Page 1 of Triple Tidings
One
Lacey
In the three years since I became the manager of The Chestnut Bed and Breakfast, I’m proud to say I’ve only slept with two guests.
Okay, so I wouldn’t say proud. Two is a relatively small number, though, and I definitely had my reasons. Reasons which are valid and interesting and definitely not a result of me attempting to justify my lapse in professionalism.
Of course, if my grandmother, the owner of The Chestnut, were ever to get ahold of that information… Well, she would probably disagree. Which makes it a very good thing she has taken up residence at an assisted living facility in Florida and no longer owns a vehicle that might drive back up here and murder me.
If she ever found out.
Which she won’t
I hope.
Admittedly, the likelihood of her uncovering this information has always seemed very slim, growing increasingly improbable as more and more time has passed since the incidents in question. Until this morning, at least, with what began as a quick glance at The Chestnut’s booking software,ended in me wondering whether I should hire a lawyer and get my affairs in order.
My stomach twists uncomfortably as I cast a long, searching look over The Chestnut’s festively decorated lobby, searching for something to fuss over. I need a distraction, something to do other than stress out, but—darn it—no imperfection presents itself. I’m way too good at my job, and even with my staff off for the long weekend, there isn’t a single corner of this place that is anything short offreaking delightful.
We certainly didn’t end up with a 4.8 guest satisfaction rating or featured in a handful of prestigious travel magazines by beingun-freaking delightful. No way. The kind of guests who stay at The Chestnut are accustomed to the finer things in life and are willing to pay extra for an authentic New England experience.
Well, authentic-ish.
I’ve lived here my whole life and am pretty confident that most families don’t prepare a tray of maple-glazed cinnamon rolls every morning or furnish their homes with a tasteful combination of authentic antiques and modern amenities.
None of that matters, however, because tourists go nuts for it, and at the moment, The Chestnut is at its very best. With garlands framing the snowy windows and a real Douglas fir beside the hearth, its branches sagging under the weight of countless vintage ornaments, every corner of this room is absolutely flawless.
This level of hospitality perfection isn’t something that just happens; it’s a legacy that’s been handed down from mother to daughter, with each generation adding their own unique touch. I’ve been preparing to run this place since I took my very first steps, only a few feet from where I’m standing now, and it tookyearsto convince my grandmother I was ready to take up the mantle, and she would snatch it right back if she found out…
It doesn’t matter, because she isn’t going to find out.
Nibbling on my bottom lip, I turn my attention to the reception computer, double-checking we haven’t received any last-minute bookings.
Nope. Thanks to a storm in Canada and a bad flu season out west, we had a slew of last-minute cancellations, trimming our fully booked register down to only two guests.
Two.
It’s just so unbelievable.Tworooms out offifteenare booked for the entirety of Christmas weekend. Two guests who happen to be the men I—nope! I can’t even think about that right now.
Since Gram officially handed me the keys to The Chestnut, business has been good—great,even. We have reservations booked out months in advance, and a waiting list for a few of the more in-demand weeks. This year has been our best on record. I should be proud, and Iam.
Unfortunately, that pride is now being largely overshadowed by anxiety. Which is probably an understandable response to finding yourself spending the holiday weekend at your place of work, all alone with the men responsible for your two biggest lapses in professionalism. Ever.
I mean,come on. What are the chances?
Wiping my sweaty palms on the skirt of my dress, I hurry over to add a few logs to the fire, glancing out at the darkened sky beyond the lobby window as I do. It’s nearly six, and check-in starts at four. They could arrive at literally any moment, and the later it gets, the higher the likelihood that they’ll arrive at the same time.
The prospect of it alone makes me want to melt into the floor.
Having worked in hospitality since I was about fourteen, my ability to diffuse uncomfortable situations is exceptional. That won’t save me, though, when I’ve become the source of the awkward.
Needing a moment to myself, I hurry back behind the reception desk and through the open door to my office. It’s cozy in here, and cute, with a string of tiny holiday lights carefully wrapped around the screen of my computer and all twenty-six of the handmade stockings Gram has made me—one for each Christmas I’ve been alive—hung in an eclectic collage above the desk.
I don’t sit down, choosing instead to stare at the wall stockings, each of them lovingly sewn by a grandmother for her granddaughter. A granddaughter who shamed the family legacy and gave her professionalism the middle finger when faced with two gorgeous older men.
It’s clear I have a type.
Letting out an exasperated huff at the sudden temperature increase, I look away from the stockings, fanning myself. This is getting ridiculous. If they don’t hurry up and get here, I’m going to lock the front door, turn off all the lights, and refund their money.
