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One
RosalieCrawfordhad always been certain in her beliefs.Inher view of the world.Froma young age, she’d known that things like true love and magic—the kind you’d find in fairy tales—weren’t real.Theywere the stuff of childhood fantasies, tales spun to amuse and entertain.Theyweren’t real life.Sheknew, because she’d experienced the realities of life up close and personal, and she’d seen no evidence whatsoever of true, lasting love, or magic.Theywere as real to her asSantaClaus, or the tooth fairy.
Andyet, somehow, she’d ended up working forCarrieClark, one of the world’s most famous singer-songwriters, who spent most of her time pouring her soul into songs about love and soulmates and bone-deep connections.Asher head ofPR, it wasRosalie’sjob to not only marketCarrie, but her songs.Tomake the world wish they could experience love the wayCarriesang about it.
Andit was because of her job that she was on her way to a small town about ninety minutes north ofNewYorkCitythat was purportedly full of legends and magic and wishes for true love granted.Carriehad read aboutGossamerFallsin a magazine, and had instantly swooned over the town’s magical reputation.Oncethe idea of filming a music video there had taken hold, it had been all but a foregone conclusion.
So,Rosaliewas headed toGossamerFallsto scout it out and find out if filming a music video there was even a possibility.Notexactly aPRjob, but everyone onCarrie’steam had an official title that came with nebulous, constantly shifting duties.Rosaliedidn’t mind, most of the time; it kept things interesting, as far as she was concerned, even if some of the things she was expected to do were a little below her paygrade.
Sheshifted uncomfortably, sliding against the too-warm leather seat in the borrowed sedan.Shedidn’t have her own vehicle, spending most of her time inManhattan, whereCarrielived—when she wasn’t inMalibu, orNashville, orLondon, orParis.Glancingback and forth between the road and the sleek dash, she looked for the control for the heated seat.Sheneeded to turn it down or off before she cooked herself.Eventhrough her thick camel coat and jeans, her skin was becoming uncomfortably hot and prickly.
Shejabbed at a few buttons, and the relief was almost instant when she found the right one.Tighteningher grip on the steering wheel, she refocused her attention on the road ahead.She’dleftManhattanover an hour ago, which meant she should be arriving inGossamerFallsin about ten minutes, give or take.
Thesky had been clear and brilliantly sunny when she’d taken the keys fromTrevor, one ofCarrie’sbusiness managers, but as she’d driven, thick, purplish gray clouds had blotted out the sun, darkening the sky.Itwas going to snow, and soon.
Asif on cue, thick snowflakes started to fall from the sky, batting against the windshield like fluff, and she fumbled for the wipers, flicking them away.Sheslowed her speed, wondering if the car was fitted with winter tires.
Sheglanced at the in-dash navigation, watching for her exit.Throughthe swirling flakes, she spotted the sign forGossamerFalls, flicked on her signal, and took the exit ramp from the 9D.Theramp curved gently, and she saw what looked like a bay to her left, although it was hard to tell through the curtain of white.Withboth hands on the wheel, she slowed to below the speed limit, squinting through the flakes as she made her way into the small town ofGossamerFalls, named for the famous waterfall just north in theHudsonHighlands.
Rosaliegrinned as she slowed the car even further.Snowclung to the branches of the trees, frosting them with fluff.FollowingtheGPS’sprompting, she carefully turned ontoChestnutAvenue, passing by a charming antique shop with a vintageArtDecodisplay in the glowing front window.Afew pedestrians walked up and down the snowy sidewalks, flakes clinging to their knit hats and coats.Eventhough it was just past three o’clock—her meeting was at three-thirty—the street lights had already flickered to life, casting a gentle glow on the road and sidewalks.Snowfell softly but steadily from the sky, seeming to stick to everything it touched.Eventhough the city was less than two hours behind her, the snow here felt different.Gentlerand cleaner, somehow.Maybeit was the way it didn’t instantly turn to gray slush the moment it landed on the streets or sidewalks.
Shedrove past cute boutiques with displays of cozy sweaters, and small restaurants, front windows quiet between lunch and dinner.Shecame to a slippery stop at the corner ofChestnutandMain, waiting to turn right ontoMainas snow-dusted pedestrians crossed the street.Hergaze caught on another boutique, this one with a white and gold sign emblazoned with the nameWildFlowerClothingCo, the window display featuring chunky cardigans, delicate sweaters, plaid maxi skirts, and a sweater dress in an absolutely stunning shade of burgundy.
Ifshe had time after her meeting, and the shop was still open,Rosaliewas totally coming back here.IfRosaliehad had to name a weakness—under duress, of course—she’d say clothing.Shehad a closet full to bursting back in herManhattanapartment, full of elegant, glamorous, sophisticated clothes.Nothingmade her feel more vibrant or alive—or successful—than pulling on a buttery soft cashmere sweater, or rolling on a pair of pure silk stockings.Toboot, she had an extensive lingerie collection, and always wore a lacy, matching set under her clothing.Yes, it was superficial and materialistic and probably not the best use of her incredibly generous salary, but it made her happy.
“OhmyGod, that scarf,” she said, leaning against the seatbelt, peering through the snow. “Andthose boots.Andthose earmuffs!”Shemade the kind of sound usually reserved for eating something delicious.Orsex.
Shehuffed out a breath at the thought of sex.Ithad been a while since anyone had seen her in that fancy lingerie she loved so much.Whichwas fine, because she wore it for herself and she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend.Shewas never looking for a boyfriend.Casualflings were fine.Casualflings were fun and safe.
Ahorn tooted behind her, and she made her turn, not realizing she’d been holding up traffic.
“Sorry,” she said with a little grimace, holding her hand up in a wave as she turned ontoMain.Onher right, she spotted what looked like a coffee shop, and she briefly caught the scents of cinnamon and chocolate as she passed, wafting as if by magic through the car’s vents.Hermouth watered appreciatively, and she realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since her oatmeal that morning.Okay, she now had two stops to make after her meeting.
HemlockSquare, her destination, was ahead on the left, buildings withTudor-style facades lining three sides of the square.Shepulled into the small parking lot, crossing her fingers and toes that she’d find a spot.Therewas one left, right in front of the municipal building on the far-right side of the square.Accordingto the website she’d consulted, it housed the tourism office where she was meeting her contact person, along with the small town’s city hall, municipal offices, a post office, a small courtroom, and the police station.
Sheparked, gathered her overflowing, oversized purse and stepped out of her car and into the gently drifting snow.Nowthat she was off the highway, the snow didn’t seem nearly so dangerous.Theflakes were still thick, but fell in slow swirls before landing gracefully among the thickening carpet of white.
Themunicipal building was a three-story brownstone with triangular arches over the colonial-style windows, which were lined with empty flower baskets.Thefront door looked heavy, and was painted a bright, cheery red.Lightsglowed from behind the windows.Itlooked like something out of a movie set, not an actual town hall in small-town upstateNewYork.
Carriewas going to flip over this place.Rosaliealready knew it in her bones, and she hadn’t even seen the famed waterfall yet.
Shemade her way to the entrance, reaching for the door’s handle when it swung inward so suddenly that she stumbled slightly.Auniformed police officer stood on the other side, his phone pressed to his ear.Heshot her a rueful smile, showing off a dimple in his left cheek, and then stepped back as he held the door for her, tipping his head to indicate that she should go ahead.
“I’llhave to check the records to see what information we have.I’llsend you anythingIfind before the end of the day,” he said, his voice pleasantly masculine.
Shestepped inside, and their gazes collided.Gorgeousblue eyes pinned her in place, and her eyebrows inched up her forehead as unexpected heat pooled low in her belly.
Well,hello,officer.Itwas a fact that she was an absolute sucker for a man in uniform.
Thenhe winked and stepped through the door and out into the snow, not missing a beat in his phone conversation.
“Whatin theHallmarkChannelis this place?” she asked no one in particular, shaking her head slowly.
Thelobby of the building was warm and cozy, with a set of leather furniture gathered around a fireplace in the far corner.Aplacard hung on the wall, listing all of the different offices and locations in the building.Shescanned down the list, finding the tourism office, and set off down the hall, her boots clicking softly over the polished floor.Atthe very end of the hall on the first floor, she came to a door with a frosted glass window, vinyl letters declaring that she’d found theGossamerFallsTourismOffice.
Shechecked her watch, noting that she was still a bit early, and she debated whether or not to wait in the lobby for ten more minutes or just knock.Thedecision was made for her when the door opened, revealing a tall woman in her early to mid-thirties—Rosalie’sage—in the midst of shrugging on a thick brown coat similar toRosalie’s.
“I’msorry,IknowI’mearly—” she started, but the woman cut her off with a shake of her head, snapping the door to the office shut behind her.
