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Layla found herself laughing despite herself, reaching up to touch the soft wool of the scarf. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, in that tone people used when they were humoring someone but didn’t actually agree. “About the lights, I mean. Although I’m pretty sure about the rest of it too. I’ve got a life in Portland, and a career I’m building. Friends, and all of that. A nice apartment that I love. This is just a work assignment.”

“Mm-hmm,” Nicole said with that same smile. “Well, enjoy the scarf anyway. And if you need anything else while you’re here—recommendations, directions, someone to show you the good hiking trails—you just let me know. Or ask anyone, really. I’m sure anyone would be happy to help.”

“Thank you,” Layla said, without a trace of irony this time. The gesture was genuinely kind, even if Nicole’s predictions about Layla’s future relationship with Fir Tree Grove were completely off base. “Really. This is beautiful, and I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Nicole said warmly. “Now you’d better get going before this snow gets any worse.”

Layla said her goodbyes and headed back toward Main Street, the new scarf warm around her neck and her camera bag bumping against her hip. She had enough material now for a solid draft of the article, plenty about the traditions, the businesses, and the local flavor. Kirkland was going to be thrilled with what she’d managed to collect. If a small part of her felt something almost like wistfulness as she walked through the snow-dusted streets, watching the locals greet each other by name and duck into shops where they were clearly regulars, well, she thought, that was just the natural human response to witnessing other people’s happiness. It didn’t mean anything other than that this was a novelty to her, and she was more than ready to leave it behind and go home.

She had her life exactly as she wanted it. The fact that the scarf around her neck felt like the warmest, most comfortable thing she’d worn in years was just a happy addition.

Nothing more.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The exam room was too cold. That was all Imogen could think as she sat on the crinkly paper covering the examination table, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Or maybe it wasn’t actually cold, it could be her nerves, making her feel chilled and hyperaware of every passing sound, as well as the fact that she was sure she’d been in here longer than she needed to be.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. 2:15 PM. She had been asked to come back for her results following her initial appointment, and the doctor had left fifteen minutes ago to run “one more quick test,” which apparently meant leaving Imogen alone with nothing but her spiraling thoughts and the stomach-churning scent of antiseptic in the room.

It was probably nothing. That’s what she’d been telling herself since Vanessa had forced her to go to the clinic for her appointment. It was just a stomach bug, or maybe food poisoning, although she couldn’t think of anything she’d eaten that Lincoln hadn’t also had. Stress, maybe, from the busy holiday season at the chocolate shop and all the Christmas preparations.

Definitely nothing serious.

Except… it had been a week since she’d started feeling so nauseous, and she’d been so exhausted. She’d had that bone-deep tiredness that had her falling asleep on the couch after dinner and wishing she could take a mid-day nap, something she hadn’t felt since she was pregnant with Katie. It was more than just the fact that she hadn’t had coffee in the past week because the smell turned her stomach too badly. And now that she was really thinking about it, sitting here in this too-cold room with nothing to do but think, when was the last time she’d…

No. Don’t go there. Not until the doctor comes back.

Imogen pressed her palms together harder, feeling her wedding ring press into her skin. She should have asked Lincoln to come with her. But it had seemed silly at the time, asking him to get up early for what was probably just a stomach bug, especially when he had the Frosty the Snowman event this afternoon at the rink. He’d been planning it for weeks, and was so excited about the activities and games he’d organized for the kids.

The door opened, and Dr. Thurman stepped back in, a file in one hand and a pleased smile on her face.

“Sorry for the wait,” Dr. Thurman said, closing the door behind her and taking a seat on the rolling stool. She was a woman in her mid-fifties with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun. “I wanted to make sure we had all the results before we talked.”

Imogen’s heart started beating faster. “And?”

Dr. Thurman smiled wider, a full, genuine smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. “First, let me ask—is your husband here with you today?”

Imogen blinked, the question so unexpected that it took her a moment to process it. “My husband? No, I… I came alone. I figured I just had a stomach upset or something. I didn’t want to bother Lincoln for—” She stopped, registering the doctor’s expression, the specific way she’d asked that question. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dr. Thurman said gently. “Quite the opposite, actually. But some people prefer to have their partner present when they receive certain kinds of news.” She paused. “Perhaps you’d like to wait until he can join you? Give him a call, maybe?”

The words hung in the air, and Imogen felt the world tilt slightly. Certain kinds of news. Her hands moved unconsciously to her stomach, pressing against the flat space beneath her sweater.

“I want to hear it,” she heard herself say, her voice coming out higher than normal. She didn’t think she could take the anticipation until Lincoln could get there. “Please.”

Dr. Thurman nodded, setting the file folder aside and leaning forward, her hands clasped loosely between her knees. “Imogen, you’re pregnant. About seven weeks along, based on the bloodwork and what you’ve told me about your symptoms and cycle.” She smiled broadly. “Congratulations.”

The room spun briefly, and the word echoed in Imogen’s head, bouncing around like a pinball, not quite landing anywhere comprehensible. Pregnant.

“Are you sure?” The question came out automatically, even though she knew it was probably silly. Doctors didn’t tell you something like this unless they were sure.

“Very sure,” Dr. Thurman said. “Your HCG levels are exactly where we’d expect them to be for this stage of pregnancy. Everything looks healthy and normal.” She reached for a pamphlet from the counter. “Now, let’s talk about next steps. You’ll want to start on prenatal vitamins if you haven’t already, and we should schedule your first prenatal appointment for⁠—”

Imogen heard her speaking, and she knew somewhere in her subconscious she was internalizing all of it, but she felt like she was hearing the words from underwater. She was pregnant. She was going to be a mother for a second time.

Lincoln was going to be a father.

Katie was going to have a sibling.