“No. Just curious.”
“I’ve heard she’s quite a looker these days.”
Even if he’d wanted to exercise some semblance of decorum, Holden couldn’t keep from snorting. “Doubtful.”
“Oh, I don’t know. We aren’t still the scrawny kids we were in high school. Ten years can do a lot to a person. Look at you, buddy. You’ve turned into quite the strapping, handsome man.”
Apparently, Lance was full of jokes today.
“What’s got you suddenly thinking about her?” Lance pressed. “Is it the tree selection for the town square?”
“Why would it be that?” His family had that in the bag, with their fifteen-year-old noble fir standing several proud inches above the required height for consideration.
“I hear the Joy family has a tree they’re planning to enter into the running too.”
“You’re kidding.” The blood drained from Holden’s face to the tips of his sock-covered toes.
“I’m not,” Lance affirmed. “And I’m also not kidding when I say Rachel’s not the same girl she was back in high school. I’m serious. Look her up. You might be surprised.”
Holden would do nothing of the sort.
No, all thoughts of Rachel remained in the past, along with any competitive desire to put her in her place. He was above that sort of pettiness, and with both the busiest month of the year at the rental shop and Christmas just around the corner, he didn’t have time to waste his thoughts—nor his energy—on a silly childhood rivalry.
Some hatchets were meant to be buried, and the one with Rachel was about to be packed under an entire avalanche of indifference.
CHAPTER3
Sleeping on the old pull-out couch in the den of her childhood home was like trying to find comfort while resting on a heap of Slinkys. The coils pressed into her shoulder blades and pinched her skin each time she rotated to find a new sleep position. By sunrise, Rachel had given up the quest for any sort of slumber, thrown on a pair of jeans, a teal cowl-neck sweater, and lugged on the snow boots her parents had thankfully kept stored in the closet since high school.
When was the last time she’d been back in Snowdrift Summit? Three Christmases ago? Four? It had to be more, as the memories were faint and the details fuzzy, like she viewed them through the obscured cloudiness of a shaken snow globe.
Rachel’s life was in San Francisco now. Her parents still lived in Snowdrift, but she didn’t call that place home anymore. She never quite understood the term ‘coming home’ referring to the town a person no longer lived in. If she kept thinking of her birthplace as home, then she’d never make one for herself elsewhere. And wasn’t that the goal? To branch off from her parents and plant roots of her own in a soil of her choosing?
Rachel chose the city. Maybe the city chose her, with its promises of success and possibilities for achievement as tall as the high rises that pierced the fog-laden sky. Plus, it wasn’t as though her business degree would be of much use in a small town like Snowdrift, with its antiquated Main Street shops and owners who valued tradition over innovation and expansion. Opportunity here was about as limited as vision during whiteout conditions. But in the city, there was a new chance to make a name for oneself at practically every turn.
That reality guided Rachel to the local coffee shop that morning. She needed proper caffeinating in order to sort through her notes from yesterday’s meeting, as she worried she might be forced to make a new name for herself at an entirely different company sooner than she liked.
Suffice it to say, the presentation wasn’t a success. All the buildup she’d amassed—all the energy and passion for her artificial mistletoe—was as elusive as the Man in Red himself. She couldn’t summon any sort of excitement for the product at all.
And she blamed Holden Hart for that.
Thankfully, the board agreed to revisit her Mistlefaux product line after the holidays, encouraging Rachel to take the time to strengthen her pitch over the course of the next few weeks and try again after the new year. It was a gracious offer. One she didn’t deserve, and she wouldn’t squander it. She looked at it as her Christmas bonus. If she ever wanted to climb her way out of product development and into management, this second attempt would have to be a success. She couldn’t afford to fail twice.
With the sun on her face and sleep in her eyes, she drove to Bitter Cold Coffee Bar, delighted to see an open parking spot right along the curb. She would take all the wins she could get today, and a parking space was an easily achievable one.
She opened the door to the shop. A little silver bell above her announced her entry with its songlike chiming. The entire staff behind the barista bar shouted a chorus of off-pitch greetings as soon as she stepped over the threshold. So much for being inconspicuous. Lifting a hand, Rachel waved in return, then directed her gaze about the room to scope an out-of-sight table to set up camp. In the back of the establishment, there was one remaining space and the outlet on the wall next to it would ensure her laptop stayed charged throughout the hours of work.
Bumping past the other patrons crammed into the coffeehouse, Rachel maneuvered to the vacant bistro table, slipped her computer bag from her shoulder, and claimed her spot with her jacket lowered over the back of the chair. She looked around. This would do. There was another customer set up next to her, with an open laptop and spiral-bound notebook turned to a page full of illegible chicken scratch. The owner of the items was nowhere to be seen; likely ordering another round of caffeine, she supposed.
That was the sort of table-neighbor Rachel wanted. Someone similarly buried in their work with no need for idle chit-chat or interaction.
She pulled her wallet from her bag and moved toward the register. A blackboard menu hung at the back wall, a beautiful chalking of the day’s specials and hot and cold drink options. Whoever crafted the display was truly gifted, and Rachel found herself lost in the intricate mountain illustrations and clever coffee names.
Ski Lift Latte. Mountain Home Mocha. Chain Control Cappuccino.The list went on and on with unique descriptions. She chuckled to herself quietly at the ingenuity of it all, something she could use a little of herself. Maybe if she stayed in the café long enough, some of that creativity would transfer through osmosis. One could only dream.
“What’ll it be today?” A young man in a striped beanie drummed his palms on the refurbished wood counter and flashed Rachel a welcoming smile. “Pick your poison.”
“I need a generous dose of caffeine in the largest size available.”
