Ski Slopes & Midnight Hopes: Love & Secrets of Asheville, Book 6

Nora has always played it safe. Her life is a series of careful choices and predictable routines. But when a last-minute invitation to a secluded ski lodge stirs up the allure of untamed wilderness — and the infuriating charm of Dylan, who lives for risk — she realizes she may be closer than ever to a passion she never planned on.

As they journey deeper into the snow-covered wilderness, the legend of a mysterious wolf seems to shadow their every step, mirroring Nora’s own yearning to break free from her self-imposed limits. But when they seek refuge in an isolated cabin, vulnerability strips away her walls, leaving her face-to-face with the fear — and thrill — of an uncharted future.

Now, as the new year dawns, Nora must decide if she’s ready to risk it all for a love as wild and untamed as the forest around them.

• New Year’s Eve Romance
• Forced Proximity
• Opposites Attract
• Touch of Mystery
• Romantic Suspense
• Transformation and Liberation
• Self-Discovery and Personal Growth
• Coming into Confidence

I didn’t bother turning on the lights as I dropped my overnight bag and kicked off my boots. The faint glow from the street lamp outside shone through my front windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. My cat, Edgar, materialized from the darkness, wrapping himself around my ankles with an indignant meow.

“I know, I know,” I murmured, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. “Mrs. Patterson fed you, but it wasn’t the same, was it?”

The house was cold. I shuffled to the thermostat, bumping it up a few degrees before making my way to the kitchen. Every movement felt mechanical, part of a well-worn routine that I could perform blindfolded. Fill the kettle. Select a tea bag — chamomile tonight. Wait for the water to boil.

My kitchen window offered a view of the snow-dusted mountains in the distance, their silhouettes barely visible in the growing darkness. Asheville sprawled below them, its lights twinkling like earthbound stars. It was beautiful, peaceful — everything I’d wanted when I’d moved here five years ago.

The kettle whistled, startling me from my thoughts. I poured the water over my tea bag, watching the steam curl up into the chilly air. My mother’s words from Christmas dinner echoed in my head: “Thirty-two isn’t old, sweetheart, but don’t you think it’s time to… well, live a little?”

I carried my tea to the living room, where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. My pride and joy, these carefully curated collections of leather-bound classics, contemporary fiction, and rare editions. In the soft glow of my reading lamp, they looked less like friends and more like silent judges, watching as another evening slipped by in solitude.

The couch welcomed me with its familiar embrace. Edgar hopped up beside me, purring as he settled into his usual spot. I reached for the book on my coffee table — a first edition of Jane Eyre I’d been restoring for the library’s special collections — but my hand froze midway.

How many nights had I spent exactly like this? How many more would follow, each indistinguishable from the last? An odd restlessness throbbed in me, subtle but persistent — and if I was being honest with myself, I’d have to admit that it had been haunting me the entire drive back.

I set my untouched tea aside and walked to the window. The mountain view that had once filled me with wonder now seemed to mock me. How long had it been since I’d actually hiked those trails? When was the last time I’d done anything that scared me, anything that made my heart race with something other than anxiety?

My phone buzzed — a text from Shelby, my closest friend:

𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘱 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴! 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳’𝘴 𝘌𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘗𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘓𝘰𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘯. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳? 𝘕𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴!

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. This was Shelby’s annual plan, her invite list pieced together from various people she knew, and — every year — me. For the past three, I’d managed to dodge it with carefully crafted excuses. “Snowbound projects at the archive,” a “cough that won’t quit,” or “roads too icy,” even though Shelby knew I lived right here in Asheville, ten minutes from the highway.

I could picture the clamor in the lodge’s big common room, laughter bouncing off elk antlers and rustic ski signs, while I’d be hovering on the edges, squeezing a mug just for something to hold, fingers going numb while I struggled to stitch together some passable version of small talk. The truth was, large social gatherings made my palms sweat and my chest tighten.

But something felt different tonight. Maybe it was the lingering effect of my mother’s words, or my newfound dislike of sharing another evening with no one but myself. I found myself typing before I could talk myself out of it.

𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯.