Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The directions Ivy had given me turned out to be more reliable than the sat-nav, which had long since given up trying to pronounce the Gaelic road names.
By the time I found the hotel, snow had thickened into a near-whiteout, swirling beneath the amber glow of the streetlamps.
The Red Lion Hotel stood just off the square, three storeys of weathered stone, its sign creaking in the wind.
The kind of establishment that described itself as “boutique” on its website but clearly hadn’t been updated since the late nineties.
I parked in the narrow car park, tyres sliding slightly as I stopped. The wipers squeaked once, then froze mid-swipe. My reflection in the window was pitiful: hair damp, coat rumpled, eyes bloodshot from travel. So much for first impressions.
Inside, the lobby was warm and dimly lit. A fake Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its lights blinking out of sync, and the faint smell of cleaning polish hung in the air. The carpet had a pattern that might once have been floral, now a faded tangle of beige and burgundy.
A woman in her sixties sat behind the reception desk, flipping through a magazine. She looked up as the bell above the door jingled.
“Mr Grant?” she asked, her smile kind. “The solicitor from London?”
“Yes,” I said, setting my briefcase on the counter. “I have a reservation.”
She nodded. “We’ve put you in Room Twelve. It’s got a view of the square. Heating’s a bit temperamental, mind, she likes to work in her own time. And don’t be worried if you hear any strange noises, old buildings and that.”
“Excellent,” I murmured.
Her grin widened. “Breakfast from seven, though we don’t do the continental business. You’ll get a fry-up or nothing. Wi-Fi code’s on the bedside table, assuming it behaves.”
“Charming,” I said, mostly to myself.
The lift was out of order, of course, so I hauled my suitcase up two flights of narrow stairs that groaned like they resented me. Room Twelve greeted me with a sigh of cold air and the faint smell of lavender air freshener.
To its credit, it was clean– just… dated. The wallpaper was patterned with faded blue flowers, and the curtains looked like they’d been chosen to match a different decade entirely. The bed dipped slightly in the middle, and the radiator gave an ominous rattle when I turned it on.
Still, there was a tray with tea bags, instant coffee, a kettle and a couple of wrapped biscuits. I supposed that counted as hospitality.
I removed my coat and hung it neatly on the back of the chair, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t annoyed.
I wasn’t a snob, not really. I’d been raised to work hard for what I wanted, not expect it handed to me.
But sometimes, a little luxury wasn’t too much to ask. Especially after a day like today.
The flight had been dreadful, the turbulence worse.
The elderly woman and the child behind me kicking my seat in rhythmic bursts of torture, and the flight coffee had tasted like burnt cardboard.
Then the long drive, three hours of slush and poor visibility in a car built for city streets, not mountain roads.
I loosen my tie, dropping it onto the edge of the bed, and let out a breath that was half laugh, half exhaustion.
Welcome to Pine Hollow, Oliver Grant. Population: cheerful locals, picturesque snow, and a heating system from 1983. We hope you enjoy your stay with us.
I rubbed a hand across my face, the memory of Brianna Hart flickering back–auburn hair, steady green eyes, flour smudged against her cheek. Her voice had been calm, but there was something beneath it, a quiet desperation she hadn’t tried to hide. She’d been polite but firm, almost infuriatingly so.
She wasn’t what I’d expected, really–perhaps someone bitter, or ready to beg, or angry enough to make my role easier to justify. But she’d been calm. Firm. Real. Her accent wasn’t as strong as I expected it to be either.
The radiator hissed again, startling me from my thoughts. I glanced at the small clock on the wall–nearly five o’clock. Snow was still falling outside, the village lights dim through the frost as the moon graced the sky.
I should have been reviewing contracts, sending emails, doing something productive. Instead, I found myself staring out at the bakery across the square, wondering how a place could feel so alive even when it was closed.
With a sigh, I switch off the lamp, the room sinking into soft darkness and head downstairs to inquire about dinner.
“Two days,” I muttered, echoing Claire’s words. “In and out.”
But somehow, thinking of the glow of that little bakery, I already knew it wouldn’t be that simple.