Page 1 of Snow Much Trouble
Lauren
“Now that’s a big deck,” I comment as I stare up at my weekend getaway cabin.
It’s a picture perfect mountain retreat, with a big wraparound deck dotted with rocking chairs, and a cheerful red door festooned with a Christmas wreath. It’s nestled into the trees, but perched on a hill so that I can see the view behind is going to be spectacular.
It’s a damn good cabin.
The only thing that would be better about it would be if I were viewing it from the inside looking out. I’m not much of an outdoors-in-December kind of girl. I punch in the code on the cabin door, shivering in the frigid mountain air, and hit the green button.
Nothing happens.
“Seriously?” I try the code again.
Nothing. There is no magical moment like there would be in a movie—where the door glides open in front of me in slow motion while the soundtrack plays a whimsical holiday tune, revealing a festive cabin that will defeat my frustrating bout of writer’s block.
Instead, the wind bites at my face, tugging on my cherry-red scarf and threatening to dislodge it. My arms ache from hauling my suitcase and three bags of groceries up the icy driveway from my car. My adorable animal print boots were an incredibly bad choice for rusticating in the woods and I’m not wearing a coat. I never like to drive with a winter coat on but now I’m freezing my bits off. All I want is to collapse in front of a roaring fire with my laptop, my guitar, and about twelve mugs of hot chocolate. Preferably spiked.
This is not a great start to a weekend that is supposed to change my life.
On the third try I finally hear a beep and the door gives. “Ha! Take that, mountain cabin,” I mutter as I shoulder it open.
The place smells like cedar and pine-scented cleaner. At first glance it definitely screamscozy luxury getawayinstead ofcheap motel,which is my usual travel lodging.The great room soars two stories high and features timber beams, a rustic stone fireplace, and plush couches that look like they were made for hibernating. My boots squeak on the hardwood as I step inside, shutting out the savage wind.
Heck yeah, I can work with this.
I’m already picturing myself in joggers and fuzzy socks staring out at the trees as I write the best dang Christmas song country music has ever seen.
Humming a melody I’m testing out, I wheel my suitcase to the bedroom on the main floor. There’s stairs to a loft and what appears to be several more bedrooms upstairs but I have zero interest in hauling my suitcase up there. I’m allergic to packing light so my bag isheavy.Along with various sweaters and joggers and adorable holiday flannel pajamas, I also have a multitude of snacks designed to spark creativity, and a bevy of personal beauty products for some much needed self-care.
My best friend, Avery, has doubts about my ability to rough it solo in the woods for three days, but I assured her I am self-aware enough to know I need working plumbing and a heat source. This is the opposite of roughing it. This is Jolene Hart’s chalet, and Jolene is country music royalty. Since she shot to stardom in her late teens, she’s been kicking country ass and taking names in the industry. While this may be a Smoky mountain retreat, it is not a log cabin in the traditional sense. It is a luxury chalet and I’m in love with everything about it, from the fancy-pants espresso machine to thetwofireplaces to the remote control blinds.
There’s a massive Christmas tree in one corner of the living room, decorated in buffalo check and vibrant pops of red ornaments. The white lights are twinkling brightly and the fireplace is festooned with swags of fresh pine boughs and red bows. There are reindeers everywhere I turn, too many to name them, which is usually my first instinct.
“See, I’m not even alone,” I tell the rustic wood reindeer closest to me, who is hovering near the front door like a sentry. “I’ve got you to keep me company, Buck.”
Okay, so I namedone. He’s practically life size, what do you expect?
I’m in the bedroom with the massive four-poster bed unpacking my suitcase when I hear something. A whirring sound in the other room. Followed by a creak.
Wait a minute. That’s the door.
I hear heavy footsteps and a decidedly masculine voice muttering, "Holy shit. Now that’s a reindeer.”
I’m assuming whoever the hell he is just met Buck.
This is no good. I specifically asked Jolene if anyone else would be here this weekend. She promised me the chalet would be all mine. Just me, my guitar, and enough holiday inspirationto write the perfect Christmas song for Miranda Leigh's new album.
I’m clutching my hot pink polka-dot pajamas to my chest. Through the open bedroom doorway, I can see into the main living area past the perfectly decorated Christmas tree. Everything about this place screams cozy mountain Christmas.
Except for the mysterious man who's apparently decided to crash my writing retreat.
"Hello?" His voice carries that smooth Kentucky drawl that would sound attractive under different circumstances. Like circumstances where he wasn't potentially a serial killer who somehow has the keycode to my woodsy sanctuary. “Is someone here?”
Damn it. I kicked off my shoes by Buck.
Mystery man knows I’m here.
I tiptoe to the bedroom door and peer around the frame. Sweet Christmas cookies. The potential serial killer isgorgeousand he's standing in the kitchen holding what appears to be a very expensive bottle of bourbon like he owns the place.
