Page 62 of Back to December
And didn’t Sebastian just leave there? The timing hums too perfectly, like the magic’s been one stepahead of me all day.
I’ve gotta run by the bakery. Be there in a few.
Sam
I owe you.
He doesn’t. But this might be my last clean shot to show Laila we belong together. I’ve got to make it count.
No more wasting time.
twenty-two
LAILA
The storm of October passed,leaving a hush behind. I tried outrunning it–to Colorado, then up to Sweetheart Springs–but quiet followed me anyway. The sort that settles in after people stop holding their breath. In this case, “people” is actuallyme.
The replay of that day has slowed to a less monotonous loop, so it feels a little lighter. Not gone, not fixed. But quieter.
I haven’t heard from my mother since the wedding.
Not directly, anyway.
Bridget said Charlotte left some luncheon early, looking like she’d bitten into bad citrus, and Sebastian made sure whatever papers she was clutching went exactly where they belonged—somewhere far from us.
I didn’t ask for details. I don’t need to.
For the first time in years, her silence doesn’t scare me.
Maybe that’s what freedom sounds like—when the ghost stops rattling its chains and you finally stop listening for them.
It’s only been a few weeks since I was here last, but Enchanted Hollow still greets me like it missed me. The first flakes of winter drift from the sky, and I have to wonder if I brought Colorado back with me, or if Mayor Gold is upset again. Either way, it’s a cozy detail against the blinking fairy lights in shop windows. The Christmas tree lighting is either today or tomorrow, which will make downtown even more festive.
As I take a deep inhale of the sweet air, like someone infused it with sugar from The Magic Crumb or The Spellbound Scone, it’s easy to remember why leaving never sticks. The smell reminds me of those soft sugar cookies Holden pretends to hate—the ones with frosting thick enough to count as insulation. Nostalgia, powdered in confectioners’ sugar.
But this version of Laila isn’t the one who left a few weeks ago. I’m no longer a wedding planner for Gilded Vows or a famous social media influencer—at least not for the account that I pouredyearsof my life into.
Sweet Treats is still a work in progress, but it’s the only thing left that’s mine.
That feels important. I did what I set out to do while I was back in Colorado, although that puts me into a whole new category of life I haven’t seen in a while.
Under construction.
Bridget and Ella would probably say that’s a slight exaggeration, especially since my social media “project” isn’t new. But it feels accurate at this stage of life.
The cushy job I had no longer exists, I don’t know what to say on social media right now, and worst of all—I don’t know where Holden and I stand. I’m scared he won’t want this wrinkled-around-the-edges version of me, even thoughmy heart says that’s stupid. I just don’t know what I have to offer anymore.
I was more than ready to wheel my things into the tiny apartment I rented from Quinn over Once Upon a Brew, but I got a text from her on the way here that there was a leak. So now I’m dragging myself into the Enchanted Hollow Bed-and-Breakfast, wishing on a prayer that Sam Jackson has room at the inn.
Preferably not the honeymoon suite.
“The Reindeer Games are part of the farm’s Christmas Festival. Yes, ma’am—Ever After Farm. Ah, no, it’s family games? You’re not racing actual reindeer,” Sam says into the phone, one hand over the receiver while he mouths ‘sorry’ so dramatically I have to stifle a laugh.
Last time I was here, fall splashed across the lobby and the cozy living area at the front of the building. Now, it reminds me a lot of The Sweetheart Inn.
I can almost hear Henry’s voice narrating it—one of his folklore stories about travelers who find their way home by following the scent of cinnamon.
Deep green pillows, red knit throws, a lit garland on the staircase, and a roaring fire in the historic fireplace. Books stuff the old bookshelves in the same way I hoard memories. The combination loosens the tension in my shoulders.
