Page 3 of Mountain Target

Beau parked his SUV on the quiet residential street.

No stores.

No restaurants.

That was a plus.

The first place he’d looked at had been a first-floor apartment right over a well-known restaurant. He hadn’t even gone up to see the apartment. Stepping over drunk tourists on his way home wasn’t his idea of fun.

Interestingly enough, the second place had been even worse. Located on a small, quiet, narrow street, the place had looked promising at first. Beau had been almost convinced the apartment was going to work out—until he’d stepped inside and found the toilet in the kitchen.

I’m thirty-eight fucking years old.

I’m not going to pee in the kitchen.

Beau sighed, checking around to make sure the real estate agent wasn’t there yet before stretching out his cramped knee.

He thought of the HR person who’d informed him that finding a place to live in Chamonix wasn’t easy, and that he and his team should get started as soon as possible.

Understatement of the year.

As it turned out, it wasn’t that there were no properties on offer. Rather, there was ample choice if you were in the market for a mountain chalet with tennis courts and an indoor pool, but almost nothing if what you were looking for was a one-bedroom apartment in a quiet area of town.

Beau flexed his leg a couple of times to release the tension in his knee. He should probably expand the search further. He could afford to rent a small house. He just didn’t need a house, and couldn’t imagine spending his little free time on yard upkeep.

Leave that to his colleague Damien, who’d just added a puppy to his family.

Beau turned to see a small red car turn into the street. The driver rolled down her window as she parked right beside his vehicle. Beau bit the inside of his cheek to avoid laughing at the way his huge SUV looked like it could eat her car for lunch. He wasn’t about to apologize—he spent long hours in his car, and liked to be comfortable.

“Okay, here we are then.” The real estate agent was a tall, slim woman in her late-forties. The picture on her business card looked like it’d been taken a solid two decades earlier, but at least you could still tell it was the same woman. She looked like someone who took care of herself.

Beau wondered vaguely what he’d look like in ten years’ time. Probably a shitload worse.

He realized the real estate agent was still talking. He’d missed most of her introductory sales pitch. But she talked a lot. He had no doubt he could catch up.

“… doesn’t suit, I also have a third-floor walk-up in Les Moussoux. Absolutely spectacular views—“

“Let me stop you right there,” Beau interrupted. “Ground-floor or first-floor, only.”

Beau wasn’t a masochist—he wasn’t about to put his knee through that kind of stress every time he came home.

“But—“ the real estate agent sputtered. “The views are—“

Beau shook his head firmly, unwilling to waste more time on this.

“Shouldn’t we see this place first?”

Before you sell me on to the next one.

The woman brightened immediately. “Yes. Of course. You’re going to love this one.” She paused for a second, opening the folder in front of her. “There is so much to love. ”

Beau only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“So. Here we are. 121 Promenade du Bois Prin.”

While she juggled a large set of keys, Beau took his time looking at the house. Like most modern constructions, it was wooden on the outside, but stone underneath. Looked solid enough.

“Here are the keys to the garage, which is right out back. It’s huge. Big enough for—“ Her hand waved vaguely in the direction of Beau’s car. “And keys to the ski room in the basement. And … ah, here we go.”