Chapter Three
May
Mondays are for quiet things.
Sleigh Queen is closed on Mondays, my wigs safely tucked away on her foam head in my massive dressing room, and I’m out of sequins and into soft denim and a forest-green knit sweater that hits that elusive sweet spot between cozy and I still have my life together.
I settle into my usual corner booth at The Brew House, right by the front window, where I can watch the snowfall and the locals bustle along.
With a latte in one hand, a worn paperback in the other, I’ve got three hours of people-watching ahead of me and zero obligations, which is rarer than a tourist who actually uses the town’s official map.
Outside, Sleighbell Springs still looks like the cover of a December calendar.
Wreaths in every window, twinkle lights on every awning, a snowman on the sidewalk who may or may not be wearing a vintage scarf from the consignment shop.
Inside, it smells like cinnamon and espresso and someone’s almond croissant that I may or may not be jealous of.
The town never fully de-Christmas-ifies itself.
Even in July, you’ll spot garlands and candy canes.
That’s what happens when you embrace the Christmas Village aesthetic and let it become your entire tourism pitch.
As a lifelong resident of Sleighbell Springs, I love it.
I settle back into my booth with a contented sigh, nudging aside the small vase of holly and pine someone thoughtfully placed on every table this week.
The snow outside swirls like a living postcard, and the latte in my hand is a miracle of cinnamon, foam, and just enough espresso to keep me from turning into a winter goblin.
Mondays are the one day I have off from the Sleigh Queen, and I guard them like a dragon hoards gold.
No makeup, no heels, no mic checks. Just me, a book, and the slow rhythm of my little town humming around me.
I crack open my paperback and take exactly three sips before realizing I’ve forgotten the little gingerbread syrup treat I promised myself this morning when I rolled out of bed.
Most of the week, I’m good about my diet and sugar intake, but Mondays are lawless, and I want my flavored syrup, dammit.
With a sigh and a mournful look at my half-read sentence, I slide out of the booth, flipping my open book upside down on the table to save my spot.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to no one at all, just in case the vibes of the booth think I’m abandoning them.
The Brew House is busy but not swamped. Midmorning on a Monday means mostly locals, freelancers, and that one retiree with the crossword book who always wears a scarf no matter what the season.
I make my way toward the counter, eyes already on the pastry display, and collide hard with something, or rather, someone very solid.
My coffee sloshes violently, the lid popping off as a warm stream arcs straight across a flannel-clad chest.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I blurt, instinctively reaching out with napkins I do not have.
The man takes a startled step back, glancing down at the darkening stain on his shirt, then looks up.
Everything slows. My stomach drops the way it does when you miss a stair.
My mouth goes dry, my heart trips over itself, and I blink once, twice, just to make sure I’m not imagining the face staring back at me.
Because there is no way the universe just handed me this moment on a snow-dusted platter. But it did.
“Miles?” I breathe.
He blinks, then gives me that crooked, slow-burn grin that once made seventeen-year-old me write truly humiliating poetry in the margins of his textbooks.
“Mason Beckett?” he says, incredulous and warm all at once.
I don’t say anything for a second. I just stare. Because wow. Time has been generous to my high school dream. Broader shoulders, a scruff-lined jaw, still those same dark blue eyes, like stormy lake water before the rain. It’s like seeing a ghost and a daydream at the same time.
And I’ve just covered him in oat milk.
He lifts the coffee-damp flannel slightly away from his chest, chuckling. “Well. I was cold, so thanks for that.”
I groan. “Oh god, please let the floor open up and take me. I am so sorry. I didn’t see you. I was gingerbread distracted.”
“I feel like that’s the most Vermont excuse ever,” Miles says, still grinning. “Seduced by seasonal baked goods?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I mutter, flustered, patting at his shirt with the single crumpled napkin I’ve tucked into my coat pocket. “This is not how I imagined running into you again.”
He raises a brow, warm and curious. “You imagined running into me?”
I freeze, eyes wide. “No?”
He laughs, full and bright, and I hate how it still makes something in my chest do a stupid little pirouette. Like my ribs remember him.
“Okay, well, now I’m definitely buying you a replacement drink,” I say, straightening and attempting to regain what little dignity I have left.
“You don’t have to.”
“Nope. I insist. Non-negotiable. You get a coffee, and I get to feel slightly less like a human disaster. Deal?”
Miles hesitates for a beat, then nods. “Deal.”
We shuffle toward the counter, and I place our order.
Another latte for me, black coffee for him.
Of course he drinks it black. That’s so Miles.
The barista gives me a knowing little smile as she takes my card.
I am absolutely not imagining the glint of interest in her eyes.
Great. This will definitely be gossip by lunch.
Once we have our drinks in hand, I motion back toward my booth. “Do you want to sit? Or are you in a rush to go find dry clothes?”
Miles glances at the clock, then shrugs. “I’ve got time. I was just running errands for the B eyes locked on mine.
“And I never forgot you.”
The words hang between us, soft as snow and heavier than anything I was ready for. My throat tightens, and I look down at my latte, watching the foam swirl like it might offer a safer answer.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “that’s good. Otherwise, I’d have to dump this coffee on you and call it even.”
He grins, relief flickering across his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Guess I’d deserve it.”
“You definitely would’ve. And I’d make it a peppermint latte, just for extra stickiness.”
He chuckles. “So ruthless.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Oh?” He leans back, feigning offense. “You’re saying I taught you sass and sabotage?”
I smirk over my mug. “Don’t act surprised. You were the king of sarcastic flirting in homeroom.”