Page 2 of Love in a Christmas Storm
Carlos cleared his throat, unsure how to respond to such forwardness.
“I found you, but someone spelled your name wrong.”
Amber pulled a keycard out of a drawer. “Cabin 204. Fireplace, hot cocoa packets, a view of the mountains—and if you get lonely…”
She pulled the keycard back when Carlos reached for it and pressed it to her chest. Had another button on her blouse come loose? How was she doing that without using her hands? Carlos didn't care to know the answer. He liked strong women, but when they got a little too flirty, that turned him off.
“I’ll be too busy working,” he said, snatching the keycard and backing away with a friendly nod. “Thanks, Amber.”
Carlos stepped out of the lobby and back into the fresh outdoors. The door swung shut behind him like a curtain falling on a performance he hadn’t quite enjoyed.
As he walked the pathway, he passed a giant mistletoe arch framing a gazebo. It was hung with silver bells and dusted with artificial snow. Carlos paused for a beat, just looking at it. He hadn’t even written a word yet, but he already knew that this story was going to be special.
CHAPTER TWO
Lettie Noel didn’t need a GPS to tell her she’d arrived in Honor Valley. The town announced itself with a jingle bell chorus and a candy cane to the face.
Lights were strung from every surface: porches, rooftops, even the occasional lamppost that had no business being that cheerful. A fake snowman waved from the bakery window. The community board advertised the annual snowball fight as if that were a legitimate civic event. She passed a banner for the Great Gingerbread Showdown like it was the Olympics of icing. There was a crowd at the Christmas tree farm. Carolers young and old were walking door to door singing off key.
Lettie rolled her eyes so hard she almost missed the turn to the lodge. Of course, it looked the same. Honor Valley didn’t change. She’d been here once, ten years ago, tagging along behind her parents when they were still runningNoel Magazineand thought a town frozen in Christmas past would make for a heartwarming holiday spread.
The pictures had come out lovely. Her mother had cried over them. Her father had framed one. Lettie had loved every second of that trip. Then just a few years later, they'd sold the magazine, and Lettie's love for Christmas had gone with the sale.
The town was still wearing the same smile, still performing the same Christmas pageant for anyone willing to clap along. It was like evolution had bypassed the place in favor of mistletoe and manipulation.
She was here to expose it. The Holiday Trail—the heart of the town’s economy and the centerpiece of its charm—wasn’t as cheerful as it looked. Businesses that opted out of the curated holiday route were being quietly cut off. No foot traffic, no features, no mention on the “official” map. Economic exile, wrapped in a red velvet bow.
That was the story. And it was hers.
She turned up the drive toward the cabins, tires crunching over snow that had started to fall faster now. Big, soft flakes spiraled down in a way that might have been beautiful if she were in the mood for poetry.
She wasn’t.
Still… a snowstorm. That she didn’t mind.
There was something honest about a storm. It didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was: cold, inconvenient, uncontrollable. Lettie respected that. Unlike Christmas, which demanded its observers perform joy on cue or risk being called grinches.
She pulled into the lodge lot and cut the engine, exhaling as the warmth of the car began to fade. Her breath fogged the windshield, and through it she caught the faint glow of the mistletoe arch she remembered from a decade ago.
Same decorations. Same script. Same hollow cheer.
She wasn’t staying long. Just enough time to get what she needed—quotes, sources, receipts—and maybe ride out the storm before hightailing it back to the city where the lights didn’t blink at you like they wanted a response.
Lettie would’ve gotten started tonight, but the storefronts were already dark. Windows shuttered, signs flipped to CLOSEDin blocky lettering. The town might have clung to its festive aesthetic, but its work ethic apparently still shut down by five.
Fine. She’d wait. Tomorrow, she’d start knocking on doors. Someone in this gingerbread circus had to be ready to talk.
The lodge lobby was a study in chaos disguised as charm. Faux wood beams, fake greenery strung with red bulbs, and a fireplace that smelled suspiciously like scented wax rather than actual burning logs. Two employees stood behind the counter: a man, flustered and flipping through a binder, and a woman with too much lipstick and too few buttons done up on her shirt to be considered professional in any zip code outside of a reality show.
The man stammered something about protocol. The woman shot back something about priorities. Then, with one last theatrical toss of her hair, the woman pivoted in her too-high heels and flounced out of the room.
The man looked up, cheeks flushed. “Welcome to the Evergreen Pines Lodge. Checking in?”
“Yes, Lettie Noel.”
He tapped on the computer. His brows creased. “Noel, you said?”
“C. Noel. First name Carletta.”
