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She points me toward the glass doors, where snow falls beyond the garlands and the Christmas market glows through the morning.
“Fine. But I’m doing this for the cinnamon rolls.”
The Christmas market looks even more beautiful from ground level and cold air brushes across my face as the glass doors close behind me.
The wooden huts I saw from my suite this morning curve around the outdoor rink beneath striped awnings, with smoke curling from their cute tiny chimneys while vendors arrange ornaments, knitted scarves and jars of preserves across their counters.
Somewhere nearby, bells jingle as a horse-drawn sleigh passes between the snow-covered chalets and children carry gingerbread the size of their heads.
More importantly, the smell is incredible. It smells like freshly brewed coffee, cinnamon and hot buttery pastries.
I follow it immediately, eventually stopping at a stall painted pale blue. It sits near the skating rink, its counter loaded with cinnamon rolls, gingerbread muffins and croissants dusted with powdered sugar.
Behind it, a woman with bright green eyes and chestnut hair piled into a messy bun is pouring coffee from a silver pot.
She looks up as I approach. “You must be Audrey Fields.”
I stop. “That depends on who's asking. Am I in trouble?”
“Not yet.” She slides a festive cup toward me. “Coffee?”
I stare at it. “I don’t have any money.”
“You’re resort staff. The market vendors have been told to keep the Wildcards alive.”
“I haven’t technically accepted the job.”
The woman pushes the coffee another inch toward me. “That sounds like something you can discuss after caffeine.”
I wrap both hands around the cup. “I already like you.”
“Zoey Morrison. I own the Butter Batch bakery in Chilmore. I'm supplying half the pastries around here, and I’m related to enough hockey players to recognise the expression of a woman who has unexpectedly become responsible for them.”
She adds an enormous cinnamon roll to a paper plate and winks across the counter at me.
"Wow. Thanks." I take it before she changes her mind. “I heard the room service here operates twenty-four hours.”
“Oh, that’s only the beginning. The restaurant never closes, the Ski Bar serves drinks until two, and the spa has thermal pools overlooking the mountain.” Zoey points toward a glass building tucked between the chalets where guests are entering through the doors, dressed in white robes. “There’s also a heated tunnel connecting the lodge to the rink, private fire pits outside every premium chalet and a dessert trolley that visits the suites after dinner.”
I lower the cinnamon roll. “A dessert trolley comes to your room?!”
She beams. “Every night.”
“I may never leave.”
I take a bite, and warm dough, cinnamon and cream-cheese icing temporarily remove every concern from my life.
“Oh my God.”
Zoey smiles. “That reaction is why I get up at four.”
I turn slowly, taking in the rink, steaming pools and market huts. Yesterday, my future consisted of married life, corporate events and disappointing sex.
Today, there are thermal pools and travelling dessert carts.
This feels like suspiciously rapid improvement.
As I keep chatting with Zoey and eating my cinnamon roll, I spot two men near a stall advertising MULLED CIDER—TRADITIONAL OR SPIKED.
