Page 24 of A Cozy Kind of Christmas
She didn’t want to follow in his footsteps.
Or disappear into herself the way he had.
Was that why she was holding back on writing the book?
Was that why she’d let Matt go?
Matt.
Ah, Matt.
She sighed.
Matt Parker was stuck in her brain on an endless loop.
Her sweaty palms clung to the steering wheel. The jittery feeling she’d had since she landed in Oregon was teetering into a full-fledged panic now.
She was going to see him.
Today!
In person.
She blew out a quivery breath.
How would he react to seeing her again?
Better question—how would she?
When she’d stormed out that night in Portland, he’d looked like she’d permanently broken him, and then the next morning at the airport, when he’d shown up unexpectedly to see her off, letting his lips linger on her cheek as he asked one last time if there was any chance, any way they could make it work.
She had walked away.
God, Meg.
You walked away without ever turning back.
She swallowed a sour taste spreading across her tongue. It was a bad move. Not her proudest moment.
But she couldn’t go back.
The damage was done.
Traveling this route, past Hood River and then heading south toward the high desert, was like watching an old movie in slow motion. She replayed so many scenes, so many adventures—surfing the swelling waves of the Columbia with Matt, trekking to the top of the Newberry Crater, and traversing through deep mile-long underground lava tubes. Sharing post-hike pints and pretzels. Slow Sunday brunches. Movie marathons at the vintage theater by her apartment. Game nights. Everything had been so easy. It felt like another lifetime ago.
The four-hour drive to Bend passed in a blur of memories of a happier time, but once she made it to the high desert town, her nerves kicked in full throttle, like she’d pressed her foot on the accelerator and couldn’t slow it down.
Johanna had offered to book accommodations away from the festivities, but if Meg was going to face Matt and his paramour, Lucinda, she might as well lean all the way in.
She followed her GPS to the Hinton Family Lodge and immediately regretted her decision. The lodge and vintage ski chalets were straight out of a travel magazine.
Damn, impressive.
Meg could write an ode in the form of a sonnet to the lodge. It was quintessentially Christmas and oozing with charm—a sloped, shingled roof clinging to fluffy mounds of pristine snow, a horse-drawn carriage outfitted with jingling bells cutting through the snowshoe trails, and dazzling vintage Christmas lights and lanterns framing the cabins dotting the grounds.
She checked in at the front desk, trying to quell the butterflies battering her stomach.
Was he here?
