Page 3 of Love in a Christmas Storm
He brightened, fingers dancing across the keyboard. “Ah! Got it. Found you.” Then he frowned again. “But… I can’t find the key. Let me just check the backup box.”
Minutes ticked by as he searched drawers and muttered apologies. Lettie tapped her fingers against the edge of the counter, debating whether it was faster to drive back to town or to break into her own room.
Finally, he held up a key card like it was the Holy Grail. “Here we go! Sorry again. Really. It’s been...a day.”
Lettie gave a curt nod, snatched the card, and turned on her heel.
She trudged out the door. Frowned at the mistletoe-laced gazebo. Then finally found her cabin. She slid the card into the lock. The light turned green. Inside, the room was warm, quiet… and occupied.
Was housekeeping still in here? Had someone made a mistake? A suitcase sat open on the bed. A pair of boots—men’s, worn, expensive—stood by the hearth like they belonged there.
“Hello?”
The bathroom door opened. A man stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and tousled like he’d just stepped out of a cologne commercial. He was tall, tan, and cut like a man who casually did push-ups between emails. His skin still glistened faintly from the steam.
Lettie’s stomach dropped.
Carlos. Freaking. Nowell. The man who’d turned her family’s magazine into Christmas clickbait. The walking peppermint latte of holiday journalism. And the man had the audacity to smile at her like he'd written her name at the top of his Christmas list and Santa had just delivered her to his doorstep.
CHAPTER THREE
Carlos hadn’t imagined seeing Carletta Noel quite like this. The object of his Christmas wish for the last five years was standing in the doorway of his cabin, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes sharp enough to cut glass, and dressed like the cover of a winter catalog shoot for women who didn’t care if you liked them.
She looked incredible.
Even furious.
Especially furious.
She wore a white coat lined with soft fur, the same downy trim brushing the tops of her snow-white boots. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders like a shadow trying to escape all that light. She looked like some kind of dark Christmas angel—fierce, elegant, untouchable. All she was missing were the wings.
Instead, she wore the frown of a grinch. And somehow made that look regal, too.
Her eyes were a startling shade of blue. Not icy, exactly. Just clear. Clear in a way that unnerved people because it meant she saw things. Carlos imagined they were the same eyes she used to corner corrupt CEOs and catch politicians in half-truths. Thoseeyes didn’t miss a thing. And right now, they were aimed at him like he was the headline in her next exposé.
Still, a very dumb part of him wanted to preen. Wanted to puff out his chest and pose like a fool beneath that gaze. He wanted her to find him enthralling, the way he found her. Wanted her to look at him like he wasn’t just some walking jingle bell wrapped in flannel.
But she didn’t. She never had. Not since the sale.
From the moment his parents signed the deal to purchaseNoel Magazine—a legacy publication with holiday roots so deep it practically bled holly—Carletta had hated him. Hated them. Even though she’d never wanted the magazine herself, never worked there, barely tolerated its existence. It didn’t matter. To her, he was a walking betrayal with a press badge and a smile.
Carlos knew the story, or at least thought he did. Her parents had taken the money, moved to Florida, and never looked back. Carletta was left behind, and he was a reminder of everything she resented.
The irony, of course, was that his parents would never dream of Florida. They saw Vermont in their very near retirement plans. Deeper winters. Longer snowfalls. They wanted to hand him the reins so they could go full snowbird in reverse.
And Carlos… he was trying. He was doing everything he could to prove he could handle the legacy they were preparing to hand over to him. That he deserved it. That he could tell stories that mattered, that brought joy, that made people believe again.
He didn’t need Carletta to like him. But standing there, towel around his waist, hair dripping, heart hammering? He kind of wanted her to.
“You’re in my room.”
Carlos opened his mouth, then closed it again. And then the puzzle pieces slid into place.
Noel. Not Nowell.
He let out a quiet, breathy laugh, running a hand through his damp hair as realization settled over him like snow on a pine branch. “Ohhh, C. Noel. Of course.”
She looked at him like he’d just confessed to stealing Christmas. Which was kinda funny because Lettie Noel was the prettiest grinch Carlos had ever encountered.
