Eliza Snow had survived a toxic ex, the most exhausting year of her life, and a winding mountain back road in the middle of a blizzard. At this point, she could endure anything.
Except for the inconvenient fact that a very real, very human man stood inside her fully paid for, fully solo Airbnb booking at Gingerbread Hollow.
The last thing she wanted was to be around people. But there it was: a cherry-red Land Rover half-buried in snow, parked outside her supposed little quiet getaway. Through the cabin’s frosty window, she could make out the silhouette of a tall man standing inside the warm interior like the opening scene straight out of a Hallmark movie.
One she definitely hadn’t auditioned for.
She stood there shivering in her pink, flour-speckled coat. One hand fumbled for the peppermint door handle of the cottage while the other wrestled her luggage over each of the gumdrop stepping stones as she tried to keep a sack of sugar tucked under her arm. The frigid winter air blew, sending her blonde hair plastering to her lip balm. She huffed, attempting an awkward shoulder-shimmy to shake the strands aside, but it was a lost cause. Her hands were too full, as it was—both literally and metaphorically.
The door opened, and she jumped backwards, nearly causing her to slip off the “Home Sweet Gingerbread Home” doormat. From inside, the smell of warm cinnamon and butter rolled out to greet her, carrying comforting memories of all her countless previous stays. It mingled with a newer, sharper note of evergreen that she couldn’t quite place.
The sweet moment of nostalgia was cut short when she looked up and into a pair of honey-rich chocolate eyes. Eliza blinked, taken aback. First, by the fact that there was actually a stranger standing in her rental. Second, because the stranger was ridiculously attractive.
Everything about him was warm, starting with his eyes, which were hard not to stare into for their unique shade of hazel. Not hazel-green, but hazel-brown. His hair, a dark brunette, was textured in the most perfect kind of way, and his skin looked like he could’ve no sooner hopped off a plane from a month-longholiday in the Bahamas rather than the usual paleness that every other Brit sported this time of year.
She instantly regretted not dabbing on a bit of blush instead of climbing out of bed and heading straight here. Standing before him, she felt pale and washed out. Sallow, even. At the very least, she could’ve combed her hair, or maybe swept on a coat of mascara to make her blue eyes pop. Not that she cared what he thought of her eyes.
Davis had always preferred Eliza with perfectly lacquered nails and makeup. When she went without, he never said much positive—only remained silent that felt like judgment. He absolutelyloathedher hair in a bun, especially when her highlights weren’t fresh. That’s when the comments came. How she was “letting herself go,” or how he would oh-so-generously lend her some extra pounds for the salon, as if she couldn’t handle it on her own.
Before him, she was never insecure about her appearance. Now, that’s all she really ever was.
“Hi,” she started, defaulting to the typical British politeness. “Excuse me, but what are you doing here?”
The man raised a brow, sipping hot chocolate from a “Let it Snow” mug. His sable hair looked like it’d been blown away from his angular face by the wind. He even had bits of ice still clinging to the tips of his hair, and his cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass.
His eyes flicked to her suitcase and then her sack of sugar. He frowned, obviously as irritated to have company as she was. “I should be asking you that question, since this is my Airbnb,” he answered flatly.
Eliza slowly blinked, her cheeks suddenly warm despite the bitter cold. “YourAirbnb?”
He took another sip of his cocoa, the chocolaty substance magically refilling itself with a gurgle. He extended his freehand. “The name’s Lachlan Hollis. Booked this place throughSeasonalRetreats. Confirmed. Paid. Non-refundable.”
She gripped her suitcase, looking at his hand as if it were a slippery, raw chicken wing. Even if her hands weren’t full, she wouldn’t have shaken it. She’d had her fair share of the smug, contentious type.
Eliza was usually non-confrontational, but she narrowed her eyes into slits. If he only knew the year she’d had, he wouldn’t be bold enough to test her. “That’s not possible,” she corrected. “I booked this place throughMagicalStays. Also confirmed. Also non-refundable.”
He just stood there in the warm air of the cottage and the growing awkwardness, even though he didn’t look fazed in the slightest. The fire crackled in the hearth as if it were laughing at them, like they were two children fighting over the last biscuit. “There must be some mistake.”
Propping her suitcase up on its wheels, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Is this not 2424 Drury Lane?”
“It is. I—” He finally seemed to notice her violently shivering. “You’re cold. Come inside. We’ll figure it out.”
Seeing there was no other option, and the snow was up to the tires of her hire car she stepped inside, stamping off her boots by the threshold. The walls, floor, and ceiling were crusted with cinnamon, bits of the sugar glistening in the light. The windows were iced with delicate frosting, and the rafters of the vaulted ceiling above looked like a perfectly piped cake.
She stalked over to the hearth in the living room, outstretching her hands to warm them. The fireplace was on full blast, and the faint scorch marks on the rock candy mantle were just as she remembered them.
Everything about the cottage looked exactly as she remembered it, if not even more …alive.
She frowned when she saw the one exception to the rule, which was all of this Lachlan character’s things. His duffel bags were piled high on the wingback chair, adjacent to the hearth. A thick wool blanket had already been pulled from the rack, and was draped over the sofa while a small retro TV played a Christmas movie in the background. He must’ve just been getting settled in for the night when she arrived.
She turned her back to the fire, allowing the warmth to seep into her backside as she assessed the rest of the cottage. In the kitchen sat a round table with bistro chairs, the window above the kitchen sink overlooked the small candy garden, and copper frypans hung from the ceiling over the island. Her eyes snagged on the baker’s rack—cupboard fully stocked and filled to the brim with flour, vanilla, honey, and expensive ingredients Eliza hadn’t seen since culinary school.
In this particular cottage, it seemed, every item magically restocked the moment it was used. The well of stock had no end. Her hands itched, eager to put that theory to the test as she did every season she came here.
For a moment, Lachlan and Eliza just stared at each other, unsure of what to say. The grandfather clock against the far wallgongedits amusement at the awkward exchange. Five o’clock.
She would’ve been elbows deep in dough by now if not for all this.
It was the week of Christmas. Couldn’t anything go her way for once?
