“Do you have a death wish you haven’t told me about?” Tennyson, my investment partner and oldest friend, has never been the kind to pull punches. But tonight, he’s in rare form.

“Nothing close to a death wish.” I trap my cell between my ear and shoulder as I hand-wash the dishes I dirtied with my dinner. The hotel kitchen has an industrial dishwasher, but it would take a month of solo meals to fill it up. “You know I like to spend time in the properties before they open, get a feel for the guest experience.”

“No guest is ever going to be stranded out there by themselves in a blizzard, Garrett. You’re living a horror movie plot. Eccentric New York billionaire alone in an abandoned hotel in the middle of Outer Bumfuck, where no one will hear him scream.”

“It’s not abandoned; it’s never been occupied,” I correct. “There’s a difference. And why am I going to be screaming? If the power goes out, I have a generator to keep my suite heated, and enough food, water, and reading material to last for weeks, let alone a long weekend.”

“You’ll be screaming because you will have lost your mind out there in the wilderness,” Ten says with the utter seriousness of a man who, aside for business trips to other major metropolitan areas, hasn’t been out of the city in years. “Haven’t you seen The Shining?”

I smile, drying my hands on the towel beside the sink. “I’ve seen it. But I think I’m safe. So far, Hawk Mountain doesn’t seem to be haunted.”

“It hasn’t had you trapped and at its mercy before, either.”

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you’re serious.” I toss the towel onto the counter and wander toward the windows on the other side of the kitchen, gazing out at the snow-covered mountains and the dark gray clouds looming in the west. The Appalachia Range isn’t as dramatic as the Rockies, but they possess a softer, more ancient beauty, which the Hawk Mountain Resort and Spa architects framed perfectly. Every window in the hotel was carefully plotted to show off the surrounding scenery to its best advantage.

Even this window, a view only the kitchen staff and servers will see most of the time, was intended to inspire.

“Of course I’m not serious,” Ten says, before adding in a more somber tone, “But I am concerned. Are you sure everything’s okay out there?”

“Everything is perfect. Construction was completed on schedule, and the design team will be back to work after the holiday, finishing up the theater and other communal spaces. The landscapers obviously can’t do much until spring, but the pools have already been poured and—”

“I don’t mean with the hotel, Garrett,” Ten interrupts gently. “I mean with you. I know you enjoy your alone time, but it’s Christmas Eve.”

“I realize that.” A flash of color and movement, barely visible through the trees, makes me squint down the mountain to where the resort drive winds through the forest to the pinnacle.

“And that’s usually something people enjoy with friends and family,” Ten says, “not holed up in a huge, empty hotel all alone.”

“I might not be alone for long,” I murmur, pulse spiking as a light-blue sedan rolls onto the stretch of road visible from my vantage point. “Someone is on their way to the gate.”

“Probably one of the locals coming to case the joint, see what they can steal while the build site is abandoned for the holidays.”

“I don’t think so.” I pace along the marble tile, watching the car crawl slowly around a sharp curve and back under the cover of the snow-laden trees. “The locals know we’ve got security. A few of them learned about the electric fence the hard way.”

Tennyson grunts. “Well, maybe they’ve decided to give it another go. Drug addicts are unpredictable that way.”

“Not everyone in the town is an addict,” I say, making my way out of the kitchen and down the spiral staircase at the western edge of the fourth floor.

“Enough of them are. I appreciate your noble intentions, Garrett, but did it ever occur to you that good will might not be enough in this case? The people in that town might be too far gone for philanthropy to make a damn bit of difference.”

“No one’s ever too far gone,” I say, hoping I’m right. I don’t want to believe in lost causes, especially when human lives are involved. And especially not now, when I’m six months and millions of dollars into trying to right my greatest wrong and most sincere regret.

Dakota…

Her name drifts through my head, making it feel like someone opened a door in my chest, letting the winter air gust in.

Even though I know—I know—I’m not crazy, no matter what Tennyson thinks, I have a feeling I can’t shake. I know the odds are slim this person pulling up to my gate on Christmas Eve is the woman I haven’t been able to get out of my heart for four long years. But I also know that I’m going to check the security feed.

Just in case.

I push through the door into the shadowed control room, lit only by the glow of the security camera monitors, and cross to the panel on the far side of the room.

“All right,” Ten says in a resigned voice, making it clear he knows a thing or two about lost causes. “After all these years, I should know better than to expect you to be reasonable.”

“You really should.” I tap the keys to bring the front gate up on the center screen. I only have to wait a few moments before the light blue car—an old Honda Civic—pulls to a stop in front of the sign warning that this is private property.

My visitor is here, and suddenly my nerves are every bit as electrified as the fence surrounding the hotel.

Okay, maybe I am a little crazy. Because right now I swear I can feel Dakota close, sense her like treasure hidden beneath the waves, making my metal detector crackle and hum.

“I have to go, Tennyson,” I murmur, eyes glued to the screen. “Have a Merry Christmas.”

“You, too. And let me know if you change your mind about coming back to the city. I’ll buy you a drink and we can talk about how much fun it is to be single during the holidays.”

My lips part, but before I can respond, the driver steps out of the sedan, revealing thick brown curls tumbling over narrow shoulders and setting my humming nerves to buzzing with a full-blown emergency alert. Even before she turns to squint up at the top of the gate where another sign warns that the fence is electrified and trespassers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, I know it’s her.

It’s her. Dakota. She’s here.

“Good-bye, Ten,” I say, ending the call with a tap of my thumb.

A moment later, I’m jogging down the stairs, snatching my coat from the back of the sofa in the empty, echoing lobby, and running out the door at a full sprint.