She walks past me toward the door. “It’s just a bunch of Santas.”
I chuckle. Her attitude reminds me of Climax Cove. It’s pretty much the opposite of running a business in Manhattan, where everything and everyone is filmed or watched by security from fifty angles.
“Really, I can just get a ride-share or a cab or something.”
She swings the door open, and a burst of cold air assaults me. “There are no cabs or ride-shares in Mistletoe Falls.” Ester laughs as if the idea that there would be is the funniest thing she’s heard all day.
“But I just got dropped off by one.” I follow her and close the door to the reception area.
She glances over her shoulder as she walks through the parking lot. “That’s just because you were coming out of the city. You won’t find one to use in town.” Ester stops beside an older, cherry-red Ford truck with the name of the motel on the side. “Hop in.” She gestures to the other side.
I do as she says, throwing my luggage in the bed of the truck.
The thought hits me when we’re pulling out of the parking lot that I’m about to come face-to-face with Ashley again, and I have to ask her to put me up at her place. I doubt she’ll see me as a Christmas gift. At least I’ll have Doug to play my bodyguard and hopefully Steph to convince her sister to give me a room.
Chapter Three
ASHLEY
Iexit The North Star Market and smile at the abundance of Christmas decorations up and down the town’s streets as I always do. Dusk is approaching, so the lights glow and glisten in the crisp night air. If it were snowing, I’d feel as if I’m in the middle of a snow globe, just as I did the first snowfall after I moved to Mistletoe Falls.
I love all holidays, but Christmas especially. It’s my favorite time of the year, which was a plus when I decided to move here. Our town might be small, but there’s a reason we’re such a big attraction in Vermont at Christmas time. We know how to do it right.
The sidewalk is bustling, since it’s the middle of Santa Fest. No complaints from me, since I’m sold out from not only the Santas arriving in town, but the tourists who flock here to cheer them on.
I bump into an attractive man who’s maybe a couple of years younger than me. We both mumble apologies and try to step around each other, but we turn in the same direction and our shoulders bump into one another again.
“Sorry.” My cheeks heat in embarrassment.
He looks at me and smiles, then he stills, his head tilting and his finger pointing as if he knows me. I know what he’s going to ask before the words leave his mouth. “Aren’t you that girl from theShelter Bayshow?”
I smile at the man, though I’m sure it’s more of a cringe.
Being an identical twin, this certainly isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for my sister. But now that my sister is a rising star on the television showShelter Bay, this exchange happens more and more often. She plays the role of Iris, the small-town shop owner and plucky best friend to one of the main characters, but she’s told me in confidence that next season, she’ll be a main character herself. They’re setting up her character to be the love interest of her best friend’s older brother. Meaning these little conversations will start happening all the time.
I don’t mind them necessarily, and I’m so happy for my sister’s success. But when you’re a twin, especially an identical twin, it isn’t easy to carve out a place for yourself and have the world see you as two separate people with different personalities. It seems the universe wants to press on that wound a little more now.
“No, that’s not me.” I grip the grocery bag tighter.
“It’s you, I know it’s you. My girlfriend watches that show every week.”
I give him a wan smile. “It’s my twin sister, not me.”
He frowns. “You don’t have to lie to me. I wasn’t going to ask for a picture or anything.” He pushes past me, his shoulder purposefully knocking into me this time. “It’s not even that good of a show,” he mumbles.
I inhale a big breath and continue to my truck, reminding myself that while I love the holidays, many people find them a stressful, difficult time. Perhaps that jerk is one of them. I hope my sister doesn’t get attacked by cyber bullies from any of these exchanges.
I start my truck and turn up the volume on the radio as I pull out of my spot and head home. I only play the holiday station during this time of year, and one of my favorite songs, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” is playing. I push that guy from my head and sing along in my off-tune voice until I pull past the sign at the end of the driveway that reads, “Silver Bells B&B.”
My pride and joy. I bought the business almost three years ago as a thirtieth birthday gift to myself. I went to school for hospitality and, after a decade of working for other people, I decided to work for myself. I’d always imagined running my own bed-and-breakfast, and when I stumbled upon the listing for this place because the owner was retiring, it felt like kismet.
It took me a while to rehab it and decorate it the way I wanted. Now it’s complete, and I’m living my dream job. So I can’t explain why I feel something is lacking. Maybe because all of those side jobs, that to-do list, is all crossed off, and I’m overthinking my life.
If only I couldn’t hear my sister’s voice telling me that a man is what’s missing in my life.
The thought of my sister makes me frown. She was supposed to arrive a couple of hours ago but never showed up. I tried calling her and her fiancé, Doug, but neither of them picked up. I never asked for her flight information, something I’m kicking myself for now. I’m sure her flight was delayed, but it’s not like her to not let me know—at least with a text.
I grab my bag from the back seat of the truck and head to the house, kicking the snow off my boots before stepping inside. I don’t bother removing my coat or hat on my way to the back of the house, where the kitchen is.
