Chapter 2
Chapter Two
By the time the plane jolted for the fourth time, I’d decided never to trust anyone who described the Scottish Highlands as “peaceful.”
The elderly woman beside me had fallen asleep against my shoulder somewhere over Newcastle, snoring softly into the collar of my coat.
Every time the aircraft dipped, her head knocked against mine.
The child behind me had made it his personal mission to test the durability of my seatback, and his mother seemed blissfully unaware.
I tried to focus on my laptop, attempting to review the estate contracts that had dragged me out of London in the first place, but every tremor of turbulence sent the cursor darting across the page.
The man in the aisle seat was reading a magazine titled Wilderness Living: The Joy of the Simple Life. I found it personally offensive.
When the seatbelt light flicked on again and the plane lurched sideways, I shut the laptop with a sigh. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
The elderly woman stirred, murmuring something incoherent before settling back into sleep, her head landing squarely on my arm. I stared down at the crown of her white curls and decided that if the plane went down, I would haunt the airline.
The landing was rough, the applause at the end entirely unearned.
I was one of the last to disembark, juggling my briefcase and coat, blinking against the sting of cold air as I stepped outside. Inverness greeted me with grey skies and sleet. The wind cut straight through my wool trousers. My mobile buzzed to life with a message from Claire, my assistant:
Safe landing? A car should be waiting. Don’t forget your gloves this time. Two days, Oliver. In and out before the office party. You’ve got this.
I didn’t “have” this. What I had was a headache and a growing dislike of everyone who’d ever used the word picturesque.
The hire desk clerk handed me my keys with a grin that made me suspicious. “A bit of snow on the roads today, sir. Beautiful drive once you’re out of the city, though.”
He said it like it was a promise. It was, in fact, a curse.
My “beautiful drive” began with discovering that the compact hatchback I’d been given was roughly the size of my niece’s toy car and about as suitable for Highland terrain. “I requested a four-wheel drive,” I told the clerk.
He shrugged cheerfully. “Aye, they were all booked. You’ll be fine. Just take it slow.”
Slow turned out to mean painfully, infuriatingly, teeth-grindingly slow.
The snow began falling harder ten miles outside Inverness, blanketing the narrow roads in a sheen of white that looked deceptively soft until the tyres skidded. The GPS lost signal every few miles, and when it worked, it pronounced every Gaelic village name like a drunk guessing at Scrabble tiles.
“This was supposed to be simple,” I muttered, gripping the wheel. “Two days, sign the papers, sort the sales, and home.”
The heater gave up somewhere near a village called Kinmuir. I rubbed my hands together, cursing under my breath. Every bend in the road brought a new reminder that I was hundreds of miles from central heating, dry pavements, and a Pret coffee.
As daylight faded, the mountains rose around me—dark, quiet, immense. The kind of landscape that made you feel very small and very far from anyone who cared whether your Wi-Fi worked. When the sat-nav finally announced, Arriving at your destination in five miles, I could’ve wept.
The first sign for Pine Hollow appeared at the edge of a snow-dusted forest, the paint half-faded but welcoming:
Welcome to Pine Hollow– Where Winter Feels Like Home
I nearly laughed aloud. “Of course it does.”
The village appeared suddenly, nestled in a shallow valley between hills. Smoke curled from chimneys, lamplight glowed through frosted windows, and garlands of evergreen draped the narrow main street. It looked like a Christmas card someone had forgotten to photoshop reality into.
Despite myself, I slowed the car, taking it in. Cottages built from pale stone, wreaths hanging from every door, strings of fairy lights swaying between the rooftops. In the square, a tall Christmas tree stood half-decorated, its baubles flashing dull red beneath the falling snow.
It was absurdly charming. And, for some reason, that annoyed me even more.
I parked outside what looked like the church and killed the engine. The silence was immediate. Only the crunch of snow under my shoes broke it as I stepped out. The cold seemed sharper here, even cleaner. It stole my breath for a moment before I could speak again.
“Two days,” I told myself aloud. “Sign everything. Sell what needs selling. Back to London by Sunday.”
The wind didn’t seem convinced. I pulled out the file from my briefcase, flipping through the list of estate holdings. Several cottages, a millhouse, and of course, the bakery. The Honeycomb Hearth.
The name alone gave me a toothache.
I checked the address and glanced up the street. A soft, amber light glowed through the window of a small shop at the corner, condensation fogging the glass. Even from here, I could make out shelves lined with jars and the faint, drifting shape of someone moving inside.
Warmth and light spilled out as the door opened briefly for a customer, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of cinnamon and sugar. It was… comforting, which was ridiculous. I didn’t do comforting.
Still, for reasons I couldn’t explain, my feet started moving before my brain caught up.
The snow thickened again, swirling around the lampposts, settling on my shoulders. My expensive leather shoes were soaked through by the time I reached the door. A small brass bell hung above it, and beside the handle, someone had tied a ribbon in deep red velvet.
I stared at it for a moment, then took a breath, trying to reclaim whatever trace of professionalism I had left. My coat was creased, my hair damp, my mood irretrievable. But business was business.
I reached for the handle and stepped inside.
Warmth hit me first–then the smell. Sugar, spice, vanilla, and something deeper I couldn’t name. It wrapped around me, erasing for a moment the memory of turbulence and icy roads.
Behind the counter stood a woman with black hair loosely tied back, flour dusting the sleeves of her jumper. Her head was bent over a tray of pastries, her movements sure and graceful. When she looked up, surprise flickered in her eyes, followed by something unreadable.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then she straightened, brushing her hands on her apron. “Morning. You’re a bit early for the mince pies.”
Her voice was soft but carried a quiet strength that caught me off guard.
I cleared my throat. “I’m not here for pastries.” I hesitated, realising how ridiculous that sounded. “Oliver Grant. I believe I’m here regarding this property.”
The woman behind the counter wasn’t the one I’d expected.
She was younger than I’d imagined, bright-eyed, with a scatter of freckles across her nose and a name badge shaped like a gingerbread man that read Ivy.
Something in her expression shifted when I introduced myself as the light behind her caught in her hair, and I saw her shoulders stiffen slightly.
“Of course you are.” She grinned, her accent lilting, words quick and musical. “Boss lady’s in the back. Give me a sec.”
Before I could respond, she vanished through a swinging door, leaving me alone with the hum of the ovens and the faint buzz of a radio playing something cheerful and old-fashioned.
The bell above the door jingled again as another gust swept in behind me. I turned instinctively, watching the snow whip down the street in small, glittering spirals. For one strange moment, Claire’s last message echoed in my mind. Two days. You’ve got this.
I wasn’t so sure anymore.
The shop was cosy in a way I hadn’t realised I’d missed, all soft edges and mismatched jars, handwritten labels, the scent of butter and vanilla. A tiny chalkboard above the counter read Today’s Treats, and beneath it, someone had doodled a crooked snowman.
I was still taking it in when the door to the back room opened.
She had auburn hair swept into a loose braid, a dusting of flour on her cheek, and the kind of expression that made me forget, briefly, what I’d come to say. There was strength in the way she carried herself–not haughty, but steady. Her eyes found mine, wary and unflinching.
“Mr Grant, I presume?” she said, her voice even, quiet.
I cleared my throat. “That’s right. And you must be Miss Hart.”
“I am.”
The air between us seemed to tighten slightly, not hostile, just uncertain. The hum of the radio filled the silence, a slow carol threading through the moment.
She folded her arms. “I suppose you’re here to tell me how this is all going to work.”
“Not quite,” I said carefully. “I was hoping we could discuss it.”
Her lips curved–not a smile, exactly. “Discussing it won’t change much, will it?”
For the first time since landing in Scotland, I had no clever answer.
The hum of the ovens deepened, the scent of orange peel growing sweeter. Somewhere behind me, the bell over the door jingled again, a sound too soft to distract from the realisation settling slowly in my chest:
This was going to be much harder than I thought.