Chapter 26
twenty-six
HOLDEN
Laila is quiet for most of the drive to the Wanderlust Refuge rental.
The snow is falling harder now, almost at an alarming rate.
Since Wanderlust Refuge sits nestled out in the country, there aren’t many lights, and my visibility isn’t great.
I slow down a bit, grateful that I drive an SUV with four-wheel drive.
“Where are the snowplows? Sand?” Her fingers grip the console between us.
“La, this isn’t Colorado. We’ve seen more snow in the last couple of months than we’ve seen in years. You should see the meteorologists try to explain it.”
I nudge the old CD case tucked between the seats with my elbow:
Christmas Mix Volume 6. The crooked label still carries her handwriting from that first year—our own tiny breadcrumb trail through all of the Decembers we’ve spent together.
She catches the movement and reaches over to pluck it out of the crevice. “You still have these? Holden, you can stream all of this.”
“Maybe I prefer the superior sound,” I say. “You know, it’s actually closer to the master recording in terms of quality.”
I can feel her eyes on me, studying me. “Are you just making that up?”
“You can Google it.” I shrug—or try, since both hands are on the wheel.
She waits a beat, then tugs her phone out, her fingers flying across the letters on the screen.
“I can’t believe you know that,” she says, a little awestruck. Then softer, “You’re such an adorable little nerd.”
My cheeks warm. Coming from someone else, it might come across like an insult, but from Laila? Total compliment.
She slides the CD into the player in my truck, then chooses track three as soon as the tracks populate. Her eyes slide over to me.
“I know it’s your favorite.”
She’s right. The first chords of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” fill the car as if on cue, and for a few seconds, the tension softens. Her laughter does what music never could—turns noise into warmth.
“Maybe I always enjoyed how you used to sing this off-key on purpose,” I say.
“Joke's on you, Holden. I always sing off-key.”
The music fades under the hum of the tires and snow, and I risk a glance at her. She’s not as relaxed as I’d hoped, but I understand. I’ve only been on the road in conditions like this one other time, and it was just as stressful as it is now.
I don’t ask what she’s remembering. I already know.
I hesitate for half a second before peeling her hand off the console and threading my fingers through hers. She doesn’t pull away, and that’s all the permission I need.
All the things I said back in October don’t matter anymore. At this rate, I won’t make it back home—and there’s no way I’m leaving her alone in that house.
We can be grownups and figure out the rest later.
She exhales at the windshield, fogging the glass like she’s drawing hearts. For a flash, it’s the girl from the sleigh-ride photo, not the one running from ghosts.
Laila is strong and capable, but she builds walls faster than anyone I know. Sometimes I think getting to know her deepest layers is about on par with finding out who killed JFK.
I ease my foot off the gas, content to take longer if driving one-handed keeps her calm. Her shoulders drop a fraction. I wish she knew her touch steadies me, too. But saying it might break the spell.
Every time she comes back to Enchanted Hollow, I tell myself I’ll play it safe. Then she looks at me, and safe is the furthest thing from my mind. There’s a difference between craving a cookie and knowing you’ll starve without the whole batch. Burned edges and all.
It’s been simmering beneath the surface for years, but when she walked into my bakery in September—kissed me like the months and years apart didn’t matter—I knew pretending wasn’t an option anymore. It hasn’t for a while, but that moment solidified that for me.
And in true Laila fashion, she acted like she didn’t hear me. Like I hadn’t already been saying it—out loud—for six years. Even longer if you consider all the ways I said it in every way but words.
When she chose her career, I wasn’t angry. Just confused that she thought she couldn’t have both. She kept insisting her world didn’t fit mine, but maybe she just didn’t see how easily it could.
I never gave her an ultimatum. Never said, “Pick me or your job”. Just more than weekends and Sunday morning brunches on video chat.
I want the Laila that lights up over the small things like cute coffee cups and the smell of autumn. Photo angles and goofy blankets. The one who gives away over half the items she gets at her job, but still somehow calls herself selfish.
She’s far from it.
When she insisted on distance after Holly and Cade’s wedding, I gave it to her. But I still saw the breadcrumbs she left—helping shops, amplifying stories, never taking credit. The town talked; she never did.
I brush my thumb across her knuckles. She doesn’t know it, but I’d take every version of her—restless, guarded, messy. Maybe I should’ve said that instead of waiting for perfect timing. There’s no perfect timing in love; just people trying anyway.
Because the truth is: pieces of Laila are better than nothing at all.
“How far do you think?” she asks softly.
“Just up ahead.”
As soon as I say it, the outline of the old Victorian appears through the white blur, windows glowing gold against the storm. Relief hits hard.
“It looks like it’s straight off a Christmas card,” she murmurs, leaning closer to the glass.
The coin Sebastian gave me last year warms in my pocket like a confirmation, and I huff out a breath. Our last experience with snowed-in together “magic” helped us—at least until her mother came in like a wrecking ball.
She drops my hand, and I hate the absence it leaves.
“Be careful getting out,” I warn.
“Not my first rodeo.” She extends a leg and wiggles a snow boot in the air. “I’ll be fine.”
“Eventually,” I mutter as she climbs out of the car.
Her leap-before-she-looks personality is part of her charm and half my anxiety. I can already picture her showing up at Ella’s wedding in a cast and on crutches if I don’t watch out for her.
By the time I circle to the trunk, she’s spinning in the snow, tongue out, catching flakes. I shouldn’t laugh—but I do. The drifts are already knee deep, and I can’t help wondering if the weather’s tied to whatever magic’s pulsing through this town again.
Enchanted Hollow has moods, and tonight it feels hopeful.
Maybe we’ll get lucky this time, too.
I should probably warn her about Wanderlust Refuge.
It’s not just charming in a “they don’t make houses like they used to” sort of way.
It’s magical in a way that only makes sense in Enchanted Hollow.
The house has a habit of shifting to fit whoever stays there.
Some guests get really spooked by it. Others…
well, they end up exactly where they need to be.
And I think we both could really use that.
By the time she’s made it in the door, I’m only a few steps behind. The first thing that hits me isn’t the heat—it’s the smell. Cinnamon and pine. It reminds me immediately of the inn in Colorado.
I know for a fact they don’t use scented candles here. This is the house reacting to Laila.
She shivers once, tugging the sleeves of my gray hoodie farther down her hands—the same one she “borrowed” when she was here only a couple of months ago.
I told her to keep it. Still, seeing her in it now knocks something loose in my chest. It’s too big on her, soft at the edges, and somehow the only thing in the frame that feels right.
“Wow,” she breathes as I set her bag down. “This is so…cozy.”
It is. Rustic furniture, blankets everywhere, Christmas in every corner. I’ve never been in a space that’s truly Laila’s, but somehow it feels exactly like her—a house built out of second chances. It’s the kind of place that wraps around you instead of being a roof over your head.
“Maybe the house knew you’d be the next guest,” I say, watching her.
“That’s silly,” she scoffs. “I didn’t even know I’d be the next guest.”
“Wanderlust Refuge changes. It matches what people need for their stay. I guess it thought you could use a little Christmas magic.”
She glances over her shoulder, a smile ghosting across her lips.
“Maybe it’s right.”