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CHAPTER ONE

The December air carried a sharp bite as Layla Thompson pushed through the revolving doors of The Portland Chronicle building, a paper bag from Wool & Vine tucked under her arm and her favorite leather messenger bag slung over her other shoulder.

The warmth of the lobby wrapped around her immediately, and she could smell the familiar scent of coffee and printer ink that always made her feel at home. She’d been working here since she’d been lucky enough to land an internship during college, and she’d never once regretted her choice to stay post-graduation.

Her stomach grumbled, and she hurried back to her desk, eager to get to her lunch while she went over her tasks for the rest of the day. She’d decided to splurge instead of bringing her lunch from home for once, since she’d been craving the grilled salmon Caesar salad from the upscale lunch spot near the office. Her heels clicked against the smooth tiles of the floor as she took the elevator up to her cubicle.

She smiled as she stepped into it, feeling a sense of calm wash over her. She often felt more at home here than she did in her own apartment. She’d decorated the space mindfully, with framed copies of her best articles on one wall to remind her of the purpose of her focus and hard work, and a small collection of succulents on one side of her desk because she’d read an article once that said plants helped to calm the mind. Everything was perfectly organized: her rose gold laptop centered in the middle of the desk on a leather desk pad, a white porcelain cup of pens and highlighters to the right, and a stack of research materials to the left. That was it. Keeping her space clean, bright, and free of clutter was important, in her opinion, to avoid mental clutter as well.

She set down her bag and shrugged off her coat, hanging it on the hook on the wall. She was dressed similarly to what she wore every day—she was a big believer in the capsule wardrobe—in a charcoal gray blazer over a cream silk blouse, tailored black pants, and low black leather heeled boots. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she wore minimal jewelry, just small gold hoops and a delicate watch that had been a gift to herself when she’d graduated. With a happy sigh, she sat down and began to set out her salad, lemon sparkling water, and the chunk of crusty baguette it had come with, turning on her laptop as she did so.

She’d worked hard over the thirteen years that she’d been with the Chronicle, working her way up through grinding out assignments that no one else had wanted until eventually her boss, Kirkland, had started giving her the kind of projects she’d been chasing. Now she worked on lifestyle pieces that catered to Portland’s affluent readers, and she got first pick of the coveted projects in the office.

As she took a bite of her salad, humming with pleasure at the tart lemony dressing and the bite of the Parmesan cheese with the perfectly grilled salmon, Layla went over her list of articles to tackle. It had been a productive week so far, and she was ahead of her work already. She had everything mapped out for the day, and with any luck, by the time Friday rolled around, she’d be onto next week’s tasks.

She had three major projects on her desk, and she was excited for all of them. The review of Portland’s most affluent neighborhoods during Christmas would showcase the elaborate light displays and designer decorations that transformed the city’s wealthiest streets into something out of a holiday magazine. The article on the top ten trendiest gifts for city dwellers would require her to visit several high-end boutiques and interview shop owners about what Portland’s most moneyed shoppers were buying this season. And the review of Candlewick, one of the fanciest dinner establishments in the city, meant she’d finally get to experience the restaurant that had a three-month waiting list and had been featured in a nationwide fine-dining publication last spring. That was one of her favorite parts of the beat she’d worked so hard to get on, getting exclusive reservations to restaurants and hotels and spas so that they could be featured.

These were the assignments she’d worked toward for years. No more covering community bake sales or writing obituaries or doing interviews with rural farmers. She’d paid her dues, and now she was writing about the things that she’d always liked to settle in with over a latte, a lifestyle of success and sophistication that was aspirational and luxurious.

Taking another bite of her salad, she pulled up the document where she’d been organizing her notes for the affluent neighborhoods piece. She’d already scheduled interviews with three homeowners who were known for their extravagant Christmas displays, and she had a list of questions prepared. The key was to make readers feel like they were getting an exclusive glimpse into a world they might not otherwise access, while also providing inspiration for their own holiday decorating.

As she scrolled through the document, her phone buzzed, and she glanced over at it. There was a text from her best friend Mara on the screen, asking if she wanted to grab drinks after work. Setting down her fork, she typed back a quick response, saying she’d have to take a rain check because she had too much on her plate this week. It was true, but it was also the excuse she’d been using for the past month. The truth was that she’d been so focused on work lately that she hadn’t made much time for her personal life. But that was the price of success, wasn’t it? You had to prioritize, and right now, her career was the priority.

She was halfway through her lunch when she heard a knock on the side of her cubicle. She looked up to see Kirkland standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and an expression on his face that she’d learned to recognize over the years. It was the look he got when he was about to assign someone a story they probably wouldn’t want.

“Layla, got a minute?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before stepping inside and leaning against the wall.

Kirkland was in his mid-fifties, with graying hair that he kept short and a perpetual five o’clock shadow that gave him a slightly rumpled appearance despite his expensive suits. He’d been the lifestyle editor at the Chronicle for nearly twenty years, and he had a reputation for being tough but fair. Layla respected him, even if she didn’t always agree with his editorial decisions.

“Of course,” she said, turning to face him. “What’s up?”

“Well,” He rubbed a hand across his chin. “You might not be thrilled about this, but you’re the best reporter I’ve got. I’ve got an assignment for you that’s going to fill up the remainder of your week.”

Layla felt a small flutter of unease in her stomach. She glanced at her laptop screen, where her carefully organized schedule was displayed in neat color-coded blocks. “I already have a couple of articles on my schedule,” she said, keeping her voice pleasant but firm. “The affluent neighborhoods piece is due Friday, and I have the Candlewick review scheduled for Thursday evening. I’m having dinner there tomorrow night.”

“I know,” Kirkland said, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll reassign those. This is more important.”

Layla felt her jaw tighten slightly, but she kept her expression neutral. “What’s the assignment?” Her stomach swooped as visions of French wine and foie gras started to fade. She’d been looking forward to that dinner review since the moment it had been assigned to her.

“Fir Tree Grove,” Kirkland said, as if that explained everything. When Layla didn’t respond immediately, he continued. “It’s a small town about two hours north of here. Population maybe five thousand. They go all out for Christmas, apparently. Lights, decorations, the whole nine yards, way over the top. It’s become something of a tourist destination over the past few years, and I think our readers would be interested in a feature about it.”

Layla tried to process what he was saying. A small town. Christmas decorations. Tourist destination. These were not the words she associated with the kind of journalism she’d been working toward. This sounded like the kind of assignment she’d been trying to leave behind, the human interest stories about quaint communities and local traditions. She’d been trying for her entire career to not be a small-town reporter.

“I see,” she said carefully, buying herself time to formulate a response that wouldn’t sound ungrateful or dismissive. “And you need me to go there? Specifically?”

“For three days,” Kirkland confirmed. “I want you to get the full experience. Talk to the locals, visit the shops, see what makes this place special during the holidays. We’ll run it as a feature in the Sunday edition, maybe even make it the cover story for the lifestyle section.”

Three days.

Layla felt her carefully constructed schedule crumbling in her mind. The affluent neighborhoods piece had taken weeks to set up and coordinate with the homeowners. The Candlewick reservation was one that she’d never get on her own—plus, she had a good job, but not the kind that afforded her dinners at a place like that on her own dime. And the gift guide required her to visit at least a dozen boutiques and conduct interviews with shop owners who were already stretched thin during the busiest shopping season of the year.

“Can I really afford to be gone for three days?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I mean, with everything I have on my plate right now, it seems like the timing isn’t ideal.”

Kirkland gave her a look that said her reaction was not the one he wanted from her. “Layla, I know this isn’t what you were expecting, but trust me on this. Fir Tree Grove is exactly the kind of story our readers want right now. People are tired of reading about expensive restaurants and luxury gifts. They want something authentic, something that reminds them of what the holidays are really about. Community, tradition, that kind of thing.”

Layla wanted to argue that her current assignments were exactly what readers wanted, that the whole point of the lifestyle section was to showcase the aspirational aspects of city living, to give people a glimpse into a world of sophistication and refinement. But she could see from Kirkland’s expression that this wasn’t a negotiation. This was an assignment, and she was expected to accept it.

“Besides,” Kirkland continued, standing up and moving toward the door, “it’ll be good for you to get out of the city for a few days. Enjoy the Christmas spirit, see how the other half lives. Fir Tree Grove is known for its seasonal charm. Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself.”