Page 1 of Christmas with the Firefighter
Chapter 1 – Miranda
The Snowcap Inn looks exactly like the kind of place where people fall in love in movies, which means it's exactly the kind of place I should avoid.
But here I am anyway, standing in the lobby with my oversized duffel bag dripping melted snow onto vintage hardwood floors, because sometimes you run out of better options. The smell of cinnamon and pine wraps around me like a hug, and there's a fire crackling in a stone fireplace that probably costs more than my car. Garland drapes the wooden banister in perfect swoops, and somewhere overhead, Bing Crosby croons about white Christmases through speakers hidden in crown molding.
It's aggressively cozy. Offensively romantic.
I tug my damp sweater down over my hips and try to make myself smaller, which is a lost cause considering I take up the space I take up whether I like it or not. The woman behind the front desk smiles at me like I belong here, like I'm not a woman fleeing Christmas Eve dinner with relatives who think my life choices are a personal insult to their family values.
"Welcome to the Snowcap Inn, dear. You must be Miranda."
Her voice is warm as maple syrup, and I almost cry again just from the kindness in it. I've been crying on and off for the last three hours of driving through Montana winter, my eyes still puffy and my cheeks still blotchy, but something about being welcomed threatens to undo what's left of my composure.
"That's me." I sign the paperwork and accept the old-fashioned brass key she slides across the mahogany desk. "Just the one night."
"Room twelve, up the stairs and to the right. Breakfast starts at seven, but we always have coffee and cookies down here if you need a little something later." She glances at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner. "Though I suppose it is rather late."
The stairs creak under my weight, each step announcing my presence to anyone who might be listening, and I grip the brass banister a little tighter than necessary.
My room is small and perfect, with a queen bed covered in a big quilt and a window that faces the snow-covered mountains. There's a tiny Christmas tree on the dresser, complete with miniature ornaments, and I have to look away before the loneliness can settle too deep in my chest.
I drop my bag on the floor with a soft thud and immediately start unpacking my laptop, my presentation notes, and my stack of client files.
Work doesn't judge me for eating my feelings or avoiding family gatherings or booking last-minute hotel rooms because I can't bear the thought of spending Christmas morning alone in my apartment, pretending everything is fine.
The papers spread across the quilt—quarterly reports and market analyses and strategic recommendations that prove I'm useful, valuable, successful in at least one area of my life. I pull up the presentation I'm supposed to deliver next week and start typing, letting the familiar rhythm of productivity drown out the voice in my head that whispers about all the ways I don't measure up.
But my fingers are cold, and the radiator under the window hums without producing much actual heat, and suddenly I'm craving the kind of comfort that only comes from something warm and sweet and made with your own hands.
I dig through my bag until I find the travel burner I always pack, a habit left over from too many hotel rooms with broken coffee makers and too many late nights when room service wasn't an option. There's a small saucepan in my arsenal too, and individual packets of cocoa powder, and a thermos of whole milk I picked up at the last gas station.
This is self-care, I tell myself as I set up my makeshift kitchen on the small table by the window. This is choosing comfort over chaos, warmth over wallowing. This is exactly the kind of small, perfect moment that makes traveling alone worth it.
The burner flickers to life with a soft whoosh, and I pour milk into the pan, watching it shimmer in the blue flame. The smell is clean and sweet, promising something better than the mess I left behind. I grab my phone to document the moment—because if you don't photograph your self-care rituals, did they really happen?—and start scrolling through filters while the milk warms.
I'm so focused on finding the perfect filter that I don't notice the smell changing from sweet to sharp until smoke starts curling from the saucepan in gray ribbons.
"Shit, shit, shit—"
I lunge for the burner, nearly knocking over my laptop in the process, but it's too late. The milk has scorched black on the bottom of the pan, and smoke is billowing toward the ceiling in accusatory puffs, and somewhere above my head, a fire alarm starts shrieking like a banshee.
Not just the smoke detector in my room. The entire building erupts in coordinated chaos, alarms blaring from every direction, emergency lights flashing red through my window,and the unmistakable sound of sprinkler systems activating in the hallway outside my door.
"No, no, no, please—" I wave my hands frantically at the smoke detector, as if I can somehow convince it that this is just a minor culinary mishap and not an actual emergency.
But it's too late for negotiation. Through my door, I can hear guests in the hallway, voices raised in confusion and alarm, the sound of doors slamming and feet running on hardwood floors.
I've triggered a full evacuation of the inn because I burned milk while choosing an Instagram filter.
This is my life now.
The hallway sprinklers are going full force when I crack open my door, water cascading from the ceiling in sheets. My sweater soaks through immediately, clinging to my curves in ways that make me want to disappear entirely, and I'm standing there dripping and mortified when I hear the sound of heavy boots on the stairs.
Authoritative footsteps. Purposeful. Coming my way.
I consider hiding in the bathroom until whoever it is goes away, but that seems like exactly the kind of behavior that gets you labeled as the crazy woman who floods historic inns. So I stay put, water dripping from my hair and my dignity somewhere around my ankles, and wait for the inevitable judgment.
The footsteps stop outside my door.
