Chapter 4 - The Rules of the Ridge
The inside of Hale Ridge Lodge was breathtaking, but it was a breathtaking mess.
When Vincent pushed open the heavy front door, I stepped into a cavernous vaulted-ceiling great room featuring a massive river-stone fireplace, leather armchairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the snow-dusted peaks of the Beartooth Mountains.
It was also knee-deep in chaotic domestic wreckage.
Dirty breakfast dishes were stacked precariously on the kitchen island. A basket of laundry overflowed onto the hardwood floor near the staircase, spilling unmatched socks and children’s jeans everywhere. A half-built Lego tower lay shattered across the rug near the hearth, and the faint, unmistakable smell of burned oatmeal hung heavy in the air.
“Mrs. Higgins quit on Thursday,” Vincent said flatly, pulling off his shearling jacket and tossing it onto the heavy wooden coat rack with practiced efficiency. He didn't sound angry; he sounded like a man accustomed to running out of options. “She said the house was ungovernable. She’s the third housekeeper we’ve burned through this year.”
I looked around the sprawling room, taking in the chaotic battlefield of domestic fatigue.
Then I unzipped my wool coat, hung it neatly beside his, and rolled up my sleeves.
“Mrs. Higgins was trying to run a corporate estate like a retirement home,” I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the quiet tension in the room. I walked over to the kitchen island, picked up a greasy skillet left sitting on the burner, and set it firmly in the sink. “She didn't know how to handle kids, and she certainly didn't know how to clean up after them without lecturing.”
Noah stood by the kitchen entrance, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “We don't need a housekeeper. Or a mom. We were doing fine.”
I turned around, leaning my hips against the edge of the quartz counter, and looked the twelve-year-old dead in the eye.
“Noah, your little brother is eating dry Cheerios off the rug, your sister’s socks are soaking wet from the melted snow in her boots, and your father looks like he hasn't slept a full eight hours since the election,” I said, my tone completely devoid of fear or condescension. “With all due respect, you weren't doing fine. You were sinking.”
Noah flushed a deep, angry crimson, opening his mouth to snap back.
“Enough, Noah,” Vincent’s voice cut in, low and absolute. The boy clamped his mouth shut, glaring at me with adolescent defiance before turning on his heel and storming up the wooden staircase toward the second-floor loft.
Vincent walked over to the kitchen island, leaning his palms flat against the stone surface across from me. His dark eyes searched my face, looking for hesitation, regret, or weakness.
“You’re direct,” he observed.
“Politeness doesn't keep a house warm in October, Mr. Hale,” I replied evenly. “Now, before we discuss wedding dates, paperwork, or whatever formal arrangement you have drafted in your home office, we need to establish ground rules. Because if I’m going to run this house, I’m going to run it right.”
A slow, grim shadow of amusement flickered across Vincent’s harsh features.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“Rule number one: The kitchen is my domain between six a.m. and eight p.m. Nobody touches my prep space while I’m working,” I said, ticking off my fingers. “Rule number two: Every child does chores appropriate for their age, starting tomorrow morning. No exceptions, and no bailing them out, Mr. Hale—that includes Noah.”
“And rule number three?” Vincent asked, his gaze dropping momentarily to my lips before rising back to meet my eyes.
“Rule number three,” I said, holding his intense stare without flinching, “is that we are partners in this, not strangers sharing a roof. If you have a problem with how I manage the children or the estate, you tell me behind closed doors—you never undermine my authority in front of them.”
Vincent stared at me for three long, silent seconds. The air between us crackled with a strange, magnetic friction—two stubborn, broken people carving out a truce inside a fortress on a mountain.
Slowly, Vincent nodded.
“Agreed,” he said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy brass key ring, and dropped it into my open palm. The metal felt cold against my skin. “The front gate code is four-eight-zero-two. The safe in my study contains the household accounts and emergency cash. You are legally and domestically in charge, Claire.”
He turned to walk toward his study, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.
“And Claire?”
May you like
“Yes?”
“The name is Vincent,” he said quietly. “If we’re going to be married, we can drop the ‘Mr. Hale’ nonsense.”
