Chapter Two #2
Mal gives me a long look, then gestures with his coffee.
“You know, we’ve got a cabin out back. Technically, it’s the honeymoon suite.
Don’t laugh. It’s called the Gingerbread Palace.
But it’s empty for the season. The roof’s good, the heat works, and it’s private,” he continues.
“Has its own bathroom and a fireplace that’s only mildly possessed. ”
Liam adds, “We were going to list it again for Valentine’s bookings, but it needs a little love.
And honestly, the guest room you were asking about might get booked up fast now that the holiday crowd’s thinning out.
But the cabin? It’s a lot of space, and we’d be happy to trade it for some handyman help around here. ”
Mal shrugs. “You fix things. We need things fixed. You need a place to figure out your next chapter. We’ve got an empty cabin. Feels like a no-brainer to me.”
Liam smiles. “Seems like a good fit.”
I blink, surprised by the offer, and by the warmth behind it. I look between the two of them, these people who don’t know me from Adam and are already offering something that feels suspiciously like a beginning.
My voice is quiet when I answer. “Yeah. I think that sounds perfect.”
Mal walks ahead of me, boots crunching over fresh snow, while I trail behind with my duffel slung over one shoulder.
The air is crisp, the sky turning lavender as the sun starts its slow winter descent behind the hills.
Off to the side of the B&B, past a split-rail fence and a small stable with a puffing chimney, we veer down a shoveled footpath toward a cabin at the edge of the property.
When it comes into view, I blink.
“Okay,” I mutter. “You weren’t kidding.”
The Gingerbread Palace is exactly that. A one-room cabin dressed up like a gingerbread house, complete with white scalloped trim along the eaves, faux gumdrops dotting the window shutters, and candy-cane-striped columns flanking the front porch.
Soft yellow lights trace the roofline, and the chimney lets out a curl of smoke that smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.
But somehow, it works.
It isn’t tacky. It’s weirdly charming, the kind of place that makes your chest squeeze with a ridiculous amount of warmth. It looks like every cheesy holiday movie screenwriter and every kids' fairy tale came together and went into interior design.
“This is usually our honeymoon rental,” Mal says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s private, cozy, and borderline absurd, but guests go nuts for it. It’s kitschy, but honestly? It kind of grows on you.”
I grin, unable to help it. “I think I love it already.”
Mal chuckles and nudges the door open. “Come on in.”
The inside is even better. Warm wood floors, a vaulted ceiling with exposed beams, and a stone fireplace crackling in the corner.
A queen-sized bed with a carved wooden headboard sits beneath a window framed in thick red curtains on the far wall.
There’s a small kitchenette, a pair of armchairs pulled close to the hearth, and, God help me, a ceramic cookie jar shaped like an almost exact replica gingerbread house perched on the counter.
The glimpse of the bathroom through the open door suggests it’s modern and spotless. It’s cozy. Lived-in. Safe.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Mal says, watching me take it all in. “Just keep the pipes from freezing, don’t electrocute yourself, and fix whatever decides to fall apart first.”
I nod, the lump in my throat too big for words.
Mal clasps a hand on my shoulder. “All right, then. I’ll let you settle in. Dinner’s usually around six if you’re hungry. Hawk makes a killer stew.” And with that, he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him and leaving me alone.
The fire snaps softly, and the wind hums against the eaves.
I drop my duffel by the bed and sink into one of the armchairs, letting the warmth seep into my bones as I let out a long breath.
I’m really here. For the first time in a long while, there’s nowhere I have to be tomorrow.
No inbox demanding answers. No apartment lease ticking toward its end.
No schedule. Just this cabin, a town full of ghosts and candy-cane lampposts, and a heart full of questions I’ve carried for decades.
My gaze drifts to the window, where snow has started falling again, soft and unhurried.
Mason.
Even thinking his name makes my chest tighten.
Does he still live here? Did he stay? Did he leave for New York like he used to dream, or take the stage somewhere beneath a thousand spotlights?
Would I even recognize him? Or worse, would he recognize me?
I barely recognize myself some days. But then again, there are parts of me that never really changed.
The part that remembers the way he hummed when he was nervous.
The part that remembers the freckles scattered across his shoulders.
The part that never stopped wondering what might have happened if I’d stayed.
He might be gone. He might be married. He might never want to see me again.
But still, I came back. Because in my heart, I couldn't resist. Because some part of me is still that eighteen-year-old kid on the bleachers after school, watching Mason twirl a pencil between his fingers and wondering if someday could ever come. Now, maybe it has. Maybe I’ll find nothing here but good memories and a better place to start over. Or maybe I’ll find him.
And even if I don’t, maybe this is enough. Maybe coming home is the bravest thing I’ve done yet. Only time will tell.