We maintained stiff silence all the way to Aspen, and again in the rental SUV. It was unnerving. I didn’t need to talk to people. I’d always been happy to keep to myself. And yet here I was, needing Parker to talk to me. I missed her spirit. I missed her voice.

“We’re almost there,” I told her in a sad attempt to start a conversation.

She hummed under her breath—a sound that could mean anything from “Yes, we are” to “Fuck off and die, Rhys.”

Twitching in my seat, I drove us down a private road that seemed to stretch on forever. Despite the tension inside the car, the outside scenery was spectacular. Craggy, dark gray mountains with snowcapped peaks stretched toward a clear blue sky. Amidst the evergreens, aspen trees punctured the landscape with their ghost-white trunks and lacy golden leaves. It was all so beautiful, it turned a dumb-ass like me into a poet. I’d smile at that, but there was still the matter of Parker hating me.

We crested a small hill and the house came into view.

“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath.

Parker leaned forward. “It’s quite impressive.”

The first actual sentence she’d uttered in at least three hours. A downright gift. And she wasn’t wrong.

Fairchild’s lodge was a low-slung modern ranch mix of stone, logs, and peaked roofs. The center house split off into two main wings on either side. Smoke drifted from six chimneys as sunlight glinted off wide picture windows. It was beautiful.

Envy never did anybody any good. And yet, in that moment, I felt it like an acid wash in my gut. I fucking hated that a sleaze like Fairchild owned this place and got to retreat here whenever he wanted. If there was any justice in the world, Fairchild’s home would reflect his insides and we’d be staring at a dank and empty cell instead of this grandeur.

I swallowed my bitter hate and envy down and put on my game face.

The drive led straight to a massive front door, where a young guy wearing pressed dark jeans and a collared shirt/sweater combo stood waiting. We’d had to pass three security checkpoints before getting to the main house gate a mile back. Apparently, in places like this, the rich owned whole mountainsides, and they didn’t share.

The guy trotted up and held open the door for Parker. Another valet came around to greet me and take my keys. If I didn’t know this was a private residence, I’d think we’d arrived at a resort. It was big enough.

“Mr. Morgan, Ms. Brown,” said Mr. Sweater. “I’m Andrew, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild’s house concierge.”

House concierge? Who knew?