Page 45 of Call It Serendipity

Smirking down at us, Claire announces, “I got our travel writer here an exclusive outing at Holiday Valley.”

“Claire,” Lucy groans. “That was supposed to be a secret, just to get us out of Alice’s crosshairs.”

“Well, she told someone. Specifically, someone that plans the fall treetop days, and they were eager to get Jake out there to experience the magic.”

“Do I want to know what the treetop days are?” I whisper.

“They happen on Saturdays in September and October. People can buy a picnic lunch at the lodge and ride a chairlift up to whatever peak they wish. Then they eat while overlooking all the fall foliage,” Lucy explains.

“That sounds nice.”

“It sounds romantic,” Claire cuts in. “Which is why I had to sign Jake up for a two-person picnic. It’s more believable that he’s looking to get the real experience that way.”

“You—”

“You’ll go with him, right, Lucy?”

“I think it’s a great idea,” I say quickly. “And another chance to see what’s special about this town.”

“That fate you believe in,” Lucy murmurs, “does it come in the form of a meddling roommate?”

“Maybe.” Either way, I owe Claire a thank you.

25

Holiday Valley has been a core foundation of our community for as long as I’ve been alive. The ever-present mountain is visible throughout town—a constant backdrop.

It’s more than a ski resort. It’s where we gathered for my aunt’s wedding and where the scholarship dinner was held after I received an artistic award in high school. Claire works there, and my cousin, and my dad’s best friend since he was a kid.

But it’s never been a particularly romantic place for me. Not until today.

“What last name did Claire give me?” Jake whispers, leaning in closer than probably necessary. He smells good, like that warm, cozy scent of his is still fresh before the day makes it fade.

It’s an early morning, with the sun just above the trees. We decided on this time to keep up the ruse of needing his privacy intact while writing his article. This way, we could be in and out before others came for quaint lunches and golden hour dinners.

Around the spot we selected on a manicured trail, the grass is overgrown in spades, causing it to glisten wondrously in the sunlight. And below us, the brilliant warm hues of autumn leaves create a postcard perfect scene.

Or painting worthy scene.

“It’s so beautiful up here,” I breathe, making a mental note of how the rays capture every fractured hue in reds, oranges, and yellows.

“It really is.” He finishes laying out the quilt, motioning for me to take a seat as he collects the picnic basket and moves it within reach.

Sitting up on my knees, I open the lid and inspect the contents. Holiday Valley didn’t spare any detail for Jake today, from the warm thermoses labeled coffee and tea to the oversized, buttery croissants and chocolate covered strawberries. “Ooh, are these their pumpkin cinnamon rolls?” I squeak, plucking one of the buns out.

“Did you say pumpkin cinnamon roll?”

I tear off a bite and hold it out to him. To my surprise, Jake doesn’t grab it with his hand. Instead, he lays back on his elbows and turns to bite the pastry right from my fingertips.

“Okay, it’s good. But your baking is better,” he says through the mouth full.

“You’re just saying that.” I lift my hand to lick the sticky residue from my thumb. It’s delicious.

But when I look back up, he’s watching me with a hint of something in his dark brown eyes. “What?” I ask, watching them flit to my lips and back up again.

“Luce, I’m being completely honest when I say this doesn’t measure up to the other night.”

“Mm”—I pull off a piece to try myself—“flattery will get you everywhere.”