Triple Tidings

Chapter 1

One

Lacey

In the three years since I became the manager of The Chestnut Bed and Breakfast, I’m proud to say I’ve only slept with two guests.

Okay, so I wouldn’t say proud. Two is a relatively small number, though, and I definitely had my reasons. Reasons which are valid and interesting and definitely not a result of me attempting to justify my lapse in professionalism.

Of course, if my grandmother, the owner of The Chestnut, were ever to get ahold of that information…

Well, she would probably disagree. Which makes it a very good thing she has taken up residence at an assisted living facility in Florida and no longer owns a vehicle that might drive back up here and murder me.

If she ever found out.

Which she won’t

I hope.

Admittedly, the likelihood of her uncovering this information has always seemed very slim, growing increasingly improbable as more and more time has passed since the incidents in question.

Until this morning, at least, with what began as a quick glance at The Chestnut’s booking software, ended in me wondering whether I should hire a lawyer and get my affairs in order.

My stomach twists uncomfortably as I cast a long, searching look over The Chestnut’s festively decorated lobby, searching for something to fuss over.

I need a distraction, something to do other than stress out, but—darn it—no imperfection presents itself.

I’m way too good at my job, and even with my staff off for the long weekend, there isn’t a single corner of this place that is anything short of freaking delightful.

We certainly didn’t end up with a 4.8 guest satisfaction rating or featured in a handful of prestigious travel magazines by being un-freaking delightful.

No way. The kind of guests who stay at The Chestnut are accustomed to the finer things in life and are willing to pay extra for an authentic New England experience.

Well, authentic-ish.

I’ve lived here my whole life and am pretty confident that most families don’t prepare a tray of maple-glazed cinnamon rolls every morning or furnish their homes with a tasteful combination of authentic antiques and modern amenities.

None of that matters, however, because tourists go nuts for it, and at the moment, The Chestnut is at its very best. With garlands framing the snowy windows and a real Douglas fir beside the hearth, its branches sagging under the weight of countless vintage ornaments, every corner of this room is absolutely flawless.

This level of hospitality perfection isn’t something that just happens; it’s a legacy that’s been handed down from mother to daughter, with each generation adding their own unique touch.

I’ve been preparing to run this place since I took my very first steps, only a few feet from where I’m standing now, and it took years to convince my grandmother I was ready to take up the mantle, and she would snatch it right back if she found out…

It doesn’t matter, because she isn’t going to find out.

Nibbling on my bottom lip, I turn my attention to the reception computer, double-checking we haven’t received any last-minute bookings.

Nope. Thanks to a storm in Canada and a bad flu season out west, we had a slew of last-minute cancellations, trimming our fully booked register down to only two guests.

Two.

It’s just so unbelievable. Two rooms out of fifteen are booked for the entirety of Christmas weekend. Two guests who happen to be the men I—nope! I can’t even think about that right now.

Since Gram officially handed me the keys to The Chestnut, business has been good—great, even. We have reservations booked out months in advance, and a waiting list for a few of the more in-demand weeks. This year has been our best on record. I should be proud, and I am.

Unfortunately, that pride is now being largely overshadowed by anxiety. Which is probably an understandable response to finding yourself spending the holiday weekend at your place of work, all alone with the men responsible for your two biggest lapses in professionalism. Ever.

I mean, come on. What are the chances?

Wiping my sweaty palms on the skirt of my dress, I hurry over to add a few logs to the fire, glancing out at the darkened sky beyond the lobby window as I do.

It’s nearly six, and check-in starts at four.

They could arrive at literally any moment, and the later it gets, the higher the likelihood that they’ll arrive at the same time.

The prospect of it alone makes me want to melt into the floor.

Having worked in hospitality since I was about fourteen, my ability to diffuse uncomfortable situations is exceptional. That won’t save me, though, when I’ve become the source of the awkward.

Needing a moment to myself, I hurry back behind the reception desk and through the open door to my office.

It’s cozy in here, and cute, with a string of tiny holiday lights carefully wrapped around the screen of my computer and all twenty-six of the handmade stockings Gram has made me—one for each Christmas I’ve been alive—hung in an eclectic collage above the desk.

I don’t sit down, choosing instead to stare at the wall stockings, each of them lovingly sewn by a grandmother for her granddaughter. A granddaughter who shamed the family legacy and gave her professionalism the middle finger when faced with two gorgeous older men.

It’s clear I have a type.

Letting out an exasperated huff at the sudden temperature increase, I look away from the stockings, fanning myself. This is getting ridiculous. If they don’t hurry up and get here, I’m going to lock the front door, turn off all the lights, and refund their money.

Unfortunately, my mental debate as to the merits of this plan is interrupted by confirmation it’s too late, as the bell on the front door chimes quietly, signaling the arrival of my first guest.

Oh my god, I want to die.

I’ve been stewing on this all day, yet now that the moment has arrived, I’m not even a little prepared.

Tucking a wayward blonde curl behind my ear, I take a moment to get my wits together—and fail miserably—before stepping out into the lobby, meeting the bright, intelligent hazel eyes of the man who just stepped through the door.

His cheeks are flushed from the cold, his brown hair is windswept, and snow is dusting the shoulders of his dark coat. Even so, as his gaze finds me, standing in the doorway to the office—my stomach in knots—he smiles.

The knots turn to butterflies.

“Hello,” I manage to offer, clearing my throat and dragging my reluctant eyeballs away from the man who looks like he walked right off a winterwear modeling shoot.

Stepping over to the desk, I’m hyperaware of the sound of his rolling suitcase dragging over the ground, coming closer as I pull up the booking software.

“Hello,” he echoes, and my heart is in my throat as I chance a peek up, only to find him standing right in front of the desk, a shy, lopsided smile tugging at one side of his lips. “Again.”

Again.

“Welcome back,” I tell him quietly, fumbling through the steps to check him in, my cheeks prickling with heat as the memory of his visit starts playing like a movie in my head.

We’d spoken a few times. I’d been the one to check him in and even went up to his room with fresh batteries for the remote control.

Then, he’d come back late from the family event he was in town for.

We were alone in the quiet lobby, and he wanted a drink from the bar.

I was the only one on duty. I was attracted to him, and we’d started talking and… well. Yeah. Stuff happened.

In the morning, he’d been apologetic, grimacing when he informed me he had to make an early flight. I’d understood, and we’d shared one last, lingering kiss on The Chestnut’s porch as the sun rose beyond the tree line, before I watched him drive away.

It was a good memory, one uncomplicated by expectations or disappointments, and I’d thought about it a lot.

Who am I kidding? I still think about it a lot.

August Vogel might not have been in my life for a very long time, but he definitely made an impression.

“How have you been?” he asks, and there is a casual air to the question that isn’t quite believable.

Is he nervous right now, too?

The possibility that he might be gives me the courage to look up, meeting his eyes again and, God, it’s bordering on unfair how attractive he is. The dimples, the crooked smile, the gray threading through his temples…

It takes me a moment to remember he just asked me a question. “Oh!” I giggle, shaking myself. “Good. Really good. Are you, um, in town for another family event?”

“Just a visit for Christmas,” he confirms calmly, resting his hands atop the desk. “Meeting my brother’s new baby.”

“Congratulations. Is it a boy or a girl?”

August chuckles. “A girl. This is the third for him, so I don’t foresee any new Y chromosomes making an appearance in the family tree any time soon.”

It’s a little embarrassing that I take this statement and read it as: I haven’t entered into a serious, potential baby-making relationship in the eighteen months since our unexpected fling.

My vagina reads it as: I am open for business.

I swallow, looking back at the computer. Seeing the need for a willpower safety net, I change his booking from room three to room eight. Which happens to be the one directly adjacent to where my other guest will be staying, and eliminates the chances of me having sex with him.

While I’m not well-versed on the correct etiquette to follow in a situation like this, it does seem impolite to have sex with a man in a room that shares a wall with the room another man you had sex with is staying in.

“You’ll have to report back with pictures,” I tell him, leaning down to take his key from the rack below the desk, and hand it over, careful to avoid any skin-to-skin contact as I do. “We have you in room eight. I just need a quick peek at your ID and get a card on file.”