Page 16

People like him are a nightmare for a person like me. In the past I’ve bent over backward, looping myself into a thousand different people-pleasing directions, trying to impress someone whose thoughts lie behind a wall and whose body screams I respect myself.

Not anymore, Chlo. You are working on being a new person. You are working on being strong and brave. You were not flirting with him but just engaging in conversation, and more importantly, IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT HE THINKS.

“Anyway,” I say with gusto, rolling my shoulders back as I grip the wheel and look ahead. “The point is, even without the place being a favorite childhood haunt, I’d have known the address anyway. If you’re an out-of-towner coming to Maple Hills, you’ve really only got two options. The Comfort Inn back at the airport, or this.”

“Yes, I learned that in my research. I’m still surprised at the coincidence.”

“Of being related to the old owner?”

“And of you being the tiny perpetrator behind the inn’s remodels, yes.”

“Well, I mean, it’s a town of five thousand nine hundred people. Throw a rock and you hit a family member. What’s more surprising to me is that you’re coming to Maple Hills on a work trip during Christmas.”

His brows rise. “Why do you think I’m on a work trip?”

“You are, aren’t you?” I cast a glance at his apparel. “Or you’ve just come from one.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not. Your aunt—”

“Great-aunt.”

“—sold that inn to my sister, who kept the name and is keeping it running. As for my apparel, I just . . . dress like this. All the time.”

“You dress like you’re going to an office meeting all the time? Surely not.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

“Fascinating.” I stick out my bottom lip and chew on it quietly, doing my best to keep my opinions about his 1990s NYC–vibe leather briefcase to myself.

His nose wrinkles. “These are my clothes. I don’t happen to have a separate wardrobe for vacations.”

“Not even one vibrant flannel for visiting sisters?”

“Not even one.”

“What about a Christmas Eve service sweater?”

He looks unamused. “What does one wear besides a collar at a Christmas Eve service?”

“Here? Again, flannel.”

Once more, his demeanor has gone stoically cool and completely unreadable.

“Anyway,” I say, throwing out a hand, “that’s very practical. Organized.” I pause a moment. “Keeps your life simple.”

At that, his unreadable face cracks. James’s nose wrinkles slightly, and it’s clear that what I meant as a compliment didn’t land as such. What’s wrong with complimenting someone on their ability to file and organize their life so well? That’s a dream. That’s my goal.

We drive in silence.

“Winter Wonderland” pops up after the radio commercial, and the timing of the nostalgic—if staticky—ringing of the bells is perfect as I round the corner of the road and the bridge comes into view.

Hollyhock Bridge.

I think, in retrospect, I may have lied to my kidnapped passenger when I told him the second exit was faster than taking 26. They even each other out, and on a clear day, Monroe is maybe three minutes slower. The truth is, I was subconsciously coming for this.