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LAYLA: In Fir Tree Grove for an article. Back in Portland by end of Sunday.

MOM: Fir Tree Grove?? What on earth could you possibly have been assigned in Fir Tree Grove?

Layla could practically hear her mother’s skeptical tone. Mary Thompson knew very well what kind of pieces her daughter liked to cover, and that they were neither rustic nor small-town. She respected her daughter’s focus and drive, and aspired to live the kind of elegant, upscale life that Layla enjoyed striving toward and writing about, as well. If anyone would understand how she was feeling, Layla knew her mother would. But she was too tired to get into it all just now. And hungry; she’d been so focused on her calls that she hadn’t stopped to get a bite to eat on the way.

LAYLA: Just work stuff. Holiday feature. I’ll be home soon.

Layla kept her reply deliberately vague. She didn’t want to get into the whole story of how Kirkland had basically forced this assignment on her. Maybe later she would call her mom and explain, once she’d had a chance to settle in and get her head on straight.

She dropped her phone into her purse without waiting for a response, grabbed her leather weekender bag from the passenger seat, and stepped out into the cold December air. The temperature had dropped since Portland, and her breath formed small clouds as she made her way up the stone walkway to the inn’s front porch.

The smell hit her the moment she opened the door: cinnamon, pine, and something baking that smelled like cookies. The warmth of the interior was a stark contrast to the cold outside, and despite herself, Layla felt something in her chest loosen slightly as she stepped into the entry hall.

The inside of Hearthside Cottage was exactly what she’d expected: hardwood floors covered with vintage rugs, antique furniture that actually looked comfortable rather than just decorative, and plenty of Christmas decorations, although still tasteful, she had to admit. A real garland draped the staircase banister, filling the room with that piney scent, secured with burgundy velvet bows. She caught a glimpse of the large Christmas tree that stood in the corner of what appeared to be a sitting room, decorated with vintage ornaments that looked genuinely old rather than artificially distressed. And there was a smaller tree next to what must be the reception desk.

“Hello!” A voice called out, and Layla turned to see a man emerging from a doorway that she thought might be a dining room, or the kitchen. He looked to be about her age—mid thirties, maybe—with reddish-brown wavy hair, warm brown eyes, and an easy smile behind a short, well-kept beard. He wore jeans and a dark green Henley, and there was a dusting of what looked like flour on his sleeve. “You must be here for check-in?”

“I am,” Layla confirmed, setting her bag down and approaching the desk. She glanced at her watch. “Although I thought check-in wasn’t usually until four?”

The man waved a hand dismissively, his smile widening. “We don’t really stand on ceremony around here. I saw you pull up, and your room’s ready, so why make you wait? We can make it work.”

Of course they don’t stand on ceremony, Layla thought. This place is so small they probably make up half their policies on the spot. Out loud, she said, “That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“I’m Christopher, by the way,” he said, pulling out a leather-bound registration book—an actual physical book, not a computer. “Christopher Holcomb. I own the Hearthside Cottage. We’re so glad to have you.”

He had a warm, genuine quality to him that Layla found herself responding to despite her inability to take any of this seriously. She offered a small smile. “Layla Thompson.”

“Nice to meet you.” Christopher slid the registration book toward her along with a pen. “So what brings you to Fir Tree Grove? Shopping? Wanting to see the sights? We’re overflowing with tourists this time of year, but they’re usually here for some rest and relaxation while they enjoy the season.”

Layla signed her name and filled in her information, aware of Christopher watching her with what seemed like genuine curiosity. She supposed in a town this size, where nothing much probably happened, every stranger was a possibility for something interesting. “I’m a writer for The Portland Chronicle,” she explained. “I’m here to do a feature article on Fir Tree Grove’s holiday traditions and Christmas celebrations.”

“Ah!” Christopher’s face lit up with understanding. “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. We don’t do anything halfway when it comes to Christmas around here.”

Layla chuckled, thinking of the elaborate displays she’d passed on Main Street. “I can tell.”

Christopher studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful, as if he was trying to figure something out. Layla met his gaze steadily, wondering what he saw. A city journalist slumming it in a small town? Someone who clearly didn’t belong here? Whatever conclusion he reached, he kept it to himself.

“Well,” he said finally, taking the registration book back and tucking it under the desk, “you’re in the Maple Room, second floor, first door on the right. Breakfast is served between six and nine in the dining room—that’s through there—” he gestured to an arched doorway, “—and there’s always coffee, tea, and snacks available in the sitting room. If you need anything at all, just let me know. I’m usually around, and if I’m not, my number’s on the card in your room. There’s a menu for what you want for breakfast in your room, just check off your options and if you’ll be joining us at the table or want it brought to you, and drop it off at the front desk by eight tonight.”

“Thank you,” Layla said, accepting the old-fashioned key—an actual metal key, not a key card—that he handed her.

“Oh, and fair warning,” Christopher added with a grin, “I made gingerbread cookies this morning and left about three dozen of them in the sitting room. They’re delicious, if I’m allowed to brag a little, but if you eat more than two at a time, you’ll regret it. I speak from experience.”

Layla found herself returning his smile despite herself. His enthusiasm would probably be grating after very long, she thought, but it was oddly charming despite how little she usually liked overly friendly people. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She picked up her bag and headed for the staircase, but before she’d made it three steps, her stomach growled loudly enough that she was certain Christopher heard it. Heat crept into her cheeks.

“Sounds like you might need more than cookies,” Christopher called after her, his tone amused but not unkind. “If you’re looking for lunch, the Snowdrift Diner off of Main Street is your best bet. Or the Maplewood Tavern if you want something fancier. Both are good.”

“Thanks,” Layla said, glancing back at him. “I think I will head out to find something to eat.”

She climbed the stairs quickly and found the Maple Room. It was as quaint and rustic as she could have imagined. There was a queen-sized bed covered in what looked like a handmade quilt, wooden furniture—probably maple?—a view of the snow-covered street from a large window, and what appeared to be a working fireplace. In the adjoining bathroom, she saw a very small shower and a clawfoot tub, and a single upright sink with a small oval, vintage mirror above it. The wallpaper was appropriately tree-themed, and the curtains over the window were a deep rust color.

She dropped her bag next to the bed and tugged her hair loose from her ponytail, running her fingers through it and massaging her scalp for a moment before going to the bathroom to freshen up. She took a moment to wash her hands, reapplied her lipstick, and checked her appearance in the mirror. She looked professional and put-together, she thought, and ready to tackle this assignment no matter how ridiculous it was.

Just a quick lunch, she decided, then she’d start doing some preliminary research around town. Maybe grab a few photographs while the afternoon light was still good. She’d talk to some locals, get a feel for the place. She could knock out most of her fieldwork today and tomorrow, write the article Saturday, and be back on the road to Portland by Sunday morning.

In and out. Quick and professional. Then back to her real life.