The heater gave up somewhere near a village called Kinmuir. I rubbed my hands together, cursing under my breath. Every bend in the road brought a new reminder that I was hundreds of miles from central heating, dry pavements, and a Pret coffee.
As daylight faded, the mountains rose around me—dark, quiet, immense. The kind of landscape that made you feel very small and very far from anyone who cared whether your Wi-Fi worked. When the sat-nav finally announced,Arriving at your destination in five miles,I could’ve wept.
The first sign for Pine Hollow appeared at the edge of a snow-dusted forest, the paint half-faded but welcoming:
Welcome to Pine Hollow– Where Winter Feels Like Home
I nearly laughed aloud. “Of course it does.”
The village appeared suddenly, nestled in a shallow valley between hills. Smoke curled from chimneys, lamplight glowed through frosted windows, and garlands of evergreen draped the narrow main street. It looked like a Christmas card someone had forgotten to photoshop reality into.
Despite myself, I slowed the car, taking it in. Cottages built from pale stone, wreaths hanging from every door, strings of fairy lights swaying between the rooftops. In the square, a tall Christmas tree stood half-decorated, its baubles flashing dull red beneath the falling snow.
It was absurdly charming. And, for some reason, that annoyed me even more.
I parked outside what looked like the church and killed the engine. The silence was immediate. Only the crunch of snow under my shoes broke it as I stepped out. The cold seemedsharper here, even cleaner. It stole my breath for a moment before I could speak again.
“Two days,” I told myself aloud. “Sign everything. Sell what needs selling. Back to London by Sunday.”
The wind didn’t seem convinced. I pulled out the file from my briefcase, flipping through the list of estate holdings. Several cottages, a millhouse, and of course, the bakery.The Honeycomb Hearth.
The name alone gave me a toothache.
I checked the address and glanced up the street. A soft, amber light glowed through the window of a small shop at the corner, condensation fogging the glass. Even from here, I could make out shelves lined with jars and the faint, drifting shape of someone moving inside.
Warmth and light spilled out as the door opened briefly for a customer, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of cinnamon and sugar. It was… comforting, which was ridiculous. I didn’tdocomforting.
Still, for reasons I couldn’t explain, my feet started moving before my brain caught up.
The snow thickened again, swirling around the lampposts, settling on my shoulders. My expensive leather shoes were soaked through by the time I reached the door. A small brass bell hung above it, and beside the handle, someone had tied a ribbon in deep red velvet.
I stared at it for a moment, then took a breath, trying to reclaim whatever trace of professionalism I had left. My coat was creased, my hair damp, my mood irretrievable. But business was business.
I reached for the handle and stepped inside.
Warmth hit me first–then the smell. Sugar, spice, vanilla, and something deeper I couldn’t name. It wrapped around me, erasing for a moment the memory of turbulence and icy roads.
Behind the counter stood a woman with black hair loosely tied back, flour dusting the sleeves of her jumper. Her head was bent over a tray of pastries, her movements sure and graceful. When she looked up, surprise flickered in her eyes, followed by something unreadable.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then she straightened, brushing her hands on her apron. “Morning. You’re a bit early for the mince pies.”
Her voice was soft but carried a quiet strength that caught me off guard.
I cleared my throat. “I’m not here for pastries.” I hesitated, realising how ridiculous that sounded. “Oliver Grant. I believe I’m here regarding this property.”
The woman behind the counter wasn’t the one I’d expected. She was younger than I’d imagined, bright-eyed, with a scatter of freckles across her nose and a name badge shaped like a gingerbread man that readIvy.Something in her expression shifted when I introduced myself as the light behind her caught in her hair, and I saw her shoulders stiffen slightly.
“Of course you are.” She grinned, her accent lilting, words quick and musical. “Boss lady’s in the back. Give me a sec.”
Before I could respond, she vanished through a swinging door, leaving me alone with the hum of the ovens and the faint buzz of a radio playing something cheerful and old-fashioned.
The bell above the door jingled again as another gust swept in behind me. I turned instinctively, watching the snow whip down the street in small, glittering spirals. For one strange moment, Claire’s last message echoed in my mind.Two days. You’ve got this.
I wasn’t so sure anymore.
The shop was cosy in a way I hadn’t realised I’d missed, all soft edges and mismatched jars, handwritten labels, the scent of butter and vanilla. A tiny chalkboard above the counter readToday’s Treats, and beneath it, someone had doodled a crooked snowman.
