Page 9

CHAPTER FIVE

The kitchen of Hearthside Cottage was quiet and still in the early morning, one of Christopher’s favorite times of the day. The sky was still lightening outside, the guests were just beginning to stir, and the bed and breakfast was still mostly quiet. He moved through the kitchen with ease, enjoying the silence broken only by the occasional scrape of tree branches outside and the crackling of the fire from the living room. He gathered ingredients from the refrigerator and set them on the countertop, enjoying the view from the kitchen as he started to work on breakfast.

Outside the window above the sink, snow fell in soft, lazy flakes, drifting down through the gray morning light to settle on the already-blanketed ground. The world beyond the glass looked like something out of a snow globe, peaceful and pristine, and it made him grateful all over again that he’d chosen to stay in Fir Tree Grove after Shelby’s death.

He’d considered leaving once, in those first terrible months after she’d passed away. The B&B had felt too full of memories, too heavy with her absence. Every corner of the place had reminded him of her laugh, her warmth, the way she’d filled the house with so much joy all of the time. But his friends and neighbors had rallied around him, making it hard to leave. They’d shown up with casseroles and kind words and offers to help with whatever he needed. They’d reminded him that Hearthside Cottage wasn’t just his home. It was part of the town, a place where people came to feel welcomed and cared for during the most magical time of year.

And he knew, ultimately, that Shelby wouldn’t have wanted him to leave. Now, the fact that he’d stayed felt like a gift, a way to keep a part of her alive while he found joy in the parts of their life that were still available to him.

Christopher cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them as he glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d already sent up the breakfast orders that didn’t require cooking and were already baked, and a few guests had straggled in and out to grab muffins and coffee and start their days. The rest wouldn’t probably be up for another hour or so. That was one of the things he loved about running a bed and breakfast in a place like Fir Tree Grove—people came here to slow down, to step off the treadmill of their busy lives, and to remember what it felt like to wake up without an alarm and then spend an afternoon doing nothing more ambitious than watching the snow fall or taking a walk through town to admire the Christmas lights.

He’d just started dicing bell peppers for the omelets when he heard footsteps on the stairs that had much more purpose than the usual Fir Tree Grove vacationer. He looked up, surprised, and felt something shift in his chest when Layla Thompson appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

She was dressed in her usual pristine, sleek clothing—not at all what he would think of as the right sort of attire for walking around town. Her blonde hair was pulled back in its usual sleek ponytail, and she was wearing charcoal gray blazer over a cream blouse, tailored black pants, and low black heeled boots. She had her tote over her shoulder with her laptop peeking out, and a wool peacoat over her other arm, small diamond earrings in her ears. She looked every inch the serious professional, ready to tackle the day, and her eyes had a sort of focused intensity that seemed at odds with the soft, snowy morning unfolding outside.

“Good morning,” Christopher said, setting down his knife and wiping his hands on the dish towel tucked into his waistband. “You’re up early.”

Layla blinked at him, her expression suggesting she didn’t quite understand the comment. “What do you mean?”

Christopher gestured toward the window, where the snow continued its gentle descent. “Most people take it easy while they’re in Fir Tree Grove. Sleep in a bit, enjoy a slow morning. You’re on vacation, after all.”

She laughed, but there was something dismissive in the sound, as if the very idea of treating this trip as a vacation was absurd. “I’m not on vacation. I’m working. And I only have three days to knock out this article and then I’m out of here.” She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, her fingers tightening around the strap. “I have other features waiting for me back in Portland. Important ones.”

Christopher felt a small pang of disappointment at her words. He’d known from the moment she’d checked in that she was here for a job, not a relaxing vacation. But hearing her say it so bluntly, hearing the eagerness in her voice to be done with this place and back to her “important” work, stung more than he’d expected.

“All work, no play?” he asked, keeping his tone light. It wasn’t really his business anyway, if she didn’t want to find enjoyment in getting to come to Fir Tree Grove during the most wonderful time of the year on what was probably a paid vacation.

Layla set her tote on the small breakfast table near the window, taking out her laptop and notebook, then turned back to face him. “Little features about small towns are not my usual pace,” she said, and there was something almost apologetic in her voice, as if she felt the need to explain herself. “So I’m going to be quick and efficient about it. Get in, get the story, get out. I have other features that I’m going to be behind on now—reviews of Portland’s fine dining, profiles of the city’s most successful entrepreneurs, that sort of thing.”

Christopher turned back to his cutting board, resuming his work on the bell peppers with a bit more force than necessary. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that it shouldn’t matter what this woman thought of his town or how quickly she wanted to leave it. But it did matter, somehow. Maybe because he’d spent so long pouring his heart into making Hearthside Cottage a place of warmth and welcome, and because the town had always felt so welcoming and kind.

Or maybe, if he was being honest with himself, it was because there was something about Layla Thompson that intrigued him, and it disappointed him that she couldn’t see what he—and everyone else—saw in Fir Tree Grove.

“Fir Tree Grove has plenty of charm and Christmas spirit,” he said, keeping his eyes on his work as he scraped the diced peppers into a bowl. “I’m sure you could write a great article about it. One that really captures what makes this place special.”

Layla chuckled, and he heard the click of her heels on the hardwood floor. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that she was leaning against the island. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said with another small chuckle. “I could write about how many Christmas lights are on the community tree. Or the strangely flavored eggnog reindeer fudge that’s sold at Artisan Chocolates.” She tilted her head slightly, and he caught a glimpse of something that might have been amusement in her eyes. “I’m sure I’ll find plenty of material.”

Christopher felt his jaw tighten slightly. He could hear in her tone that she saw the whole town’s Christmas spirit as a bunch of fluff. Quaint, but nothing of real substance or importance. Nothing worth her time or attention beyond the bare minimum required to file her story and move on.

It made him sad to think that this was how Fir Tree Grove would be represented in The Portland Chronicle. As a collection of quirky details and over-the-top decorations, rather than as a community of people who genuinely cared for one another, showed up for each other in times of need, and who created something beautiful and meaningful together every single year.

He set down the bowl of peppers and looked at her directly, letting her see the sincerity in his expression. “Fir Tree Grove during this time of year is beautiful and unique,” he said quietly. “It’s not just about the decorations or the lights or the flavored fudge. It’s about the people. The way they come together, the way they take care of each other. The way they make everyone who visits feel like they’re part of something special.”

Layla’s expression shifted slightly, something flickering across her face that he couldn’t quite identify. For a moment, he thought she might acknowledge what he was trying to tell her. But then she glanced away, her gaze moving to the window where the snow continued to fall.

Christopher took a breath, then decided to take a chance. “You know,” he said, reaching for the carton of eggs and cracking several more into his bowl, “you might just need someone to show you all of its charms. Someone who knows the town, who can show you all the best spots and help you see beyond the surface.”

Even as he said it, he told himself he was making the offer purely in the town’s interest. Fir Tree Grove deserved to be represented accurately, to have its story told by someone who understood what made it special. That was all. It had nothing to do with the way his pulse had quickened slightly when Layla had walked into the kitchen, or the way he found himself wanting to know more about this woman who seemed so determined to keep her distance from anything that might slow her down or make her feel something she hadn’t planned on feeling.

But even as he tried to convince himself that it was all purely altruistic, he knew there was more to it than that. There was something about her vibrancy, her passion for her work, that drew him in despite her dismissiveness of everything he held dear. She was clearly driven, and clearly someone who cared deeply about what she did. That kind of dedication was attractive, he thought, even when it was directed toward things he didn’t fully understand or value in the same way.

It made him curious about her. Made him want to understand what had shaped her into a person who seemed to measure everything by its prestige, rather than slow down long enough to simply be present in a moment.

Layla turned back to face him, and the amusement was fully in her expression. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, her tone polite but firm. “I’m sure I’ll have everything about this small town summed up by the end of the day.”

Christopher felt another small pang of disappointment, but he pushed it aside and focused on the task at hand. He whisked the eggs with a little more vigor than necessary, then heated a pan on the stove and added a generous pat of butter from the local farm. The butter sizzled and melted, filling the kitchen with its rich, comforting scent.

He’d made hundreds of omelets in this kitchen over the years, and he thought he’d perfected them. He added the eggs to the pan, let them set for a moment, then began adding the diced bell peppers, some crumbled bacon he’d cooked earlier, a handful of sharp cheddar cheese, and a sprinkling of fresh chives from the herb garden he kept on the windowsill.