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As he worked, he was aware of Layla moving around the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the pot he’d brewed earlier, adding a splash of cream and a spoonful of sugar. She moved with the same purpose she seemed to always have, without lingering. Even the way she stirred her coffee was purposeful, three quick circles of the spoon before she set it in the sink and took a sip.

Christopher folded the omelet, then slid it onto one of the cream-colored plates with holly leaves painted around the edges that he kept stacked near the stove. He added a small bowl of baked apples and pears with cinnamon and a slice of sourdough toast from bread he’d baked the day before. He set the plate on the counter in front of Layla with a jar of local homemade strawberry preserves, giving her a smile as he went to prepare the next for the other guests who would be coming down soon.

For a long moment, she just stared at the plate. He watched as genuine surprise flickered across her face. She set down her coffee cup and picked up the fork he’d placed beside the plate, cutting into the omelet carefully. Steam rose from the perfectly cooked eggs, and he could see the melted cheese stretching between the two halves.

Layla took a bite, and Christopher found himself holding his breath, waiting. He told himself it didn’t matter what she thought, that he’d been making breakfast for guests for years and he knew his food was good. But somehow, in this moment, it did matter. He wanted her to taste something more than just eggs and cheese and vegetables. He wanted her to taste the care he’d put into it, the desire to create something that would make her morning a little bit better, as if that could somehow change her mind about Fir Tree Grove too.

When she looked up at him, her eyes were wide, and for the first time since she’d arrived in Fir Tree Grove, she seemed genuinely at a loss for words.

“This is…” she started, then paused, taking another bite as if she needed to confirm what her taste buds were telling her. “I’ve reviewed many breakfast spots in Portland. Some of the finest restaurants in the city. But honestly?” She smiled, a genuine, real smile, and he felt his heart skip slightly. “This omelet beats them all.”

Christopher felt warmth spread through his chest. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, keeping his voice casual even as he felt his heart rate pick up slightly. “A good breakfast makes all the difference in starting the day off right.”

Layla took another bite, then another, and he watched as some of the tension seemed to ease from her shoulders. For just a moment, she seemed to soften, and he could see the guest beneath the driven, focused reporter, just a beautiful woman in his kitchen on a snowy morning, enjoying an omelet.

She finished it more quickly than he would have liked, then stood and gathered her laptop and notebook. “Thank you,” she said, and there was genuine warmth in her voice now. “That was really exceptional.”

She smiled at him, a real smile that reached her eyes and softened her whole face, and Christopher felt something shift inside him, a small moment of connection. “You’re welcome,” he managed to say. “Anytime.”

“Be careful out there,” he added, gesturing toward the window where the snow continued to fall. “The weather can be unpredictable this time of year.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine. I’m from Maine, remember? I know how to handle a little snow.”

Then she was gone, the sound of her footsteps fading as she made her way through the B&B and out the front door. Christopher stood in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, his mind full of thoughts he couldn’t quite organize into anything coherent.

CHAPTER SIX

The ice rink at the center of Fir Tree Grove was exactly what Layla had expected it to be, which was charming in the relentlessly quaint way that seemed to describe everything about Fir Tree Grove that she’d encountered so far. Children wobbled across the ice in bright winter coats, their laughter piercing the chilly air as parents stood at the edge with their phones raised to capture every precious moment. String lights were wrapped around the wooden posts that surrounded the rink, and lively Christmas music played, filling the air. It was exactly the kind of thing that she knew Kirkland wanted for the article.

Layla had spent twenty minutes talking to Lincoln Blackwell, the man who ran the rink, taking notes as he explained the history of the rink and how he’d restored it when he moved back, taking it over. He chatted about his love for hockey and how he’d briefly moved away for college and to pursue a career in the sport, before eventually coming back home. When he mentioned his wife Imogen—who ran Artisan Chocolates, the shop Layla had visited the day before—she’d had to suppress a laugh.

Of course. Of course the ice rink operator was married to the chocolate shop owner. It was the type of small-town interconnectedness that Layla found both amusing and slightly claustrophobic. How did people breathe in a place like this, where everyone knew your business and your life was tangled up with your neighbors’ so that you could never fully escape?

She’d thanked Lincoln for his time, taken a few photos of the rink with her phone, and moved on to her next stop: lunch.

The Maplewood Tavern had surprised her. Christopher had said it was the spot to go if she wanted a nicer meal, but she’d still just expected decent burgers and fries, nothing particularly special. Especially once she’d seen the quaint log-cabin exterior, which had left her to expect even less, possibly. Instead, she’d found herself seated in a warm, wood-paneled dining room with exposed brick walls and Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling, with a soft leather booth that had a view of the crackling fireplace.

She’d still ended up with a burger, but it was perfectly cooked local beef—she hadn’t been brave enough to try the venison version—with arugula, tomato jam, caramelized onions, and goat cheese, along with a side of sweet potato fries that were crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside, served with a side of herby house-made ranch, and the best French onion soup she’d ever tasted. The food was good enough that she’d made detailed notes about it in her notebook, already composing the paragraph in her mind about how even Fir Tree Grove’s tavern could hold its own against some of Portland’s better bistros.

It was annoying, in a way, how Fir Tree Grove kept exceeding her expectations, even if it was just in small ways. First Christopher’s omelet that morning—which truly had been one of the best breakfasts she’d ever had—and now this lunch. She’d come here expecting to confirm her assumptions about the mediocrity of another small town, but instead she kept finding herself grudgingly impressed.

Still, she reminded herself as she paid her bill and stepped back out onto the snowy sidewalk, good food didn’t change the fundamental nature of a place. Fir Tree Grove was charming, sure, but it was still just a small town with limited opportunities and even more limited ambitions. A nice place to visit, perhaps, but not a place where anything of real importance happened.

She pulled her coat tighter around herself and consulted her notebook. The Toy Chest was next on her list, a few blocks down Main Street. The walk over was chilly, and she could see her breath in the air as she finally stopped in front of the shop, taking pictures of the perfectly arranged displays of nutcrackers, dolls, stuffed animals, and toy trains all surrounded by lights and fake snow.

Layla pushed open the door, and a bell chimed overhead. The interior of the shop was warm and smelled of pine and cinnamon, giving it a cozy seasonal feel. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with toys of every description: board games and puzzles, dolls and action figures, building blocks and craft kits. Everything was organized perfectly, and cheerful Christmas decorations were woven throughout the displays—garlands wrapped around the support posts and along the edges of the ceiling, ornaments hanging from a faux mantle on one side of the store, and a Christmas tree near one of the front windows decorated entirely with miniature toy ornaments. There was also a large postbox for letters to Santa.

“Welcome to The Toy Chest!” a woman’s voice called out from somewhere in the back of the shop. “I’ll be right with you!”

Layla walked through the store, her eyes scanning the displays as she mentally catalogued details for her article. A moment later, a woman emerged from a back room, dusting her hands off on her jeans and smiling warmly. She was in her late sixties or early seventies, Layla guessed, with wavy hair in a silver bob and laugh lines around her eyes.

“I’m Mabel Lowery,” the woman said, extending her hand. “Owner of this little establishment. What can I help you find today?”

Layla shook her hand and offered what she hoped was a professional but friendly smile. “Actually, I’m not shopping. I’m Layla Thompson, a reporter with The Portland Chronicle. I’m writing a feature about Fir Tree Grove’s Christmas traditions, and I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk to me about the toy store.”

Mabel’s face lit up. “Oh, how wonderful! Yes, of course, I’d be happy to talk with you. Come, let’s sit.” She gestured toward a small seating area near the area that held children’s books, where two comfortable-looking armchairs were positioned around a low table. “Can I get you some tea? Or apple cider?”

“No, thank you,” Layla said, settling into one of the chairs and pulling out her notebook and pen. “I just had lunch at the Maplewood Tavern.”