Page 4 of Christmas in Quincy (The Edens 0.50)

“I’m here if you need others.” She took one of the gift boxes from the tray and handed it over. Then she leaned closer to the counter, stretching her arm as she pointed down the hallway. “Elevator is there. You’re in room four-ten. Take a left when you get off the elevator and your room is at the end of the hallway. Can I have anything sent up?”

“Champagne.” My mouth watered at the thought of slipping into some pajamas and sipping one or two glasses of bubbly before bed. “The most expensive bottle you have.”

“I’ll send it right up.”

“Thank you.” I gave Eloise a nod, then collected my things. A wave of exhaustion ran over my shoulders as I made my way toward the elevator. It was only six o’clock—five in California—but I’d been up since four in the morning and was ready to be done with this day.

The elevator’s foyer was lined with potted evergreens, each lit by tiny white twinkle lights. Across from the silver doors, a wreath hung above a table adorned with faux gifts. The decorations were charming and traditional. Simple. There was

no mistaking the season, but the tasteful ambience was a far cry from the overwhelming display at my father’s house in Malibu.

My stepmother, Selene, picked a color theme each year and hired a company to splash it everywhere. When I’d gone over for dinner two weeks ago, the abundance of pink and purple—Selene’s unique pop—had given me a splitting headache. That, and the apple cinnamon potpourri she bought in bulk this time of year.

All of it was staged for endless parties lasting days before Christmas and well into the new year.

I just . . . I couldn’t do it. Not this year. I couldn’t stomach the tacky—yet expensive—displays. The endless gifts. The hours of mingling with rich snobs and feigning smiles for pretentious guests. The only reason people spoke to me at those parties was because they thought I could get them an hour on my father’s elusive and jam-packed schedule. Or that by kissing my ass, it would help them earn a promotion.

When Selene’s magenta invitation for the holiday lineup had graced my mailbox, I’d thrown it in the trash and booked a plane ticket to Montana.

The elevator doors chimed as they opened and I hauled myself inside the car, inhaling a deep breath of pine and citrus. The mixture was soothing and special, the way Christmas was supposed to smell. There was no music as it whisked me to my floor, and when I stepped out, the same subtle scent carried down the hallway to my room. When I pushed open the door to room 410, I nearly cried.

It was . . . perfection. Exactly as I’d imagined. Precisely what I’d hoped for.

Delightful. Quiet. Airy, yet it held a cozy appeal.

The bedside lamp was on and a black shoebox looped with a red satin ribbon sat on the foot of the bed. The curtains were drawn and beyond the window the night was black except for a faint glow coming from the surrounding businesses and homes in the small town. Unlike the lobby and common areas, the room didn’t have a hint of Christmas flair.

I propped my suitcase against the wall inside the door, dropped my purse on the bed and untied the ribbon on the box. A pair of plush white slippers greeted me from inside. I pulled them out and ran my fingers over the soft faux fur.

So this was why they’d asked for my shoe size when I’d called to make the reservation. “Score one for The Eloise Inn.”

I popped open the top of the box Eloise had given me. Inside was a dainty chocolate truffle. “Score two.”

I’d stayed at countless five-star hotels in my life, and so far, The Eloise was keeping up. Not to mention the price tag for this weekend escape was a fraction of what I would have spent elsewhere.

Despite what everyone assumed about me—Cleo Hillcrest, only daughter of tech mogul and billionaire Ray Hillcrest—I wasn’t frivolous with my money. I was paying for this room on my own, with wages I’d earned, not inherited. I’d flown to Quincy on three commercial flights, though I had splurged for first class.

This trip was the only vacation I’d taken in years and a Christmas gift to myself.

My phone dinged in my coat pocket and I set the slippers aside to take the call. The bakery’s number flashed on the screen. “Hey.”

“Hey. Did you make it?” Brynne asked.

I sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off my heels. “Made it. How did everything go today?”

“Just fine,” she said. “It was busy with all the people doing their Christmas-Eve Eve pickups. But we had a good day at the till. The display case is nearly empty.”

“Oh boy.” A pang of guilt hit hard. “Do you think I left enough in the walk-in to get it refilled? You might have to make a new batch of sugar—”

“Cleo.” She stretched my name as she cut me off. “Don’t worry. I can handle the shop. Come tomorrow morning, the display case will be full. You enjoy the next few days and let me handle it.”

I sighed, sliding on a slipper. “I’m not doubting you. I’m just . . . I suck at vacations.”

“Yes.” She laughed. “I know.”

Brynne had worked at my bakery for three years. She was an incredibly talented pastry chef as well as a wonderful friend. She knew how much Christmas stressed me out, and this vacation to Quincy had been her idea. She’d come here once, stayed in this very hotel and promised me I’d love a few days in the charming town.

“Okay. Call me if you need anything.” All I had planned for the next three days was burrowing deep into this pillow-top mattress and watching as many Hallmark movies as I could.