Page 5 of Love in a Christmas Storm
He was gone when she woke.
The fire had gone out, leaving the room dim and quiet. The bear rug was empty save for a faint impression in the fibers and the folded blanket he’d used. No note. No smug grin waiting to pounce. Just silence and a residual sense of… calm.
Lettie sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes like that would make the feeling go away.
She shouldn’t have slept that well. Not in a strange place. Not with him in the room. Not when everything about this town set her teeth on edge.
And yet she had. Somewhere between watching the firelight flicker against the ceiling and staring at the ridiculous silhouette of Carlos curled around a fake bear, her guard had dropped. Her body had let go. She’d fallen asleep, and for the first time in what felt like years, she hadn’t woken up three times to check her phone or review her notes or rehash old arguments with her parents in her head.
She’d just… slept.
Deeply. Peacefully.
Safely.
It was insane.
Carlos was practically a stranger. Sure, she’d read his work. She'd found his articles too chipper, too sentimental, too eager to wrap reality in a candy cane bow. But the man did know how to find the emotional center of a story. He asked good questions. Let quotes breathe. He wasn’t lazy; she’d give him that. And fine, maybe he had a decent eye for a detail or two. But none of that explained why she'd felt protected with him asleep on the floor.
Lettie shoved that last thought away like it had offended her.
The snow was falling harder when she climbed into her car. Getting down the winding road and back on Main Street wouldn't be a problem. Lettie had come prepared. Her all-wheel drive ate up the curves and climbs of the snow-covered roads without complaint. The chains were packed and ready in the trunk like insurance against Mother Nature’s bad moods. She’d grown up with northern winters, not the mild dustings other cities called snowstorms. Hills didn’t intimidate her. Black ice didn’t surprise her. Driving in snow was muscle memory and steel nerves.
What did get under her skin were the cars ahead of her on the two-lane road crawling like they were lost in a blizzard scene from a made-for-TV disaster movie. Braking on straightaways, hesitating at every bend, swerving when they hit a slushy patch that could be conquered with nothing more than common sense and decent tires.
Lettie gritted her teeth and gripped the steering wheel tighter. She felt the itch of her old road rage stirring in her chest, ready to make itself known. But she tamped it down. Road rage had no place on snow. Not when one wrong move could put a car and its driver in a ditch or a stranger’s dashboard.
So she drove carefully. Carefully and with a quiet kind of superiority. Let them white-knuckle their way through the town like they'd never seen weather before. She had a job to do. Astory to unravel. And no tourist in a rental SUV was going to slow her down.
Now trudging through Honor Valley’s quaint little Main Street, Lettie shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and kept her chin tucked down. The sidewalks were freshly shoveled, the storefronts glowing with so much holiday cheer it was borderline aggressive. Wreaths on every door. Twinkle lights in every window. The café was advertising peppermint hot cocoa with hand-whipped cream, and someone had clearly gone to unnecessary lengths to sculpt a reindeer out of ice beside the bookstore entrance.
She passed a cluster of carolers in matching scarves and tried not to let her expression slip into an outright scowl. She wasn’t here to hum along. She was here to pull back the glittery curtain and shine a light on what happened to the businesses that didn’t want to play Santa’s game.
She could already feel it—the tension behind the tinsel, the undercurrent of expectation woven through the town’s “warmth.” The holiday magic here? Manufactured. Marketed. Monetized. And she intended to prove it.
She made her first stop at Grain & Hearth, a rustic bakery that reeked of warm bread and quiet rebellion. The owner, a woman in her forties with flour-dusted braids and eyes that had seen some things, was more than willing to talk. Off the record, at first.
“It started when my holiday wreath didn't match this year's color scheme. Then they got mad when I wouldn't rename my rosemary focaccia “Reindeer Flatbread.” When I refused to pretend my sourdough starter was blessed by Saint Nick, I was scrubbed from the Holiday Trail ads, left off the promotional map, and told—point blank—that my business would suffer if I didn’tget festive.”
“Who said that?” Lettie asked, pen poised.
But here, the baker paused. She looked around the empty shop. When she saw that the coast was clear, she leaned in and opened her mouth. But just then the bell chimed.
“Happy holidays.”
Lettie knew that voice. Only one man had that kind of cheer year round. Carlos Nowell. Because of course.
Lettie turned back to her source, but the woman had already clammed up. More customers filed in behind Carlos, and the interview was effectively over before Lettie could get any names. She turned and headed out of the bakery, tossing a scowl over her shoulder at Carlos.
“Hey there, Grinch,” Carlos said, smile blooming like he’d been hoping to bump into her all morning.
“Do you stalk all women like this, or am I just special?”
He grinned wider. “Only the ones who threaten to throw me out into a snowstorm.”
Lettie rolled her eyes but didn’t step back right away. She told herself it was because the sidewalk was narrow.
“Working hard?” he asked, nodding toward her notebook.
