth. Want to try?"

Noah nodded solemnly and took the tiny screwdriver Dean offered.

Something cracked open in my chest—something tender and terrible and immediately consumed by fury.

He doesn't get to be good with them.

Not after what he did. Not after the bet and the bragging and the way he'd made me feel like nothing but a conquest.

"Leah, Noah." My voice came out sharp, too sharp, and all three of them looked up. "Time to go. Grandma wants to show you the Christmas decorations in the attic."

"But Mommy, we're fixing—" Leah started.

"Now, please."

Dean's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He carefully handed the truck back to Noah, their work unfinished, and something flickered in his eyes that I refused to examine.

Leah hopped down with a dramatic sigh and waved enthusiastically. "Bye, Mr. Dean! We'll come back tomorrow, okay?"

Noah slid off the workbench, clutching his truck to his chest. He paused at the door, and when he spoke, his quiet voice carried clearly through the workshop.

"Thank you, Mr. Dean."

Dean's expression softened in a way that made my throat close. "Just Dean, kiddos."

I pulled my children away before the moment could deepen.

* * *

That evening, my father found me in the office, surrounded by financial documents and marketing plans.

"I need to tell you something about the festival preparations," he said, settling heavily into the chair across from me. "The ski lifts need full mechanical overhauls before we can pass inspection. The lodge heating system requires someone who understands the original infrastructure. And the Christmas market structures need to be built from scratch this year. Our old ones were damaged in a storage flood last spring."

I already knew where this was going.

I could feel it coming like a train I couldn't outrun.

"There's only one person who can handle all of that, Charlotte." My father's eyes held sympathy and something like an apology. "You'll need to work with Dean daily, sweetheart. He's the only reason this place is still standing."

The weight of it settled over me—weeks of forced proximity, of watching him charm my children, of pretending the past didn't exist while it screamed in my blood every time he walked into a room.

Avoiding Dean Sawyer wasn't an option.

And that terrified me more than the foreclosure ever could.