Page 47

But she hadn’t made any promises about staying, or even trying to make something work long-distance, and he knew he couldn’t expect her to. Neither of them had talked about the kiss, or what it might mean.

It was probably for the best.

“And Imogen,” Layla continued, still chattering away. “A baby. Can you imagine? She’s going to be such a wonderful mother. You can just tell, you know? The way she talks about Katie, the way she lights up when she mentions Lincoln. They’re going to be such a happy family.”

“They are,” Christopher agreed. “Lincoln’s a good man. He deserves that happiness, and so does Imogen.”

“Everyone in this town is so kind,” Layla said, and there was something wistful in her voice now. “It’s like Fir Tree Grove is some kind of magical place where good things happen to good people.”

Christopher pulled into the driveway of Hearthside Cottage, the headlights illuminating the snow-covered path to the front door. He put the car in park but didn’t immediately get out. Instead, he turned to look at Layla, trying to memorize the way she looked in this moment.

“It feels like magic,” he said, “but it really isn’t. It’s just people being willing to be kind to one another, and showing up for each other. Choosing to build a community together. If everyone just waited for the magic to happen, it wouldn’t exist. It’s the work everyone puts in for each other.”

Layla’s eyes met his, and he saw understanding dawn in them, along with something that looked like regret.

“Christopher—” she started, but he shook his head.

“Come on,” he said, forcing a smile. “Let’s get inside before we freeze.”

They climbed out of the car and made their way up the path, their boots crunching in the snow. Christopher unlocked the front door and pushed it open, and they stepped into the warm entryway of the B&B.

They both stopped short.

“I… didn’t think anyone else was checking in,” Christopher said, confused suddenly. “Did I somehow forget…”

“No,” Layla said shortly. “You didn’t.”

There were two people in the lobby, sitting on the antique settee that Christopher had inherited from his grandmother. An older man and woman, both dressed in expensive-looking winter coats, both wearing expressions that suggested they’d just bitten into something sour.

Christopher was about to greet them and apologize for not being there when they arrived and offer to help them get settled, when he noticed Layla’s reaction. She’d gone completely still beside him, her face draining of color. Her hand had come up to grip the strap of her messenger bag so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

“Mom?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Dad?”

The woman stood, brushing imaginary lint from her coat. She was tall and elegant, with the same blonde hair as Layla, although hers was streaked with silver and pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes were cool and assessing when they landed on Layla.

“Layla. Finally. We’ve been waiting for over an hour.”

Christopher felt something cold settle in his chest. These were Layla’s parents. He looked at Layla and saw that she was pale. Her face had taken on a carefully neutral expression, the same one he’d seen her wear when she first arrived in Fir Tree Grove. It was like watching her retreat behind the walls that she’d finally lowered around him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thompson,” he said quickly, stepping forward and extending his hand, determined to be gracious even if they weren’t. “I’m Christopher Holcomb. Welcome to Hearthside Cottage. I apologize for not being here when you arrived. We were out helping with storm relief efforts.”

Layla’s mother took his hand limply, as if touching him might somehow contaminate her. “Yes, well,” she said. “We understand there was quite a storm.”

Christopher looked at Layla, trying to catch her eye, trying to offer some kind of support or solidarity. But she was staring at the floor, her shoulders hunched.

The woman who had laughed with him in the snow, who had made up poetry about sleigh rides, who had kissed him by the fire and told him about her dreams—that woman had disappeared. In her place was someone smaller, someone who looked like she was trying very hard to become invisible.

“Let me show you to a room,” Christopher said quietly, picking up the bags that sat beside the settee. “I’m sure you’re tired.”

As he led Layla’s parents up the stairs, he could feel Layla following behind them, silent as a ghost. He wondered if this was it, if this was how their story ended, with her going back to a life that he knew now wasn’t entirely of her own making.

He showed the Thompsons to the Rose Room, one of the nicest suites, and gave them the standard information about breakfast times and amenities. They barely acknowledged him, already critiquing the décor and the size of the bathroom.

When he finally escaped back into the hallway, Layla was gone. Her door was closed, and no light showed beneath it.

Christopher stood there for a long moment, wanting to check on her, to tell her that she didn’t have to go, that she could stay if she wanted to. But in the end, he lowered his hand and walked away.

It was a choice he knew she’d have to make for herself.