Page 9

"Then we better get going."

I put the truck into gear and ease onto the road, watching through the mirror as Audrey’s car falls into line behind us.

The snow thickens as we descend, swallowing the edges of the mountain and turning the world beyond my headlights into a shifting wall of white. Beside me, Audrey curls both hands around the thermos cup, her legs tucked beneath my coat as warm cinnamon fills the cab.

For the first few miles, neither of us speaks.

Which should be peaceful.

Instead, I remain intensely aware of the beautiful runaway bride occupying my passenger seat, drinking my coffee and smelling like vanilla, snow and every bad idea I have ever successfully avoided.

Then we round the final bend, and Madden Mistletoe Resort appears before our eyes.

Audrey leans toward the windshield. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Big Mike doesn’t do subtle.”

The resort sprawls across the ridge in a blaze of golden light, with countless glass-fronted lodges, snow-covered roofs and timber chalets tucked between towering pines. Thousands of tiny lights wrap around every railing, tree and ridiculous decorative reindeer until the entire mountainside glows like Christmas has been handed a billionaire’s credit card with absolutely no spending limit.

A wide outdoor rink sits at the centre of it all, surrounded by heated lounges, fire pits and guests wrapped in thick blankets. A group of high-school players tears across the ice while families watch from the boards with steaming cups clutched between mittened hands.

Beyond them, a Christmas market stretches through the snow in rows of wooden huts. Smoke curls from chimneys while vendors serve hot cider, roasted chestnuts and pastries dripping with enough sugar to destroy an athlete’s nutritional plan from twenty feet away.

Audrey lowers the coffee from her lips. “That’s a resort?”

“One of the best apparently.”

“It looks like Santa fucked a luxury hotel.”

A laugh punches out of me, her humor catching me completely off-guard.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She grins. “I’m still deciding.”

She keeps staring as we pass beneath an enormous arch covered in pine branches, red velvet bows and glowing letters welcoming us to Mistletoe Resort. Snowflakes catch in the lights while horse-drawn sleighs wait beside the entrance where festively dressed staff hurry between arriving cars with tartan blankets draped across their arms.

For the first time since I found her beside that snowbank, Audrey looks happy.

“So this is where your little hockey tournament is?” she asks.

“Unfortunately.”

Her head turns and she swipes at her long blonde hair. “You’re really committed to pretending this isn’t magical, aren’t you?”

“I grew up selling Christmas trees. I’m immune to festive excitement.”

She smiles into the lights. “I don’t think anyone could be immune to how beautiful this is.”

I look at her instead of the resort. "No. Probably not."

I turn into the unloading lane beside the main lodge, where three resort employees immediately abandon a luggage cart and hurry toward us.

All three are wearing green wool coats that are trimmed with white fur. They also have red scarves and reindeer antlers strapped to their heads. One set flashes every time its owner moves, which means the poor bastard resembles a festive emergency vehicle as he jogs through the snow to greet us.

“Please tell me those aren’t compulsory,” Audrey says, looking out the window with amusement on her face.

I chuckle. “I’ll let you know after I complete player registration.”