I tried to find something decent to wear. Tried was the important word.
Half my suitcase consisted of work shirts and neatly pressed trousers — brilliant for boardrooms, useless for trudging through snow or attempting to ice skate. The other half held the panic-packing my assistant Claire had shoved in at the lastminute while lecturing me about “being a human on holiday for once.”
Thank God she’d insisted on the black turtleneck. I pulled it on, followed by my warmest coat. Everything else was questionable. But thank goodness for my black timberlands, they actually kept the wet socks at bay.
I glanced toward the half-empty suitcase on the bed and sighed. At this rate, I would be out of clean socks and boxers by Tuesday. Fantastic. If I truly was stranded here for a week, I’d need to find the village shop and hope it sold basics for people who’d grossly underestimated Scottish winter.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying not to think about how ridiculous it was that I cared at all about how I looked. It was just a walk around a festival. A tour. A harmless evening. Nothing more.
I checked the time. Too early to leave. But staying here any longer made the room feel too small, too quiet. I slipped on my boots, braced myself against the cold waiting outside, and stepped out into the night.
The air hit me like a wall. Sharp, bracing, fresh. Pine Hollow glowed beneath layers of snow and warm lights strung between rooftops. In the distance came the faint sounds of music and laughter from the Winter Wonderland. I told myself I was simply being punctual. Rational. Prepared. The truth, which I did not care to examine too deeply, was that I didn’t want her to be the one waiting.
I walked toward the bakery, breath misting in the air. Snow crunched underfoot, and tiny flakes caught in my coat. And then the side door opened. Brianna stepped out, pulling her scarf into place and the cold air left my lungs entirely.
Her long hair spilled from beneath a knitted cream hat with a pom-pom, catching stray snowflakes that made it shimmer in the light. She wore a cosy white turtleneck beneath a warmcamel-coloured coat that fit her perfectly, paired with thick tights and winter boots.
She looked warm. She looked soft. She looked like she belonged here, like she was a part of this place in ways I could only observe from the outside.
She spotted me and paused, her breath blooming in the cold.
“Hi,” she said, a little shyly. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“Oh, eh you didn’t.” My voice came out lower than intended. I straightened slightly. “You look—” I caught myself. Too forward. Too obvious. “You look ready for the cold.”
Smooth, Grant. Very smooth.
Her lips tugged into a small smile. “I’d hope so, considering I’ve lived here all my life.”
I managed a half-smile back, something settling in my chest in a way I didn’t care to inspect.
“Shall we go?” she asked, stepping toward me.
“Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t at all certain I was ready. “Lead the way, Miss Hart.”
She paused mid-step, glancing back at me with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You can call me Brianna, you know,” she said gently. “Or… just Bri. If you want.”
Something warm flickered in my chest. “Brianna,” I repeated, letting the name settle on my tongue. “All right.”
Her smile deepened, small, shy, real, before she turned and started toward the glowing path ahead. I followed after her, and for the first time since arriving in Pine Hollow, the cold didn’t feel quite so sharp at all.
The walk wasn’t far, five, maybe ten minutes at most, but the wind nipped at our cheeks, leaving them flushed and warm beneath the cold. Brianna tucked her scarf higher as we walked side by side along the narrow, snow-packed path that woundtoward the town green. Despite the cold, she looked… excited. And to my surprise, I was too.
“Pine Hollow looks bigger when you’re actually walking through it,” I said, glancing around at the softly lit cottages and the quiet shops with wreaths hanging on every door.
She smiled. “Most people guess we have maybe six or seven thousand residents. But we’re closer to fifteen.”
“Fifteen thousand?” I repeated, surprised.
“Fifteen thousand, eight hundred last census,” she corrected, sounding faintly proud. “Still small enough that everyone knows everyone, but big enough that we’re not cut off from the world.”
I nodded, hands in my coat pockets. “What does everyone do here?”
“A bit of everything. We have a fishing harbour about twenty minutes south–still active. And a renewable energy site near the cliffs. A lot of tourism, too, except when the weather turns like this. Then it’s mostly locals and the occasional stranded lawyer.”
I laughed quietly. “I suppose I fall into the latter category.”
“You do,” she teased. “But you’re handling it better than most.”