The Lodge
Autor Kayla Olsonen Limba Engleză Paperback – 7 ian 2025
Alix Morgan just got her big break as the ghostwriter of a memoir by Sebastian Green, a former member of the boy band True North. And when he offers her a penthouse at a luxurious resort in Vermont, she jumps at the chance to work far away from her noisy, cramped apartment.
Her career as an entertainment journalist has been building toward this dream job—after all, she used to cover True North and was one of the last people to interview former front man Jett Beckett before he disappeared. As she combs through her client’s voice memos, the specter of the missing lead singer remains, and fans are desperate to know the full story.
But Alix also has time for some fun at this glamorous resort, where she begins ski lessons with a handsome instructor named Tyler. As Alix and Tyler fall in love on the slopes, Alix’s work takes a complicated turn—and the mystery of True North’s downfall may be hers to solve.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9781668033197
ISBN-10: 1668033194
Pagini: 352
Dimensiuni: 134 x 207 x 25 mm
Greutate: 0.27 kg
Editura: ATRIA
ISBN-10: 1668033194
Pagini: 352
Dimensiuni: 134 x 207 x 25 mm
Greutate: 0.27 kg
Editura: ATRIA
Notă biografică
Kayla Olson is the author of The Reunion and The Lodge in addition to two books for young adults (The Sandcastle Empire and This Splintered Silence). Whether writing at her desk or curled up with a good book, she can most often be found with a fresh cup of coffee and at least one cat. Visit her at KaylaOlson.com or at @AuthorKaylaOlson on Instagram/TikTok.
Extras
Chapter 1
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1
Congrats, everyone—the news is out! Go celebrate tonight!
Everything feels buzzy as I take in the new email at the top of my inbox.
There’s hardly anything to it, just that short note—sent from my editor, Maribel, to the whole team—along with a screenshot. I zoom in, see the Publishers Marketplace deal listing for Sebastian Green’s book.
For our book.
I’ve been sitting on this secret for what feels like forever. It’s a feat, honestly, considering how many times I’ve almost let it slip.
With the announcement now out, it’s finally starting to sink in that I’m writing a memoir—a celebrity memoir that will likely take up permanent residence on the New York Times bestseller list for at least a year. Not only that, but I’m on a train, headed to a ski lodge in Vermont for an entire month, all expenses paid.
These are the things dreams are made of, and not just because I quit my day job last year to pursue freelance work. Ghostwriting the memoir of Sebastian Green, arguably the most famous member of my all-time favorite boy band?
Yes. Yes, with enthusiasm. I signed on in a heartbeat.
But I haven’t breathed a word about it, not to anyone.
I’ve been dying to tell my best friend, Chloe. She’s easily starstruck, though, and notorious for inadvertently spilling secrets. Not even my sister, Lauren, knows—and she’s been crashing with me in New York for more than a month while doing an internship at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In retrospect, maybe she would’ve let me get some work done if I’d told her.
I had almost nothing to show on my most recent Zoom call with the book’s publisher. That wasn’t entirely Lauren’s fault, but her presence in my apartment has been distracting, to say the least. My editor—the infamous Maribel Tovar at McClendon & Murphy—though gracious, took the opportunity to emphasize our not-so-flexible deadline. Every single aspect of this book is being rushed so it can hit shelves before the holiday season, and as it is currently early March, the deadline felt tight enough even before Lauren made my work hours nonexistent.
Enter Sebastian Green.
Sebastian is a lot of things, but thoughtful is not the first word that springs to mind. Trendy to a fault? Yes. Aloof, flighty, a touch self-obsessed? Yes, yes, more yes. Handsome and he knows it? Absolutely.
But he’s also a well-connected multimillionaire who wants his book to release in time to cash in on the holidays, for which I will be forever thankful, because as soon as I told everyone about my distracting living situation, he offered to hook me up with an all-expenses-paid writing retreat at an incredible-looking ski resort.
Why would he offer this? No idea. Maybe it’s to make sure I want to show his best side as I tell his story? Maybe it also eases his guilty conscience about how he blew off two meetings before we ever got to this point—we’d been planning to meet up for a series of interviews but he took a last-minute trip to Los Angeles, and then another one to Spain, and promised we’d connect soon.
We haven’t. Not yet, anyway.
Hence, I am on a train. To Vermont. Where Sebastian will—at some point, hopefully—meet up with me to discuss the more nuanced details of his life story.
In the meantime, he sent over roughly eighty hours’ worth of voice memos. Thankfully, the ski resort should provide a quiet place for me to sort through them in peace while also affording the privacy someone like Sebastian needs to meet face-to-face.
As long as he shows up this time.
It’s snowing when we pull into the train station.
Sebastian told me to keep an eye out for the driver who’ll take me to the lodge, but it’s harder than it should be thanks to the weather.
“Alix Morgan?”
I hear my name before I see him, the man holding up a sign meant for me. He takes my luggage as I climb into his sleek silver SUV, an Audi with leather seats and the biggest sunroof I’ve ever seen.
The ride is beautiful and peaceful, aside from a few disgruntled yowls from Puffin, my cat—Lauren wasn’t confident she’d remember to feed him, so he’s along for the ride. As we make our way north, the snowflakes gradually become smaller and more delicate, spiraling gracefully outside the windows.
We turn, and the world opens up: it suddenly feels like we’re driving straight toward the canvas of a massive, masterful painting.
Snowcapped mountains pierce the lowest clouds; at their base is a sprawling lodge, grandiose and picture-perfect. It looks warm and cozy even at a distance, lit inside and out with the glow of yellow lanterns.
I feel like a starlet as we pull up to the lodge.
This close, it feels absolutely colossal—the covered drive at the entrance stretches at least three floors high, with stone and steel and wooden beams to scale. Entire humans could fit inside the iron frames of the glass-paneled lanterns, if said lanterns weren’t ablaze with actual fire.
We come to a stop just outside the main entrance. One of the valets appears with a cart, and my driver steps out to take care of my luggage. Puffin yowls again, bristling at the cold air as we get out of the car.
I rummage in my wallet, pull out a twenty; it was not a short drive, and my bags are not what one would call lightly packed.
When I offer it, the driver waves it away.
“Save it for the next guy.” He grins, tucking the last of my bags onto the luggage cart.
What sort of driver refuses an extra tip?
The sort who has already been paid generously, I realize as soon as I’ve had the thought.
Thanks, Sebastian.
“This way,” the valet says, luggage cart in tow.
I follow him through the gigantic double doors and into the atrium.
The inside is every bit as oversized as the outside. Just past the entrance is a massive fireplace, possibly taller than I am, lively flames flickering in its grate. The atrium ceiling extends four stories, held up by the thickest wooden columns I’ve ever seen—it’s like something straight out of a redwood forest. And then there’s the bookshelf wall: it’s as tall as the atrium itself (yes, four floors high) and filled with books that are mostly out of reach, purely there to serve the cozy aesthetic. Lush leather couches—with ottomans to match, and what appear to be hand-woven throw blankets—make me want to curl up with one of the books I packed and a mug of hot cocoa.
But alas, the valet leads me right past the seating area to the concierge desk.
“Ms. Morgan?” a woman greets me, her dark hair neat in a low bun.
I must look surprised, because she nods toward the luggage cart, at Puffin’s carrier. “It isn’t every day we get to make preparations for a cat.”
Oh. Right.
“Your suite is all ready for you—I’m not sure how much Mr. Green told you, but your penthouse is in our Exclusive Access Complex, just down the path from the main lodge, where we are now. I’ll page the tram for you unless you prefer to walk—it takes about eight minutes on foot.”
“The tram sounds great, thanks.”
The tram turns out to be a glorified golf cart with a few extra rows and some clear plastic flaps to keep the cold and the snow at bay. We wind down the path, only a little bit freezing.
It’s hard to get a great view through the protective flaps, but what I can see looks magical: twinkle lights everywhere, sparkling against the snowy afternoon sky; a quaint mini village full of shops and cafés, the entire scene extremely warm and cozy and inviting. I even spot an ice-skating rink, positioned perfectly against the backdrop of the resort’s main attraction: Black Maple Mountain.
We pull up to my building, which looks like a more modern addition to the resort. Apparently, some people live in this building year-round, while others treat it like a vacation home. I’m guessing Sebastian might be the latter; his attitude screamed owner when he offered up this place so cavalierly, but I’m not sure he’s ever actually lived here.
“Your key card will give you private access to the penthouse floor—those elevators are around back, just down the sidewalk,” the driver informs me. “Would you like assistance finding your way?”
I shake my head. “Got it, thanks.”
“If you ever have any trouble, use the intercom and someone will be over to assist you.”
He waits until Puffin and I have rounded the corner toward the elevator vestibule before driving off. One flick of my key card against the sensor and I’m in the building—one more, and I’m in the elevator itself. There’s only one button: P for Penthouse.
I hear the faint vibration of my phone in my bag. It’s a text from Chloe, asking where I am.
It’s possible I haven’t mentioned this whole month-in-Vermont situation to her yet. I know she’ll forgive me for keeping secrets—but still, there’s a part of me that worries she’ll be hurt that I didn’t tell her sooner.
I’m supposed to keep as quiet as possible about the fact that I’m ghostwriting for Sebastian. According to my editor, it’s best for the book if we don’t call attention to the fact that he didn’t write every single word himself. Maribel did give me permission to tell Chloe everything once the deal announcement went live, though, so I guess I’m in the clear now as long as I trust her to be discreet.
The elevator opens onto a landing that’s even more private than I anticipated—and even more beautiful, with stylish wood paneling, black furniture, a gilded mirror on the wall, and a sprig of greenery in a slim vase. There are apparently only two residences on this entire floor; a pair of battered boots sits neatly outside the door on my left, so I guess the other door must be mine.
I head that way but can’t help glancing back at the boots. They’re so large they almost certainly belong to a man—a man who recently got back from a long trek through the snow, judging by the sizable puddle underneath. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of having a neighbor, especially not a maybe-tall man who could be fairly athletic. Interesting.
I call Chloe before I get too carried away. It rings only once before she picks up.
“Hey! Are we still on for happy hour? I started to worry when you didn’t text me back.”
Last night, in between last-minute laundry and placing an overnight order for more cat food, I had the sinking feeling I was forgetting something, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.
Now I know.
“So, um, about that,” I say, tapping my key card to the sensor outside my room. The lock opens on command, and I head inside. “Holy. Crap.”
“Alix—what? Are you okay?”
I blink at the room before me.
Room is not a sufficient word for what’s before me.
Alpine haven for millionaires with expensive taste is a more apt description. Heaven with a view: even better.
Sprawling is an understatement. And more than just gigantic, this place is utterly gorgeous. I suppose I should have expected as much, given that it’s a penthouse—and yet.
“Alix?”
“Sorry, Chlo,” I finally say. “No happy hour today. But I have a good explanation, I promise. Give me five minutes? I’ll call you right back.”
“That’s quite the cliffhanger, but okay. I’m setting a timer—do not leave me in suspense for too long!”
1
Congrats, everyone—the news is out! Go celebrate tonight!
Everything feels buzzy as I take in the new email at the top of my inbox.
There’s hardly anything to it, just that short note—sent from my editor, Maribel, to the whole team—along with a screenshot. I zoom in, see the Publishers Marketplace deal listing for Sebastian Green’s book.
For our book.
I’ve been sitting on this secret for what feels like forever. It’s a feat, honestly, considering how many times I’ve almost let it slip.
With the announcement now out, it’s finally starting to sink in that I’m writing a memoir—a celebrity memoir that will likely take up permanent residence on the New York Times bestseller list for at least a year. Not only that, but I’m on a train, headed to a ski lodge in Vermont for an entire month, all expenses paid.
These are the things dreams are made of, and not just because I quit my day job last year to pursue freelance work. Ghostwriting the memoir of Sebastian Green, arguably the most famous member of my all-time favorite boy band?
Yes. Yes, with enthusiasm. I signed on in a heartbeat.
But I haven’t breathed a word about it, not to anyone.
I’ve been dying to tell my best friend, Chloe. She’s easily starstruck, though, and notorious for inadvertently spilling secrets. Not even my sister, Lauren, knows—and she’s been crashing with me in New York for more than a month while doing an internship at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In retrospect, maybe she would’ve let me get some work done if I’d told her.
I had almost nothing to show on my most recent Zoom call with the book’s publisher. That wasn’t entirely Lauren’s fault, but her presence in my apartment has been distracting, to say the least. My editor—the infamous Maribel Tovar at McClendon & Murphy—though gracious, took the opportunity to emphasize our not-so-flexible deadline. Every single aspect of this book is being rushed so it can hit shelves before the holiday season, and as it is currently early March, the deadline felt tight enough even before Lauren made my work hours nonexistent.
Enter Sebastian Green.
Sebastian is a lot of things, but thoughtful is not the first word that springs to mind. Trendy to a fault? Yes. Aloof, flighty, a touch self-obsessed? Yes, yes, more yes. Handsome and he knows it? Absolutely.
But he’s also a well-connected multimillionaire who wants his book to release in time to cash in on the holidays, for which I will be forever thankful, because as soon as I told everyone about my distracting living situation, he offered to hook me up with an all-expenses-paid writing retreat at an incredible-looking ski resort.
Why would he offer this? No idea. Maybe it’s to make sure I want to show his best side as I tell his story? Maybe it also eases his guilty conscience about how he blew off two meetings before we ever got to this point—we’d been planning to meet up for a series of interviews but he took a last-minute trip to Los Angeles, and then another one to Spain, and promised we’d connect soon.
We haven’t. Not yet, anyway.
Hence, I am on a train. To Vermont. Where Sebastian will—at some point, hopefully—meet up with me to discuss the more nuanced details of his life story.
In the meantime, he sent over roughly eighty hours’ worth of voice memos. Thankfully, the ski resort should provide a quiet place for me to sort through them in peace while also affording the privacy someone like Sebastian needs to meet face-to-face.
As long as he shows up this time.
It’s snowing when we pull into the train station.
Sebastian told me to keep an eye out for the driver who’ll take me to the lodge, but it’s harder than it should be thanks to the weather.
“Alix Morgan?”
I hear my name before I see him, the man holding up a sign meant for me. He takes my luggage as I climb into his sleek silver SUV, an Audi with leather seats and the biggest sunroof I’ve ever seen.
The ride is beautiful and peaceful, aside from a few disgruntled yowls from Puffin, my cat—Lauren wasn’t confident she’d remember to feed him, so he’s along for the ride. As we make our way north, the snowflakes gradually become smaller and more delicate, spiraling gracefully outside the windows.
We turn, and the world opens up: it suddenly feels like we’re driving straight toward the canvas of a massive, masterful painting.
Snowcapped mountains pierce the lowest clouds; at their base is a sprawling lodge, grandiose and picture-perfect. It looks warm and cozy even at a distance, lit inside and out with the glow of yellow lanterns.
I feel like a starlet as we pull up to the lodge.
This close, it feels absolutely colossal—the covered drive at the entrance stretches at least three floors high, with stone and steel and wooden beams to scale. Entire humans could fit inside the iron frames of the glass-paneled lanterns, if said lanterns weren’t ablaze with actual fire.
We come to a stop just outside the main entrance. One of the valets appears with a cart, and my driver steps out to take care of my luggage. Puffin yowls again, bristling at the cold air as we get out of the car.
I rummage in my wallet, pull out a twenty; it was not a short drive, and my bags are not what one would call lightly packed.
When I offer it, the driver waves it away.
“Save it for the next guy.” He grins, tucking the last of my bags onto the luggage cart.
What sort of driver refuses an extra tip?
The sort who has already been paid generously, I realize as soon as I’ve had the thought.
Thanks, Sebastian.
“This way,” the valet says, luggage cart in tow.
I follow him through the gigantic double doors and into the atrium.
The inside is every bit as oversized as the outside. Just past the entrance is a massive fireplace, possibly taller than I am, lively flames flickering in its grate. The atrium ceiling extends four stories, held up by the thickest wooden columns I’ve ever seen—it’s like something straight out of a redwood forest. And then there’s the bookshelf wall: it’s as tall as the atrium itself (yes, four floors high) and filled with books that are mostly out of reach, purely there to serve the cozy aesthetic. Lush leather couches—with ottomans to match, and what appear to be hand-woven throw blankets—make me want to curl up with one of the books I packed and a mug of hot cocoa.
But alas, the valet leads me right past the seating area to the concierge desk.
“Ms. Morgan?” a woman greets me, her dark hair neat in a low bun.
I must look surprised, because she nods toward the luggage cart, at Puffin’s carrier. “It isn’t every day we get to make preparations for a cat.”
Oh. Right.
“Your suite is all ready for you—I’m not sure how much Mr. Green told you, but your penthouse is in our Exclusive Access Complex, just down the path from the main lodge, where we are now. I’ll page the tram for you unless you prefer to walk—it takes about eight minutes on foot.”
“The tram sounds great, thanks.”
The tram turns out to be a glorified golf cart with a few extra rows and some clear plastic flaps to keep the cold and the snow at bay. We wind down the path, only a little bit freezing.
It’s hard to get a great view through the protective flaps, but what I can see looks magical: twinkle lights everywhere, sparkling against the snowy afternoon sky; a quaint mini village full of shops and cafés, the entire scene extremely warm and cozy and inviting. I even spot an ice-skating rink, positioned perfectly against the backdrop of the resort’s main attraction: Black Maple Mountain.
We pull up to my building, which looks like a more modern addition to the resort. Apparently, some people live in this building year-round, while others treat it like a vacation home. I’m guessing Sebastian might be the latter; his attitude screamed owner when he offered up this place so cavalierly, but I’m not sure he’s ever actually lived here.
“Your key card will give you private access to the penthouse floor—those elevators are around back, just down the sidewalk,” the driver informs me. “Would you like assistance finding your way?”
I shake my head. “Got it, thanks.”
“If you ever have any trouble, use the intercom and someone will be over to assist you.”
He waits until Puffin and I have rounded the corner toward the elevator vestibule before driving off. One flick of my key card against the sensor and I’m in the building—one more, and I’m in the elevator itself. There’s only one button: P for Penthouse.
I hear the faint vibration of my phone in my bag. It’s a text from Chloe, asking where I am.
It’s possible I haven’t mentioned this whole month-in-Vermont situation to her yet. I know she’ll forgive me for keeping secrets—but still, there’s a part of me that worries she’ll be hurt that I didn’t tell her sooner.
I’m supposed to keep as quiet as possible about the fact that I’m ghostwriting for Sebastian. According to my editor, it’s best for the book if we don’t call attention to the fact that he didn’t write every single word himself. Maribel did give me permission to tell Chloe everything once the deal announcement went live, though, so I guess I’m in the clear now as long as I trust her to be discreet.
The elevator opens onto a landing that’s even more private than I anticipated—and even more beautiful, with stylish wood paneling, black furniture, a gilded mirror on the wall, and a sprig of greenery in a slim vase. There are apparently only two residences on this entire floor; a pair of battered boots sits neatly outside the door on my left, so I guess the other door must be mine.
I head that way but can’t help glancing back at the boots. They’re so large they almost certainly belong to a man—a man who recently got back from a long trek through the snow, judging by the sizable puddle underneath. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of having a neighbor, especially not a maybe-tall man who could be fairly athletic. Interesting.
I call Chloe before I get too carried away. It rings only once before she picks up.
“Hey! Are we still on for happy hour? I started to worry when you didn’t text me back.”
Last night, in between last-minute laundry and placing an overnight order for more cat food, I had the sinking feeling I was forgetting something, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.
Now I know.
“So, um, about that,” I say, tapping my key card to the sensor outside my room. The lock opens on command, and I head inside. “Holy. Crap.”
“Alix—what? Are you okay?”
I blink at the room before me.
Room is not a sufficient word for what’s before me.
Alpine haven for millionaires with expensive taste is a more apt description. Heaven with a view: even better.
Sprawling is an understatement. And more than just gigantic, this place is utterly gorgeous. I suppose I should have expected as much, given that it’s a penthouse—and yet.
“Alix?”
“Sorry, Chlo,” I finally say. “No happy hour today. But I have a good explanation, I promise. Give me five minutes? I’ll call you right back.”
“That’s quite the cliffhanger, but okay. I’m setting a timer—do not leave me in suspense for too long!”
Recenzii
“[T]he well-paced storytelling will draw readers into this entertaining winter romance. Readers will love Olson’s (The Reunion) trademark blend of romance and pop culture and the unique spin on the traditional third-act conflict, which ultimately leads to a satisfying conclusion.”
—Library Journal
“Olson (The Reunion) delivers a cozy insta-love story against the scenic backdrop of a Vermont ski resort.”
—Publishers Weekly
"A little mystery, a little escapism, and all romance . . . The Lodge is an absolute treat!"
—Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling authors of The Unhoneymooners
"This dreamy, dishy, whip-smart romance had me swooning from the first chapter."
—Betty Cayouette, author of One Last Shot and creator of Betty's Book List
“Kayla Olson’s skillful storytelling and clever use of mixed media builds intrigue and drama in this big-hearted romance that showcases how it’s never too late to rewrite your story. Packed with twists and set at the coziest mountain retreat, The Lodge will warm you up like a hot cup of cocoa on a snowy day!”
—Lauren Kung Jessen, author of Red String Theory and Lunar Love
"Hands down the coziest book I’ve ever read—a novel that warms your heart and puts the biggest smile on your face. It’s as comforting as your favorite TV show, as wonderfully sweet as a honey nut latte. The Lodge will make you want to drop everything and move to a ski lodge in Vermont. Dreamy, snowy, and impeccably written. I loved every page of it!"
—Carlie Walker, author of The Takedown
—Library Journal
“Olson (The Reunion) delivers a cozy insta-love story against the scenic backdrop of a Vermont ski resort.”
—Publishers Weekly
"A little mystery, a little escapism, and all romance . . . The Lodge is an absolute treat!"
—Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling authors of The Unhoneymooners
"This dreamy, dishy, whip-smart romance had me swooning from the first chapter."
—Betty Cayouette, author of One Last Shot and creator of Betty's Book List
“Kayla Olson’s skillful storytelling and clever use of mixed media builds intrigue and drama in this big-hearted romance that showcases how it’s never too late to rewrite your story. Packed with twists and set at the coziest mountain retreat, The Lodge will warm you up like a hot cup of cocoa on a snowy day!”
—Lauren Kung Jessen, author of Red String Theory and Lunar Love
"Hands down the coziest book I’ve ever read—a novel that warms your heart and puts the biggest smile on your face. It’s as comforting as your favorite TV show, as wonderfully sweet as a honey nut latte. The Lodge will make you want to drop everything and move to a ski lodge in Vermont. Dreamy, snowy, and impeccably written. I loved every page of it!"
—Carlie Walker, author of The Takedown
Descriere
From the author of THE REUNION, a cozy winter rom-com about a ghostwriter who decamps to a Vermont lodge to work on her new project, but finds herself falling for the ski instructor next door.