Michael let out a breath and grinned. “Then I guess you’ll be wanting the fire and a whisky to warm you.”
Dominic wanted all of that—but mostly he wanted Paris. But he’d been right—they were snowed in by nightfall.
Coming to him after dinner, Michael lowered himself into a chair. “Just our luck. The phones will be ringing soon with skiers wanting to book, and Paris isn’t here.”
“Why don’t you take the calls?”
Michael stared at him. “I cook and I clean, and I build the snow machine. That’s it.”
Shaking his head, Dominic headed into Paris’ office. It took him an hour to learn the booking software she had installed. It hadn’t been set up right, so he fiddled with it until he had it working efficiently.
The calls started early the next morning. Michael woke him with coffee and a dour face. “It’s started.” For a moment, Dominic didn’t know what he was talking about, but then his brain kicked in. “It’s five AM!”
“It’s noon somewhere,” Michael said.
Dominic went downstairs. He had the hotel booked solid for the next month by noon and had started a waiting list.
He also started packing. He brought his bag downstairs, and Michael came out from the bar, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked at Dominic and frowned. “What’s up, you leaving?”
“Yes, time for me to head home. In fact, it’s probably long overdue.”
“Paris shouldn’t be long getting home.” Michael fixed him with a stare. “They’ve been clearing the roads, and she called to say she’ll be getting a ride back from the hospital.”
Dominic’s chest tightened. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He forced down a breath and shook Michael’s hand. “Here’s my card. Call me. I was impressed with your snow machine. I’d like to help you with that.” He walked out the front doors and kept on walking down the dirt road that was lightly covered in snow.
“Dominic McCarthy,” Michael asked. “That’s you? What happened to Dan Murphy?”
Dominic shook his head. “Ask Paris. Tell her if she ever gets to New York, she can look me up. I’ll buy her a drink.” He headed outside to his car.
***
Paris stepped into the lodge, still cold inside but tired of being fussed with. She’d been poked, checked, rechecked, and poked some more. Michael had a face like thunder, and the phone kept ringing. Amazing what a little snow did.
Tossing her coat—and Mur, no, Dominic’s— onto a chair she asked, “Michael. What is it?”
“You’ve done it good and proper.”
Paris didn’t feel like a lecture. She longed for a bath—a hot one. For fresh clothes and a decent soup. She frowned. “Where’s…Dominic.”
“Dominic is it? Not Dan? He booked the lodge solid, and then booked himself out of here. I think…I could be wrong, but I think he’s running scared.”
“Of what?”
“On the upside, he gave me his card and asked me to contact him about one of my inventions.” Michael handed Paris the business card. “Seems your Dominic is a fancy business man. And why would he pose as an artist?”
She shrugged. “He wanted a break. But how long ago did he leave?”
“Not that long. My bet is he’s stuck behind a snow plough. Now are you going after him?”
Paris bit her lower lip. She shook her head. “He was free to leave if he wanted. I’ll…I can use his business card to send him a thank you card and his coat back to him.”
Michael nodded. “Ah, so you’re scared, too.”
Paris stiffened. “I am not! And scared of what?”
“Him. Love. Life. Take your pick. Being hurt. Girl, you almost died yesterday. I’d think that would give you a little perspective about what matters.”
She blinked at him. “I…it’s happening so fast.”