The Man at the Gate
Rosemary - POV
The Montana airport is barely larger than a gas station, but somehow he makes it look grand just by standing there. Holden Ashworth leans against a pristine black car that catches the mountain sunlight like it's made of liquid obsidian, his smile carrying secrets I haven't learned yet. He straightens when he sees me emerge with my single rolling suitcase, moving with the kind of fluid confidence that usually makes me suspicious.
"Rosemary Decker." My name rolls off his tongue like an incantation, rich and warm with an accent I can't place. "I'm Holden. Millicent asked me to help with the transition before she passed."
Every rational instinct screams warnings, but there's something about him that overrides logic. Maybe it's the way he doesn't wait for permission before taking my suitcase, his movements natural and assured. Maybe it's how his casual touch against my hand when he opens the car door sends unexpected electricity shooting up my entire arm, making my breath catch.
"That's very kind of you." I slide into the passenger seat, inhaling leather and something else—cedar, maybe, or mountain air trapped in expensive upholstery. "Though I have to admit, I don't remember Millicent mentioning you."
He settles into the driver's seat with practiced ease, starting the engine with a purr that sounds too refined for Montana's rugged landscape. "She spoke about you constantly. Her brilliant great-niece who conquered the corporate world but never felt quite at home in it."
The words hit closer than they should. I never told anyone about feeling like an impostor in Seattle's glass towers, about lying awake wondering if success was supposed to feel so hollow. "Lucky guess. Corporate burnout isn't exactly rare."
"Perhaps." His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror as we pull onto a winding mountain road. "But she mentioned other things too. How you used to write stories as a child, entire worlds scribbled in notebooks you kept hidden under your bed. How you still dream about writing novels someday, though you've convinced yourself it's too impractical to pursue."
My chest tightens. I haven't told anyone about those childhood notebooks or the half-finished manuscript gathering digital dust on my laptop. "Millicent remembered that from when I was eight?"
"She remembered everything about you." His voice carries genuine warmth that makes me want to believe him despite every logical red flag. "She always said you were special, that you'd understand Thornwick Hollow in ways other people couldn't."
The scenery outside shifts from highway to forest, pine trees towering like cathedral pillars beside the road. Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks touched with snow that looks impossibly white against the blue sky. It's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight with unexpected longing.
"What makes Thornwick Hollow so different?" I ask, partly to distract myself from how attractive his voice sounds when he talks about understanding and belonging.
"It operates on different principles than the outside world." He navigates a sharp curve without slowing, his hands steady on the wheel. "Success here isn't measured in quarterly profits or market share. It's about understanding your place in something larger than yourself, about honoring the connections that bind us to each other and to the land."
The words sound almost hypnotic against the backdrop of endless pine forests and distant peaks. I find myself relaxing despite my earlier wariness, sinking into leather upholstery as Holden talks about community and tradition and the peace that comes from belonging somewhere you're truly wanted.
"You sound like you're trying to convert me to a religion," I say, attempting lightness.
He laughs, a sound that's genuinely amused rather than performative. "Maybe I am. The religion of small towns and bookshops and people who know your name without checking your credit score first."
Something about his phrasing snags my attention. "How did you know about my credit—"
"Millicent mentioned you'd been living above your means in Seattle. Corporate pressure to maintain appearances." His response comes too quickly, too smoothly. "She worried about you burning out from trying to be someone you're not."
I study his profile as he drives, noting the sharp line of his jaw and the way afternoon light catches in his dark hair. He's devastatingly handsome in a way that should set off alarm bells, but instead I feel drawn to him like metal shavings to a magnet.
"You seem to know an awful lot about my personal struggles for someone I just met."
"Small towns breed good listeners." He glances at me sideways, his smile warm enough to melt glaciers. "Besides, Millicent was proud of you. She wanted to make sure you'd have support when you finally came home."
Home. The word creates an ache in my chest I didn't expect. When did I last feel like I belonged somewhere? When did anywhere feel like home instead of just a place I happened to live?
We drive in comfortable silence for a while, the mountain road winding through forests that seem to whisper secrets in languages older than civilization. I'm so lost in the scenery that I almost miss his next comment.
"She mentioned you still have that scar on your palm from the rose thorns."
My blood turns to ice. I look down at my left hand, at the thin white line across my palm that I've had since I was six. I fell into my grandmother's rose garden during a family gathering, the thorns cutting deep enough to require stitches. But I've never told anyone that story. It's too minor, too childhood-mundane to mention in adult conversations.
"How could you possibly know about that?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
For just a moment, his expression shifts—something predatory flickers across his features before the warm smile returns. "Millicent had an eye for details. She noticed things other people missed."
But that's impossible. The scar is barely visible unless you're looking for it, and I haven't seen my great-aunt since I was a child. There's no way she could have remembered such a minor detail from decades ago, no reason she would have mentioned it to a stranger.
My fingers trace the faded line unconsciously, and I catch Holden watching the movement in his peripheral vision. His attention feels too intense, too focused, like a predator studying prey.
"You seem nervous," he says, his voice gentle but somehow wrong. "Trust doesn't come easily for you, does it? Especially after what happened in Seattle."
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like he knows exactly what happened in that conference room, exactly how it felt to watch my career dissolve in twelve minutes of corporate politeness. Like he's been watching from the shadows, taking notes on my personal devastation.
We round a final curve, and suddenly we're driving into Thornwick Hollow's main square. Victorian houses nestle among towering pines like something from a postcard, smoke curling from chimneys, window boxes bright with flowers that shouldn't bloom this early in the season. It's achingly beautiful, exactly the kind of place I used to dream about when Seattle's glass towers felt like prison walls.
But as we slow to a stop, I notice something disturbing. Every person on the street has stopped what they're doing to watch our arrival. A woman sweeping her porch pauses mid-stroke. A man walking his dog turns to stare. Children playing in the square go silent, their faces turned toward our car with expressions that mix reverence with something that looks disturbingly like pity.
They're all looking at me. Not at Holden, not at his expensive car. At me specifically, like I'm some long-awaited celebrity whose arrival signals something momentous.
Something terrible.
I glance at Holden to see if he notices their strange behavior, and my breath catches in my throat. In the passenger window's reflection, his face looks different—older, more angular, with eyes that gleam with predatory hunger rather than warm welcome. But when I turn to look at him directly, he's exactly as he was before: devastatingly handsome and apparently concerned about my obvious distress.
"Welcome home, Rosemary," he says softly, and the way he says it sounds less like greeting and more like claiming.