I gaze out the window and appreciate the snow falling gracefully from the sky. Perfect for an outdoor photo shoot. Mistletoe Mountain is as magical as a snow globe during the daytime. After hours on the phone yesterday, I was too exhausted to notice.
It’s leggings and an oversized sweater type of day. I take my time getting dressed, pull my hair in a messy bun and dig through my suitcase for a pair of fuzzy socks. Where are they? A minute later, still nothing. I must have accidentally tossed them into the donation pile, which is long gone now. I shrug and settle for crew socks, then leave to properly explore the cabin.
A spiral staircase winds up to an empty loft area, the banister smooth and honey-colored under my hand. I ascend slowly, taking it all in. Vaulted ceilings with exposed log beams. Morning light flows through floor to ceiling windows that frameMistletoe Mountain as the holiday card it is. The pictures are nothing compared to standing here. Rory will love it too. She may even appreciate the spiral staircase. She once told me she finds them useless and impractical. That’s the architect mindset coming through. But this one’s spacious enough to fit furniture, unlike the others she’s commented on. Knowing Rory, she’d want her desk here.
My jaw drops in awe at the stone fireplace dominating one wall of the living room. Red stockings and tiny lights hang from the mantel. In the corner, the Christmas tree that seemed bare yesterday now stands tall and full. White lights twinkle between frosted ornaments. A silver star crowns the top. Garland drapes the windows. A wreath hangs on the front door, tied with a red velvet bow.
Someone really put in the effort. My smile widens at the thought of Kez quietly decorating while I was asleep, her care written across every detail. I remember the cabin was a luxury rental space before I bought it. The space is only partially furnished. I can only imagine how it feels like home during the holiday.
There’s a fully stocked wine cellar next to a quaint library with a reading nook. A clawfoot bathtub. Gourmet kitchen. The only thing missing is a sunroom with a hot tub and sauna. I may not need as many renovations as I originally planned. Bed & Boudoir is nearly complete as it is, and my clients deserve a space this beautiful sooner rather than later. So do I. It’s a vast difference from the business I’ve been building across hotel rooms and rented studios.
My mouth waters at the smell of bacon. It’s another reminder that I haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. It’s also a reminder about the clause.
“Good morning.” Kez is plating food when I enter the kitchen. “Perfect timing. Have a seat.”
She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a container of orange juice. No pulp, just like I remember.
“I made chocolate chip pancakes, eggs and bacon. I hope that’s okay,” she says with a tentative smile.
“It’s more than okay,” I say, stepping closer. My lips curl upward at theSanta’s Big Helperapron snug around her chest. How could I forget Kez’s favorite time of the year?
She nods toward a serving plate stacked with pancakes. “Family recipe. We always had them Christmas morning when I was a kid at the house, but I thought I’d make them a little earlier this year.” The bacon sizzles as she pulls the sheet pan out of the oven, careful to not spill the grease. “Here. At the cabin, I mean.”
“Smells yummy.” The urge to kiss the chef like we’re a happy couple washes over me. Instead, I sit at the island, taking the same stool as yesterday. “What’s the special occasion?”
“Do I need one to cook you breakfast?” She winks and wipes her hands on the towel dangling from the oven. “I figured we both are overdue for a good meal.”
On cue, my stomach growls. “Certainly can’t argue with that.” I can sense there’s something else she’s not saying.
Ember sits impatiently in the other room, eyes glued to every move Kez makes. Kez opens the brand-new box of dog treats sitting on the counter and tosses one to the puppy. Ember gobbles up the biscuit, like she hasn’t eaten already. I glance at her empty bowl two feet from the mat and smile. I know she has.
“Food’s ready.” Kez beams in a way I haven’t seen before. “Let me just get you a plate from my—” She opens a cabinet. Closes it. Opens another. “Sorry. I rearranged a few things yesterday. Makes more sense to keep the plates near the stove. That’s how my mom always had it when we’d come here.”
I watch her move through the kitchen like she’s lived here for years. Because she has. Every Christmas since we were kids. My jaw tenses. This space is muscle memory to her.
“Coffee?” She pours without waiting for an answer. “I brought my own beans from a new local business on South Street. That grocery store stuff is basically hot water.”
“Thanks.” My gaze points to my plate of food.
Bright as the lights draped on the mantel, she glides a mug across the island impressively, not spilling a drop. “Sugar’s in my little snowman over—” A tiny ceramic jar slides in front of me—“here.”
“Actually, I think I remember this.” A small laugh escapes my lips at the lopsided glob, but the moment doesn’t last. “It’s adorably hideous.”
“I made it in third grade art class. I’m pretty sure it scares the hell out of my mom, but I can’t seem to throw it away.”
I see she’s feeling extra nostalgic this morning. I compress my lips and cut a triangle out of my stack of pancakes. “How’d you sleep?”
“My dad said it looked like a Christmas nightmare,” she continues, smiling at the memory. “But he used it every year, anyway.”
My chest tightens. I take another bite.
Kez keeps talking. “Oh, if you need more bath towels, they’re in my linen closet. Third shelf. And the thermostat can be tricky. Sometimes you have to hold it for a few seconds before it clicks on. My dad figured that out after like ten years, so don’t feel bad if you don’t get it on the first try. And don’t get me started on the air vents.”
I stab a piece of scrambled egg. I know better than to argue with the chef cooking your food, but she’s grating my nerves.
“And if you need?—”
“Kezia,” I finally snap.
