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At least, I thought he was the ex-fiancé until he appeared holding a diamond large enough to apparently reopen negotiations.

I didn't know what to do.

I told myself I should just give her a moment of privacy. That maybe after everything we discussed this morning in the cabin, she needed a minute to say goodbye to the man she almost married, and I'm a considerate person so I should let her do that.

But I couldn't watch. I had to leave.

"And you're a fucking idiot," I tell myself, looking in the rear view mirror.

I twist around and look at the back seat, shaking my head.

The wedding dress still owns half the back seat, a white satin heap with lace that I remember her struggling to contain on that mountain. Around it sit the unopened gifts, silver boxes with ribbons still tied, one card reading Mr. and Mrs. in fancy gold script.

It's the wreckage of a life she abandoned at full speed.

It's still abandoned, isn't it?

She loves me. Not him. Me.

But then again… she never said it. And neither did I.

It's too soon anyway. Too fast to be talking about love.

Plus, we agreed on Christmas only, no promises.

I shake my head and groan, getting absolutely nowhere by talking to myself. So I get out of the car and head for the Ski Bar, because if Chilmore has taught me anything, it's that emotional maturity begins with a strong whiskey.

I storm through the lobby and ignore some passing glances, moving up the corridor towards the Ski Bar.

It's warm and half-full of resort guests when I step inside, with white garlands looped over the whiskey shelves behind the bar. Fires burn at both ends of the room, and as I move deeper into the warmth, I notice Dylan Stone sitting near the fireplace playing a gentle acoustic set.

I give him a wave, listening as he sings something about coming home for Christmas, which right now, feels like a personal attack.

I take a stool at the bar and order a whiskey, setting Audrey’s car keys beside it.

Beyond the windows, skaters on the rink move beneath thousands of lights while snow gathers along the outdoor fire pits, but inside, everything feel moodier beneath the liquor shelves and white garlands.

I don’t drink the whiskey.

I just stare into it while Stanley Frost polishes the same glass for several minutes in a bow tie covered with tiny candy canes.

Stanley is the younger brother of Harold Frost, the wild-haired coffee obsessive who owns Frost Café in the center of Chilmore with his wife, Millie. Between Harold’s café and Stanley’s bar, the Frost brothers keep the town caffeinated, intoxicated and completely incapable of maintaining a secret for longer than fifteen minutes.

As luck would have it, two enormous shadows fall across the bar after my first careful sip of whiskey.

"Well, well," Nate says, sliding onto the stool beside me. "Captain's drinking alone with a woman's car keys. Aidan, what are we thinking? Some kind of kinky vehicle thing? Did you two finally christen the back seat?"

"Nah. He hasn't been laid," Aidan says, settling on my other side and studying my face a little too closely. "That's not a sex face. That's the face of a man who's made a spectacular mistake."

I glare at Aidan. "How can you possibly tell the difference?"

"Years of reading my parents expressions," he says simply, shrugging.

Nate waves Stanley over to place his order. "Two beers, and whatever fixes that."

He points at my face, so I grip my whiskey glass and tilt it towards him.

"I'm still good with this one."