Snow Storm

Chapter 3

Claude

“You read, right?”

Claude looked up from the desk and lifted a brow at Lyric, who was brandishing her phone screen at him, though she was waving it too fast for him to see what was on it. “Uh. I can read. Is that what you’re asking me?”

Lyric rolled her eyes. “I meant, you like high fantasy books, don’t you? Like vampires getting railed by dragon shifters?”

“Can you please not say stuff like that in the lobby?” he begged, though he knew she’d immediately ignore that request. Luckily, they were out of earshot, and with the weather going bad and Christmas coming up, they had almost no guests. But he preferred not to take the risk of getting trashed on Yelp because his employees had foul mouths. “And no, I don’t read books about vampires having their way with dragons. I don’t even know how that would work. Are you asking me for a reason, or are you just trying to take up my valuable time with your nonsense?”

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, and it’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 because he was 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 massages anytime 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.

“Okay. So…are you trying to warn me about him?” Claude asked her.

Lyric rolled her eyes. “No. I’m just saying he’s one of four guests here, and at least it might get interesting this Christmas.”

That wasn’t exactly something he was looking forward to. Claude didn’t really do any guest relations. That was Aminah’s job as the front desk manager. Claude tended to avoid people at all costs if he could help it, though owning the ranch made it so he couldn’t do that all the time.

Sometimes—when it was the slow season and guests were bored—Aminah could talk him into giving basic French and German lessons since he was fluent in the first one and reasonably fluent in the second. Once, she’d asked him to do a chair fitness class, but he’d declined that.

He’d taken a few of them early on after his injury, but he never quite mastered the art, and he wasn’t willing to be responsible for hurting guests because he was shit at his old PT.

He’d been a cane and wheelchair user for fifteen years now. On his thirty-fourth birthday, Anabelle had talked him into going on a hike to celebrate. Claude hadn’t been big on the whole outdoorsy thing back then, but he knew it would make her happy, so he said yes. He’d obviously had no idea that a slippery rock and a tumble down a short embankment was going to change his life forever. But it had.

He shattered his hips, broke his back, and the pressure of the breaks damaged his spinal cord, leaving him almost completely paralyzed from the hips down for months. Eventually, he regained some feeling, and with a lot of work, he regained the ability to walk.

But he hadn’t been cured.

His legs still spasmed on his rougher days, and he didn’t have a lot of feeling below his injury line.

He felt good about his progress, but he realized that his wife hadn’t recovered as well as he had. She was short with him and quiet. During therapy, she confessed the guilt ate at her because she was the one who pushed the issue. But no matter how often he reassured her he didn’t blame her, she never did let it go.

The strain defined their marriage, and she blamed that for seeking love and attention from someone else, but Claude often wondered if maybe she was just waiting for a catalyst. He had a strong feeling in his gut they wouldn’t have lasted this long even if he hadn’t fallen.

But he didn’t really think about that often. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was living his comfortable hermit life where summers were warm and sunny, autumns were breezy, winters were cold with mountains of snow, and springs were rainy and full of brightly colored forest blooms.

It was ideal.

It was everything he’d ever wanted—minus, he supposed, being in love. Because for all that he wondered if he had ever been in love—and sometimes he wondered if he was even capable of it—he still wanted it. He was content to live a life all on his own. Content to not put all of his baggage on someone else. But that didn’t mean he didn’t dream of the perfect person sweeping into his life when he least expected it and turning his world upside down in all the best ways.

He didn’t give that fantasy a lot of room to rent in his head though. His life was better this way. He preferred his heart in one piece, beating in his chest. He wasn’t sure he’d ever trust anyone to hold it again.

“Okay, well, you’re boring, but I guess I should have expected that from the resort hermit.” Lyric pushed away from the desk and shoved her hands into her pockets. “I’m going to go bother the kitchen. They’re more fun, and they appreciate me.”

He gave her a passive wave as she headed into the side door that led to the kitchen corridor. They were definitely more fun than he was. They were also a little giddy because it was nearly the holidays, and most of them were going home for a long two weeks to be with family.

The only people staying over were the volunteers—most of them for the time-and-a-half holiday pay, and all of them without any real family to celebrate with. Claude could be a bit of a storm cloud on his best days, but he did try to keep things festive for them so no one felt like they were missing out.

They were putting up the tree tomorrow, and he had a massive collection of gifts to wrap in his cabin for everyone. He’d been sneakily asking them what they wanted all year, so even if they couldn’t be with loved ones, they’d know they were his family.

Pushing back away from the desk, he grabbed his cane and grimaced as he stood. His spinal cord was as healed as it would ever be. His legs were weak, and his hips ached during the colder months, thanks to the pins that would always be lodged in his bones that had kept them in place while they healed. It took extra time to get his feet moving and steady, which was a sign he should have used his chair, but he liked walking.

And his doctor recommended it since he was getting closer to the age where he’d have to worry about arteries and clogs and other bullshit he wasn’t ready to face.

Aging wasn’t the worst. But it also wasn’t any fun. It was harder watching all the adorable young couples venturing to the spa for weekend getaways and honeymoons. He remembered being like them. Well, a little. He and Anabelle had never been particularly romantic. He’d proposed because she expected it, and she expected it because their relationship made sense.

They rubbed along well enough, they shared three languages fluently, and they both liked to travel. She didn’t bother him when he needed alone time, and he was happy to let her indulge in all her hobbies. He just hadn’t realized that his passive acceptance that their life was life and the absolute lack of passion was the thing driving her away the fastest.

The worst part about realizing that was coming to terms with the fact that even if he had known, he likely would have ended it instead of offering to change. He hadn’t wanted to become a different person for her. He didn’t want to twist himself into the shape of whatever man was her ideal.

He wanted to be loved for who he was.

And, well, it was likely she wanted to be loved for who she was, and it was clear he’d never be able to give her that.

Ah, hell. Turning the corner on seven years, and he was still thinking about her every now and again when it was quiet.

He really needed a cat. Or maybe a new hobby. He could take up knitting. Or cross-stitch.

Grimacing, Claude headed into his office, where he had his ergonomic chair that took all the pressure off his sore spots. He had a mountain of paperwork waiting for him, time cards to sign off on, holiday bonuses to deposit, and yet another Christmas snowstorm up in the mountains to prepare for.

Alone.

Always, always alone.

“If I wasn’t so against marriage, I’d propose,” Claude groaned as powerful hands swept along his thighs. His muscles were somewhat atrophied since they weren’t as responsive as they’d been before his accident.

They tended to spasm and seize a lot, so the one indulgence he took besides soaking in the springs was the massages. And Daniel was the best. He wasn’t Swedish, but he could play the part with his massive shoulders and his full head of very blond hair.

He had a smile that had once made Claude’s heart flutter, but it hadn’t been more than a passing crush. Also, Daniel was married to a man in the Marines, and he was very open about how absolutely taken he was.

“If I wasn’t married, I’d say yes. But I don’t date straight guys, and I’m pretty sure you don’t swing my way.”

Claude snorted. “I’m not straight. I swing any way my heart wants.” He wasn’t in the closet. He just wasn’t very open about his preferences, mostly because he had no intention of dating. Ever. “But my heart doesn’t want a marriage.”

Daniel picked up his left foot and began to work the warm, orange-scented oil into the arches of his feet. His legs were still twitching, but a lot less than they had been before. Daniel truly was magic. “What does it want, hmm?”

“A good cassoulet. The kitchen still can’t get it right, as much as I love them. My favorite cheeses without having to pay so much for the imports. The wine is good here, so I won’t complain about that, but I could use some decent chocolate every now and again. American chocolate always tastes like sour milk.”

Daniel laughed. “Fair. What about your heart though. Because most of those things are your stomach, and trust me when I say the way to a man’s heart is not through the things he puts in his mouth. Well…maybe a few things, but none of them are food.”

Claude flushed as his cheeks turned faintly pink at what Daniel was implying. It had been a long, long time since he’d had anything to whet that appetite, and considering he wasn’t in the business where he could meet singles, he was pretty sure his celibate streak was going to continue.

“I’ve heard red wine is great for the cardiovascular system. Does that count?”

“No!” Daniel smacked him lightly on the calf. “You know that’s not what I meant. I mean your love heart. Not the gross-looking muscle keeping your gorgeous body alive.”

Claude wasn’t used to being complimented on his body. At least not in years. His cheeks went a little warmer. “Yes, yes, I know. But that’s the only heart I’m willing to entertain right now. One divorce is enough.”

Daniel made a sad little noise, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he changed the subject. “Did you decide on the Christmas menu?”

“I’m going traditional for the staff,” Claude told him, then rolled over when Daniel gave him the nonverbal signal. He adjusted his sheet and then held his arms above his head and rested his hands over his hair. “Turkey and ham, stuffing, and there was a request for roasted brussels sprouts. I think Carlo will be taking care of pies. There will be more staff than guests, so I don’t want to go too wild.”

“Maybe we should do one big thing this year,” Daniel suggested. “Have the couple of guests join us in the lounge instead of the private dining rooms?”

“We’ve done it before. They complain that it loses the magic when they see working class amongst them,” Claude said, wrinkling his nose.

Daniel grunted as he worked on Claude’s hips. “People are so gross and weird.”

“Yes, but we don’t have to subject ourselves to it. I’ll have a nice Christmas dinner for them—something plated with a nice pudding after. Aminah is going to light all their fireplaces and set out gift baskets on their beds. It’s enough.” He opened his eyes and looked at his masseur. It was going to be Daniel’s first Christmas with them because it was his first one with his husband deployed. “Is there anything I can do to make it easier for you?”

Daniel smiled softly and shook his head. “Nah. Coop and I have a call planned—if he can swing it. He says most of them will get an hour on video, so I’ll be able to see his face.”

“It must be hard for you both.”

Daniel shrugged as he gave Claude’s hips a pat, then offered his hand to help him sit. He was looser, which was nice, but it also meant weaker, so he had to brace himself on the table to stay upright. “I knew what I was signing up for. I met him when he was on leave.”

Claude wondered how Daniel could trust him. He’d been living in the States long enough to have heard horror stories of the way marriages and relationships broke down when they were parted by service. But maybe Daniel and Cooper were different.

He wanted to believe that. He had to believe in love for someone, at least.

“Thank you for this,” he said as he reached for his boxers and sweats.

Daniel gave him a little salute off his forehead. “I’ve got you, boss. You know that. You want help getting dressed?”

“No. But it’s not very dignified, so if you don’t mind?—”

“Not at all.” Daniel closed the door behind him with a soft click, and Claude got dressed as quickly as his body would allow.

With his legs like jelly, he slid into his wheelchair, and the cushion took the edge off the pressure in his hips. He twisted, making sure his rubber spiked handle covers were in place. He’d bought them years back when he realized total strangers would grab him and push whether he liked it or not.

He used to just stand up and scare the shit out of them, but watching them yank their hands back after being stabbed in the palms was much more fun.

Satisfied and still a little oily, he grabbed the wheels and gave a push toward the door. Daniel was waiting in the spa lobby, 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.