Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Jess
The Sugar Plum Inn glows like something out of a Christmas card—Victorian charm wrapped in thousands of tiny lights.
A candle flickers in every window, and garland drapes the wide porch railings.
Through the front window, I catch a glimpse of a towering Christmas tree, glittering like it’s been sprinkled with fairy dust.
Inside, it’s even better. A fire crackles in the hearth, the air smells like cinnamon and spice, and laughter hums through the sitting room.
The owner greets me with a smile and a steaming cup of cocoa. “The guests are gathering at the fire pit for happy hour,” he says. “And I hope you’re hungry. My wife made White Christmas chili—enough to feed everyone in Santa’s workshop.”
I am hungry, but not for chili. What I’m craving is a tall hunk in a Santa suit.
Still, the next move is on him.
Up in my room, I text Gran to let her know I made it.
Jess: I made it to the inn!
Gran: Isn’t it lovely?
Jess: It’s amazing.
Gran: Did you stop at the Christmas Cabin?
Jess: Yes.
Gran: Did you drink the cider?
I roll my eyes. Of course she’s asking about the cider again.
Jess: yeah
Gran: Did it work yet?
Jess: Did what work?
Gran: The cider
I frown at the screen. Is she texting with her hurt hand again?
Jess: What?
Gran: The cider has a love potion. You’ll meet your soulmate soon—if you haven’t already.
A spark races down my spine. I drank the cider. Then I sat on Clark’s lap.
No way.
It’s not magic. It’s him.
His hands. His mouth. His eyes. The way he smells like pine and sin.
Maybe I am under a spell.
I toss my phone aside and flop onto the soft comforter. Gran’s book waits on the nightstand—a Regency romance she swore would change my life—but the only man I can picture right now is wearing a Santa suit and a grin that makes me weak in the knees.
Two hours later, my phone is still stubbornly silent.
No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.
Surely he’s done skating by now. It’s fully dark outside. Maybe he’s playing hard-to-get, following that dumb rule about waiting a day. But I can’t wait. I’m only here for the weekend, and my patience expired about an hour ago.
My stomach growls, loud enough to rattle the Christmas spirit right out of me.
I sigh, zip up my boots, and head downstairs in search of food—leaving my phone behind so I can’t keep checking it every five seconds.
The Sugar Plum dining room looks like it’s been lifted straight from a snow globe. Garland curls around the banisters, twinkle lights spill from every corner, and the air smells like butter and garlic—dangerous scents for a hungry woman nursing heartbreak and hope.
“Evening!” the host booms, cheeks glowing as bright as the Christmas lights. “Hungry
“Starving.”
“White Christmas Chili coming right up.”
I slide into a small table near the fire and take a deep breath, willing myself not to think about Clark—or my phone.
When the innkeeper returns with a tray, I try to sound casual. “You wouldn’t happen to know a guy named Clark, would you?”
His brows lift. “Course I do. Everyone in town knows Clark. Keeps to himself these days, ever since he moved back.”
My heart does a hopeful flip.
“He runs the Christmas tree farm on the edge of town,” the host says, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret.
Of course he does. A Christmas tree farm. It fits him—steady, strong, a little prickly around the edges.
But then the man sets my bowl down and gives me a look that makes my heart stutter. “Word of advice,” he says. “Stay away from him. Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”
I blink. “Hurt? From the guy selling evergreens to happy families?”
The host shrugs. “He’s not the man you think he is.”
Gran’s teasing echoes in my head—Love potion cider—but the innkeeper’s warning lands heavier. He’s not the man you think he is.
Maybe I’m falling for someone who only exists in a cider-fueled fantasy. He did give me a wrong number. And he still hasn’t called.
My heart sinks. “Maybe I’ll take this to my room.”
“I’ll send it up on a tray,” he says.
I head for the stairs, my steps slow and heavy. My phone is waiting upstairs—probably still silent.
But halfway up, the front door bursts open, and a rush of cold air sweeps through the lobby. Snowflakes swirl in the light, and standing in the middle of it all is Clark—dark hair dusted white, coat half unbuttoned, looking like he walked straight out of a Christmas miracle.
“Jess.” He breathes my name like he’s been holding it in for hours.
I freeze mid-step.
“I lost your number.” His voice is rough, breathless. “It came off because of all the sweaty kids’ hands I had to hold.”
I blink. “You… sweated my number off?”
The host snorts quietly behind the counter, clearly loving this. I want to tell him to go jingle someone else’s bells, but my heart is hammering too hard.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“Tried every inn in Starlight Bay.”
The host coughs. “There’s only three.”
Still, I’m impressed. His cheeks are pink from the cold, his eyes dark and earnest.
“I wasn’t about to let you get away again,” he says.
My heart melts. Completely. I hurry down the last few steps and, predictably, trip over my own boots.
“Got you,” he murmurs, catching me in his arms.
He smells like winter—woodsmoke and pine—and the chill of his coat seeps through my sweater. For a heartbeat, it’s just us, breathing the same air, suspended in the glow of the tree lights.
“Your hair smells like…” He dips his head and inhales. “Fraser fir and—”
“Thyme,” I laugh. “I’ve been riding in a van packed with Gran’s Christmas candles.”
The host clears his throat loudly. “You still want this chili?”
Clark sets me gently on my feet, his eyes never leaving mine. “I interrupted your dinner.”
A beat stretches—thick with possibility, desire, and the promise of something real.
“Want to join me?” I ask, voice barely steady.
His eyes spark gold in the light. “Are you asking me to dinner?”
If I were trying to play coy, those eyes ruin me. “Absolutely.”