Mal walks ahead of me, boots crunching over fresh snow, while I trail behind with my duffel slung over one shoulder. The air is crisp, the sky turning lavender as the sun starts its slow winter descent behind the hills. Off to the side of the B&B, past a split-rail fence and a small stable with a puffing chimney, we veer down a shoveled footpath toward a cabin at the edge of the property.
When it comes into view, I blink.
“Okay,” I mutter. “You weren’t kidding.”
The Gingerbread Palace is exactly that. A one-room cabin dressed up like a gingerbread house, complete with white scalloped trim along the eaves, faux gumdrops dotting the window shutters, and candy-cane-striped columns flanking the front porch. Soft yellow lights trace the roofline, and the chimney lets out a curl of smoke that smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.
But somehow, it works.
It isn’t tacky. It’s weirdly charming, the kind of place that makes your chest squeeze with a ridiculous amount of warmth. It looks like every cheesy holiday movie screenwriter and every kids' fairy tale came together and went into interior design.
“This is usually our honeymoon rental,” Mal says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s private, cozy, and borderline absurd, but guests go nuts for it. It’s kitschy, but honestly? It kind of grows on you.”
I grin, unable to help it. “I think I love it already.”
Mal chuckles and nudges the door open. “Come on in.”
The inside is even better. Warm wood floors, a vaulted ceiling with exposed beams, and a stone fireplace crackling in the corner. A queen-sized bed with a carved wooden headboard sits beneath a window framed in thick red curtains on the far wall. There’s a small kitchenette, a pair of armchairs pulled close to the hearth, and, God help me, a ceramic cookie jar shapedlike an almost exact replica gingerbread house perched on the counter. The glimpse of the bathroom through the open door suggests it’s modern and spotless. It’s cozy. Lived-in. Safe.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Mal says, watching me take it all in. “Just keep the pipes from freezing, don’t electrocute yourself, and fix whatever decides to fall apart first.”
I nod, the lump in my throat too big for words.
Mal clasps a hand on my shoulder. “All right, then. I’ll let you settle in. Dinner’s usually around six if you’re hungry. Hawk makes a killer stew.” And with that, he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him and leaving me alone.
The fire snaps softly, and the wind hums against the eaves. I drop my duffel by the bed and sink into one of the armchairs, letting the warmth seep into my bones as I let out a long breath. I’m really here. For the first time in a long while, there’s nowhere I have to be tomorrow. No inbox demanding answers. No apartment lease ticking toward its end. No schedule. Just this cabin, a town full of ghosts and candy-cane lampposts, and a heart full of questions I’ve carried for decades. My gaze drifts to the window, where snow has started falling again, soft and unhurried.
Mason.
Even thinking his name makes my chest tighten. Does he still live here? Did he stay? Did he leave for New York like he used to dream, or take the stage somewhere beneath a thousand spotlights? Would I even recognize him? Or worse, would he recognize me? I barely recognize myself some days. But then again, there are parts of me that never really changed. The part that remembers the way he hummed when he was nervous. The part that remembers the freckles scattered across his shoulders. The part that never stopped wondering what might have happened if I’d stayed.
He might be gone. He might be married. He might never want to see me again. But still, I came back. Because in my heart, I couldn't resist. Because some part of me is still that eighteen-year-old kid on the bleachers after school, watching Mason twirl a pencil between his fingers and wondering if someday could ever come. Now, maybe it has. Maybe I’ll find nothing here but good memories and a better place to start over. Or maybe I’ll find him.
And even if I don’t, maybe this is enough. Maybe coming home is the bravest thing I’ve done yet. Only time will tell.
Chapter Three
May
Mondays are for quiet things.
Sleigh Queen is closed on Mondays, my wigs safely tucked away on her foam head in my massive dressing room, and I’m out of sequins and into soft denim and a forest-green knit sweater that hits that elusive sweet spot between cozy and I still have my life together.
I settle into my usual corner booth at The Brew House, right by the front window, where I can watch the snowfall and the locals bustle along. With a latte in one hand, a worn paperback in the other, I’ve got three hours of people-watching ahead of me and zero obligations, which is rarer than a tourist who actually uses the town’s official map.
Outside, Sleighbell Springs still looks like the cover of a December calendar. Wreaths in every window, twinkle lights on every awning, a snowman on the sidewalk who may or may not be wearing a vintage scarf from the consignment shop. Inside, it smells like cinnamon and espresso and someone’s almond croissant that I may or may not be jealous of. The town never fully de-Christmas-ifies itself. Even in July, you’ll spot garlands and candy canes. That’s what happens when you embrace the Christmas Village aesthetic and let it become your entire tourism pitch. As a lifelong resident of Sleighbell Springs, I love it.
I settle back into my booth with a contented sigh, nudging aside the small vase of holly and pine someone thoughtfully placed on every table this week. The snow outside swirls like a living postcard, and the latte in my hand is a miracle of cinnamon, foam, and just enough espresso to keep me from turning into a winter goblin. Mondays are the one day I have off from the Sleigh Queen, and I guard them like a dragon hoards gold. No makeup, no heels, no mic checks. Just me, a book, and the slow rhythm of my little town humming around me.
I crack open my paperback and take exactly three sips before realizing I’ve forgotten the little gingerbread syrup treat I promised myself this morning when I rolled out of bed. Most of the week, I’m good about my diet and sugar intake, but Mondays are lawless, and I want my flavored syrup, dammit. With a sigh and a mournful look at my half-read sentence, I slide out of the booth, flipping my open book upside down on the table to save my spot. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper to no one at all, just in case the vibes of the booth think I’m abandoning them.
The Brew House is busy but not swamped. Midmorning on a Monday means mostly locals, freelancers, and that one retiree with the crossword book who always wears a scarf no matter what the season. I make my way toward the counter, eyes already on the pastry display, and collide hard with something, or rather,someonevery solid. My coffee sloshes violently, the lid popping off as a warm stream arcs straight across a flannel-clad chest.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I blurt, instinctively reaching out with napkins I do not have.
The man takes a startled step back, glancing down at the darkening stain on his shirt, then looks up.
Everything slows. My stomach drops the way it does when you miss a stair. My mouth goes dry, my heart trips over itself, and I blink once, twice, just to make sure I’m notimagining the face staring back at me. Because there is no way the universe just handed me this moment on a snow-dusted platter. But it did.
