Page 9 of Love in a Christmas Storm
“I protect my sources.” But her jaw tightened as she walked to the door. Because while she didn’t blame the Wicks for their fear, she was tired of people letting this kind of cheer-powered bullying go unchecked.
The drive back to the cabin was slower now, the snow thickening by the minute, softening the world into silence. Lettie gripped the wheel with one gloved hand and flexed the other in her lap, her fingers twitching like they still held a pen.
She had what she needed. Enough for a story. Maybe even a front-page one if her editor didn’t gut it for sounding more flashy. The truth wasn’t always popular.
Her family hadn’t been flashy about Christmas when she was young. No extravagant gift piles. No choreographed light shows. Just quiet traditions that didn’t need witnesses to feel real.
Trimming the tree on the first snow. Her dad’s off-key caroling while hanging ornaments. Sugar cookies shaped like books and not bells because “readers deserve a holiday too,” her mom would say. On Christmas Eve, they’d tell stories by the fire. Family stories. Faith stories. Sometimes just stories with a good punchline.
By the time morning rolled around, Lettie had always felt like her chest would burst with warmth. The presents were lovely, always—handmade, thoughtful, perfectly chosen. But they were never the point.
The year after they sold the magazine, her parents had invited her down to Florida for a “relaxing Christmas in the sun.” Sand instead of snow. Palms instead of pines. Santa in board shorts and sunglasses. The gifts had been gift cards.
They’d given up the magic. Traded meaning for convenience. Snow for surf.
Back in her neighborhood, Lettie had watched Christmas turn into a competition. Trees decorated in commercially approved palettes. Children throwing tantrums over the size or amount of the gifts under the tree. Parents trying to buy each other’s approval through volume, not value. Piles of boxes on the curb by noon, like evidence of who’d loved best.
It wasn’t Christmas. It was performance art for the spiritually bankrupt. And Lettie was done pretending.
She was going to write her story. She was going to call it like she saw it. And she was going to name names—starting with Mrs. White, the benevolent dictator of Honor Valley's snow-dusted stage play.
Outside, the snow thickened. Lettie adjusted her wipers and leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the white-washed road. Up ahead, red blinkers pierced the veil of white—cars pulled over to the shoulder, hazards blinking, passengers inside holding phones in the air like offerings to the signal gods.
She passed them carefully, letting her all-wheel drive do its job. Her chain-covered tires gripped the road like a stubborn truth refusing to slide. And then she saw him.
Carlos' car was half in a ditch, angled awkwardly with one front wheel sunk and spinning uselessly. He was outside, coatless, shoving snow away from the tire with a windshieldscraper. His hair was dusted with snow, his cheeks red, his expression one of calm determination with just a flicker of panic beneath it.
She didn’t slow at first. She didn’t have to. It wasn’t her problem. He’d laughed at her, belittled her investigation, and probably charmed his way through every interview since.
She could keep driving. She should keep driving. But she didn’t.
Her foot tapped the brake. Just enough to test the traction.
Idiot, she thought, unclear if she meant him or herself.
She pulled off onto the shoulder a few yards ahead, flipped on her hazards, and threw the car into park. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel for a beat. Then she shoved open the door and stepped out into the snow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carlos brushed the last of the snow off his shoulders as he held the door open for Lettie, stepping into the golden glow of the lodge lobby behind her. He imagined taking her coat, hanging it gently by the fire, and handing her a mug of cocoa like they’d done this a dozen times before. Like they were?—
Nope. Not going there.
He followed her to the front desk, his boots squeaking faintly on the hardwood. Amber was back on duty, all glossy lipstick and glittery nails, her neckline now plunging deeper than the local temperature. She leaned against the counter like she was posing for a snow-themed pin-up calendar.
Carlos cleared his throat. “Hi, Amber.”
“You remembered my name. Such a gentleman.”
“Did another room become available tonight?”
Amber didn’t even check the screen. “Mine’s free.”
“Oh,” Carlos said, blinking. He felt the tips of his ears go red. “That’s… generous.”
Lettie crossed her arms. “He’ll be staying in my room.”
Carlos turned toward her, surprised. There was a glint in her eye. It was half challenge, half don’t-test-me.
