'Twas the Week Before Christmas
He loathed Christmas.And yet here he was feeling downright merry.Something was very wrong here. He was out of his element and he wasn’t thinking clearly, it was as simple as that. He hadn’t had a vacation in too long. He was getting swept away. Yes, that was it. It had to be. But he had a job to do, a purpose for being here, and he needed to focus. He wasn’t here to flirt with the locals or get caught up in… festive activities. The sooner he got out of this town and back to his regular life in New York, the better he’d feel.But even as he processed this reassuring thought, his stomach rolled with uneasiness. He was struggling to convince himself.And that was a problem.
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He loathed Christmas. And yet here he was feeling downright merry.
Something was very wrong here.
He was out of his element and he wasn’t thinking clearly. It was as simple as that. He hadn’t had a vacation in too long. He was getting swept away. Yes, that was it. It had to be. But he had a job to do, a purpose for being here, and he needed to focus. He wasn’t here to flirt with the locals or get caught up in … festive activities. The sooner he got out of this town and back to his regular life in New York, the better he’d feel.
But even as he processed this reassuring thought, his stomach rolled with uneasiness. He was struggling to convince himself. And that was a problem.
OLIVIA MILES lives in Chicago with her husband, young daughter and two ridiculously pampered pups. As a city girl with a fondness for small-town charm, she enjoys incorporating both ways of life into her stories. Not a day goes by that Olivia doesn’t feel grateful for being able to pursue her passion, and sometimes she does have to pinch herself when she remembers she’s found her own Happily Ever After.
Olivia loves hearing from readers. Visit her website, www.oliviamilesbooks.com.
For my darling little girl, Avery.
May you have a dream, and may you never stop reaching for it.
Contents
Chapter One
“Looks like a storm’s about to roll in.”
“So I heard,” Holly Tate murmured distractedly. Furrowing her brow, she studied the reservation list and then glanced at the hands of the old grandfather clock at the base of the stairs. There was still one guest unaccounted for, and the dining room would be closing in fifteen minutes. Well, she’d have the chef hold a turkey sandwich and a slice of apple pie. She could always send it up to the guest’s room upon check-in, just as a courtesy. Exceptional customer service was something she took seriously, and while a few minor complaints were inevitable, The White Barn Inn had yet to receive a bad review on any travel website Holly knew of. The repeat customers she saw year after year—and the referrals they provided—always filled her heart with a sense of pride and warmth.
“They say we should get three or four inches tonight,” the assistant manager and housekeeper, Abby Webster, continued. “Steady through the morning and afternoon, but the Nor’easter’s expected to hit tomorrow night.”
Holly finally glanced out one of the tall, lead-paned windows that framed the front door. Large flakes of snow were falling steadily on the vast stretch of lawn that separated the old mansion from the main road. There would be no sense in asking the handyman to clear the path; it would be covered again in half an hour. It would have to wait until morning.
“We’re still waiting on one guest,” Holly informed her friend. Though she was Abby’s employer, the two women were also good friends. Life at the inn was quiet and occasionally confining, resulting in long days, weekends, and holiday hours. After leaving Boston five years ago to transform the large historic home she had inherited from her grandmother into a bed-and-breakfast, Holly had retained fond memories of riding bikes or lining up at the candy store on Main Street with Abby during her annual summer visits to her grandmother’s house in Maple Woods. Having lost touch years before, the friends had picked up where they had left off and grown even closer since.
“Do you want me to stick around until he arrives?” Abby asked halfheartedly.
Holly shook her head. “You go home to that handsome husband of yours,” she said. “Besides, I don’t want you driving in this kind of weather at night.”
“The streets should be plowed by the morning.” Abby stifled a yawn and pulled her red wool pea coat off the wrought-iron rack next to the front desk. She shrugged herself into a hand-knitted creamy wool hat and wrapped a matching scarf tightly around her neck. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“Have a good night,” Holly called after Abby, pulling her cardigan tighter around her waist as a cold gust of wind rushed through the open door. The flames that were burning high and steady in the fireplace in the adjacent lobby flickered precariously. Holly wove her way through the oversize sofas and chairs, pausing to plump a pillow and refold a chenille throw, and then added another log from the neatly packed pile at the side of the brick hearth.
She checked her watch again. Ten minutes until the kitchen closed. Stephen, the chef, would be eager to get home, especially in this weather. Inside the dining room, another large fireplace crackled invitingly, casting a warm, golden glow on the four couples hunched over their desserts and savoring the last sips of their red wine. Conversation was low and intimate, and Holly silently crossed the polished floorboards to the kitchen where inside a clattering of pots and pans posed as a sharp contrast to the serenity of the other areas of the inn.
