ONE
NATALIE
The GPS voice cheerfully informs me I have “arrived at my destination” at the exact moment the road disappears.
I slow to a crawl, squinting through the windshield. There’s supposed to be a driveway here. Somewhere.
And a cabin. Supposedly.
Evidence of human life. Allegedly.
Instead, there’s a wall of snow and a line of trees to a place called Nowhere, Population: Only you.
“Perfect,” I mutter under my breath, ignoring the shiver running down my spine. “Really love this for me.”
The rental SUV hums beneath me, tires gripping the rutted mountain road with all the confidence I wish I felt. My wipers squeak back and forth, shoving slush aside.
It’s pretty. In a breathtaking, glittering, I-hope-I-don’t-fall-off-this-mountain kind of way.
I tap the screen of my phone again. The little blue dot says I’m on Calder’s property. The map shows a barely-there offshoot of road curving toward a tiny cabin icon. In reality I see trees.
And snow. So much damn snow.
I pull as far to the side as I can without sliding into a drift and shift into park. The engine ticks softly. The only other sound is the wind whistling through branches and the faint hiss of falling flakes. For a second, it’s so quiet it feels like the whole mountain is holding its breath.
“Okay,” I tell the silence. “Plan A is a bust. Time for Plan B.”
I’ve built my career on Plan Bs. C, D, and occasionally J. Weddings where the groom’s shipped suit went to his ex’s apartment? Handled. Corporate Christmas parties where the CEO had three too many hot toddies and tried to sing “Baby Got Back” with the interns? Neutralized. Engagement dinners where the caterer’s truck broke down in a snowstorm two towns over? Reinvented with grocery store rotisserie chickens and a gas station bouquet.
I can do this.
I fish my gloves from the passenger seat, shove my hands in, and grab the printed contract I brought along like a security blanket. It’s already wrinkled at the edges from all the times I’ve checked it in the last twenty-four hours.
Calder West. Wilder Mountain, Colorado.
Private holiday family retreat.
Scope of work: Decorate cabin interior and exterior, plan and execute three days of festive meals and activities, coordinate arrival details for extended family, create “memorable Christmas experience.”
The phrase “memorable Christmas experience” is underlined three times in his mother’s loopy handwriting. She added a postscript in the margin during our video call: He’s going to act like he doesn’t need this. Ignore him.
I tuck the papers back into my tote and step out into the cold.
Winter slams into me like a wall. The air is sharp enough to bite. My breath blooms white in front of my face. Snow immediately tries to climb into my boots as I tromp toward theedge of the road, scanning for any sign of an actual driveway under the drifts.
There. A faint dip in the snow, like someone drove through a few days ago and the mountain’s been slowly trying to erase the evidence.
I follow the hint of tire tracks, my boots crunching softly. Trees crowd closer, tall pines dusted in fresh white. The path curves, then opens, and I get my first full view of Calder’s place.
It’s…not terrible.
The cabin is small but solid, squared logs and a steep roofline built to shed snow. There’s a metal chimney pipe with a thin streamer of smoke. A stack of split logs leans against one wall, covered in a blue tarp that’s definitely seen better days. The porch, if you can call it that, is a rough plank platform with a single step made of an actual tree stump.
No wreath. No lights. No garland. No evidence that Christmas is nine days away.
My event planner’s heart flutters, half horror, half excitement. This is going to be a transformation. Before and after shots for my website. Maybe even a new featured testimonial.
Assuming the homeowner doesn’t throw me back down the mountain.
