Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Two days had passed since the town hall meeting, and Pine Hollow had only grown colder, the kind of cold that made every breath taste like frost. I’d spent the better part of the afternoon visiting one of the estate’s rental properties a few miles out.
An elderly couple who insisted I stay for tea while they told me winter stories of the Highlands and how they’d known my grandfather “before the city swallowed him up.”
They meant it kindly and I wasn’t sure why it stung.
By the time I made it back into the main part of town, the sky had dimmed to that deep blue twilight where streetlamps began to glow. My boots crunched over the snow-packed pavement as I crossed the square toward the hotel.
And still… no sign of Brianna. Not that I’d gone looking, well not deliberately, anyway. But I hadn’t taken the long route through the bakery street twice today without reason.
Grief kept a person quieter than usual. I knew that well enough.
My grandfather’s loss still surprised me in sharp, unexpected moments.
I didn’t push. I didn’t knock on her flat door early in the morning.
I didn’t go out of my way to “accidentally” bump into her.
Even if some stubborn part of me wanted to.
As I reached the hotel steps, a trio of familiar voices cut through the quiet.
“Well, look what the snow dragged in!”
I closed my eyes briefly. The knitting club. Mrs. Lennox, Mrs. McAvoy, and Mrs. Douglas bustled toward me like a small army wrapped in tartan scarves and determination. Their cheeks were rosy, their bags full of half-finished projects, and their expressions nothing short of predatory.
“Oh good,” Mrs. Lennox said, looping an arm through mine before I could escape. “We caught him before he vanished inside.”
Mrs. McAvoy nodded briskly. “We have business.”
“What can I help you with ladies?” I said softly.
Mrs. Douglas planted herself in front of me, chin lifted. “You’re coming to the Christmas Ball.”
I blinked. “I—pardon? Am I?”
“Aye, no excuses,” she said firmly. “Your grandfather never missed it, and neither should you.”
“He helped decorate the hall every year when he visited,” Mrs. Lennox added proudly. “Ach, he was terrible at hanging garlands, but he tried.”
That lodged somewhere deep in my chest.
Mrs. McAvoy leaned in. “And you should personally invite Brianna.”
The words were delivered with the subtlety of a brick.
My heart jolted. “I–what makes you think–?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs. Douglas sighed, patting my arm. “We saw how you looked at her.”
Mrs. Lennox elbowed her. “And how she looked at you at the meeting.”
“She didn’t look at me at all,” I said before I could stop myself.
All three women exchanged knowing looks.
“Exactly,” Mrs. McAvoy said. “That girl only avoids what matters.”
My throat tightened. “She’s… dealing with a difficult week.”
“Aye,” Mrs. Douglas said gently. “And that’s exactly why she shouldn’t face it alone.”
I swallowed. “I don’t want to be another weight on her shoulders.”
“You won't be,” Mrs. Lennox insisted. “You’ll be company. A distraction. A reason to smile. And she deserves that.”
I tried to find a reasonable argument and I failed miserably.
Mrs. McAvoy tapped my coat. “Ask her quickly though. She’ll say yes, we’re sure of it.”
“How can you–”
“We know everyone,” they said in unison.
Of course they did.
Mrs. Douglas squeezed my arm once more. “Don’t overthink it, dear. Just ask the lass.”
Then they swept off into the snow, leaving me standing on the hotel steps with their words echoing in my head. Ask her. It shouldn’t have been a complicated decision. It was just a town Christmas party. A town tradition. An evening of food and music and festive chaos.
But it felt like more. Like a line I wasn’t sure either of us should cross. Still… When I closed my eyes, I saw her last night, cheeks flushed from the cold, hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, grief hidden behind the soft edges of her smile.
She deserved light. She deserved something joyful. Maybe I could give her that, even if just for one night.
The snow had stopped sometime before dawn, and I had not slept a wink. The only sound as I crossed the square toward the bakery was the soft crunch of my boots and the distant chime of church bells marking half past nine.
Warm light glowed behind the bakery windows, gentle, golden and familiar. The sight hit me harder than I expected. I’d seemingly missed it, maybe I missed her a little bit. Before I could second-guess myself, I lifted my hand and knocked.
For a moment, nothing. Then soft footsteps, The lock clicked and the door cracked open.
“We’re not open until– Oh Oliver,” she said, peeking out.
Her hair was pulled into a loose braid, a few strands escaping around her face. A dusting of flour smudged her cheek, and her jumper sleeves were pushed up her arms, revealing flour-dappled wrists. She looked warm and bright and… startled, but she didn’t seem unhappy to see me.
“Is it… too early?” I asked, suddenly aware I’d walked here without a single rational thought.
“No, no, it’s fine.” She opened the door wider. “I was just prepping pastries for the day.”
The bakery smelled like cinnamon, butter, and something citrusy. Music played softly from a little speaker near the counter, an old Christmas song, her humming quietly under it.
She wiped her hands on her apron, nerves flickering across her face. “What brings you by?”
I swallowed. “I wanted to ask you something.”
Her brows lifted, almost imperceptibly. “Funny… I was going to ask you something too.”
My heartbeat stumbled.
“Oh?”
She nodded, her fingers twisting slightly in her apron tie, a gesture I was beginning to recognise as a sign she was trying to steady herself.
“I was going to ask…” She exhaled, looking anywhere but directly at me for a moment. “If you’d maybe like to… go to the Christmas Ball with me.”
The words tumbled out soft and shy, but honest and something warm and sharp hit me square in the chest.
“You were going to ask me?” I repeated, unable to suppress the stunned smile pulling at my mouth.
She finally lifted her gaze, wide, vulnerable, hopeful. “Yeah. I mean… only if you want to. No pressure. It’s just a town thing, really. I figured you should experience the full Pine Hollow Christmas while you’re stuck here.”
Stuck here. Funny how that didn’t feel like a curse anymore. I stepped closer without meaning to, drawn by that quiet bravery in her expression.
“Well,” I said gently, “I came here to ask you the exact same thing.”
Her breath hitched and her cheeks slightly blushed.
“You did?” she whispered.
“I did,” I said. “Though I can’t take credit for the idea. The knitting club ambushed me outside the hotel and practically shoved the invitation down my throat.”
That made her laugh, bright and soft, her shoulders easing for the first time in days.
“That sounds about right,” she said. “Those three are unstoppable.”
“It was… impossible to say no,” I admitted. “Though to be fair, I didn’t want to.”
Something shifted in her eyes, a softening, a glow, something almost fragile.
“I’d like to go with you,” she said quietly, sincerity threading through every word.
“And I’d very much like to go with you too,” I replied, letting the truth settle between us, warming the space more than the ovens ever could.
A few seconds lingered–sweet, hesitant, electric. Her fingers brushed a stray bit of flour from her apron, then she gestured toward the counter.
“Do you want a coffee? Before the rush hits?”
“I’d like that,” I said.
Her smile in that moment, though small, real, impossibly gentle, felt like sunlight in winter. And as she turned to make the coffee, humming softly again, I realised something startling:
The thought of leaving Pine Hollow suddenly felt a little like walking away from something I shouldn’t. Something that might matter.