A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)
Sarina Bowen
CHAPTER 1
CHEERFUL MOUNTAIN GOATS
REED
There’s snow on the ground in Colorado. It must be fresh, because it’s still white and fluffy, and it coats every pine bough at the side of the road.
I haven’t seen snow in a while. And I haven’t seen snow on this road in ten years.
“Reed?” my assistant’s voice prompts. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, sorry. Go ahead. I’m listening.” Sort of.
“What do you want me to do about the lunch tomorrow with those friends from Stanford?” Sheila asks as I coast down the two-lane highway in my rental SUV.
“Just postpone it.” The curve of the road is so familiar, even after all this time. It’s trippy.
“You postponed that lunch already,” she points out. “So I’m going to tell them to go ahead without you. That reservation at Four Palms shouldn’t go to waste.”
“Then why did you even bother asking me?”
“I thought I’d give you the chance to do the right thing.”
I roll my eyes. Sheila is a pain in my ass, but I’ll be lost when she goes back for her MBA next year.
She knows it, too, which is problematic.
“Next up—Prashant is concerned that Deevers hasn’t signed the paperwork for this new round of funding.”
“Deevers will sign. He’s a contemplative guy. Likes to sit a moment with big decisions. Give him a couple more days before you nudge.”
“All right. Last thing,” Sheila chirps as I slow down in anticipation of the final turn. “I’m not telling Harper that you have to cancel Friday’s dinner. You have to call her yourself.”
Fuck. “Uh… I’d forgotten about that dinner. Couldn’t you just...”
“Reed Madigan!” Sheila yells. “Don’t even finish that sentence. Just man up and call her. And if you forget, just know you’ll be walking to Starbucks yourself for two weeks after you return.”
“Two weeks, huh? That’s hardcore.” Honestly, I could just fire Sheila and find an assistant who’ll robotically do whatever I need. But I’m not going to, and we both know it. “I’ll call Harper,” I grumble.
“Okay, boss. That’s about all I need from you. What are you doing in Colorado, anyway? Is this some top-secret investment?”
“No. Just some personal stuff to take care of.”
“Personal stuff?” she asks, her young voice going high with disbelief. “You have a personal life?”
“Shut up.”
She laughs.
“My father decided to sell the family business.” I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, but it isn’t easy. I’m the only one in the family with an MBA. But did my father consult me? No way. He just dropped an email bomb into my inbox yesterday. In four lines of text, he let my two brothers and me know that A) he’d gotten remarried and B) he’s planning to sell the mountain property that’s been in our family for several generations.
I’m really not sure how I feel about it.
“What kind of family business?” Sheila asks.
“It’s a ski resort.”
Sheila says nothing for a moment, and I wonder if the call got dropped. That happens a lot in the mountains. But then she gasps. “Wait, really? Do you mean Madigan Mountain?”
“That’s the one. Doesn’t make you Sherlock Holmes, though, seeing as it’s named after us.”
“God, you’re a freak,” Sheila says suddenly.
“Hey—haven’t we talked about boundaries?”
“Oh, please. There’s such a thing as respecting boundaries. And then there’s you. I’ve been keeping your calendar for two years, and you never mentioned your family owns the coolest boutique ski mountain in the country. I’ve never even booked you on a flight to Colorado before this morning. I didn’t even know you were from there.”
I don’t try to argue, because she’s right—it’s weird that I never go home, and that I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about this place. But if she knew what hell it had become after my mother died, she’d understand.
“I mean, you went skiing at Whistler last year. That condo you rented was two thousand bucks a night, Reed. Why?”
“It’s complicated,” I grumble.
“What? You’re breaking up.”
“It’s complicated! You’ll lose me in a second.” The narrow mountain road passes between two tall ledges of rock.
“I c... hear... at all. BUT CALL HARPER DAMMIT!”
The phone makes those two high-pitched beeps that tell you the call has been dropped. Sheila naturally got the last word. Of course she did.
I put on my blinker and prepare to take the turn onto Old Mine Road. That’s when I spot the sign. Two Miles to Madigan Mountain. But it’s not the low-profile, carved wooden sign that used to stand here at the roadside. This one is new and bright and about three times larger than the old one.
And I hate it on sight.
A car behind me leans on the horn, and I realize I’m stopping traffic. So I make the final, familiar turn onto the steep and twisty road to my family’s resort. The SUV downshifts as I begin the climb. There are rocky outcroppings on either side, alternating with stands of tall pines. It’s only November, but the forest floor is white with snow.