Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, the snow had settled into a steady curtain outside the hotel windows, soft enough to be pretty, heavy enough to make the streets quieter than usual.
I closed my laptop after half an hour of pretending to read the same contract clause and finally gave up the charade.
My brain wasn’t on work. It hadn’t been since last night.
By now, I knew roughly when Brianna would have the lunch rush starting. Warm bread, soup, her moving between tables, flour on her apron, just thinking about it made something in my chest loosen. It felt… safe there. Familiar, even.
I pulled on my coat and new scarf, nodded a vague goodbye to the receptionist, and stepped out into the cold.
The walk to the square had become second nature in less than a week.
Past the bookshop with its crooked sign, the florist tucking evergreen branches into baskets, the post office with its perpetually fogged windows.
Pine Hollow felt strangely lived-in already, like a pair of boots I hadn’t realised were my size.
The bakery came into view, warm light glowing behind frosted glass. And then my stomach dropped.
The front was dark. No customers. No movement inside. A small handwritten sign was taped to the door.
Closed today — Back tomorrow
- B
I stared at it longer than I should have.
Closed. She didn't mention anything last night, perhaps she had forgotten?
A flicker of unease stirred. Was she ill?
Had something happened after last night?
Had I… mis-stepped somehow? I blew out a breath, watching it cloud in the cold air, and turned back toward the street, debating whether to be sensible and leave it alone.
On the way, I passed two members of the hotel staff walking with takeaway coffees and chattering in that relaxed-small-town way that always sounded like everyone knew everything.
“You headin’ up to the hall?” one asked the other.
“Aye, wouldn’t miss it. Last planning meet before the Christmas Ball. The whole town’ll be there.”
I slowed my step.
“Will Bri be there?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
They both looked over, recognising me from the hotel.
“The baker?” one clarified with a smile. “Aye, she’s helpin’ with the food for the Ball. Town hall’s just up the road if you’re lookin’ for her.”
“Right,” I said. “Thank you.”
I could have gone back to the hotel. I could have let it go.
Instead, I found my feet already carrying me in the direction they’d pointed, toward the heart of Pine Hollow.
The town hall sat slightly elevated above the square, a solid old stone building with broad steps and tall windows wreathed in evergreen garlands.
Banners half-painted with festive lettering leaned against the walls.
A pine wreath hung over the door, looped with tartan ribbon.
Inside, the air was warm and buzzing. Folding chairs had been set up in messy rows; fairy lights trailed along the walls; a giant paper banner that read ‘PINE HOLLOW CHRISTMAS BALL’ lay across a long table, surrounded by pots of paint and brushes.
At least fifty people were gathered. Shop owners, families, teenagers, older couples.
And, near the front, next to Ivy, sat Brianna.
She had her arms folded loosely, fingers tapping lightly against her sleeve.
She looked tired, more than she had last night.
No apron, no flour on her cheeks this time, just a simple jumper and jeans.
Her hair was pulled back, a few strands falling loose around her face.
For a second, I just watched her. The way she listened without really listening.
The way her eyes seemed somewhere else. Then she glanced back and then saw me.
Her expression flickered. Surprise first. Then something unreadable.
Her gaze held mine for a moment… and then slid away. The stitch in my chest tightened.
Before I could move closer, the mayor, a round man with a shock of white hair and a red woollen jumper with snowflakes knitted into it, clapped his hands at the front.
“All richt, aw richt, let’s get started, folks!” he called, voice booming through the hall. “Thank ye aw for comin’. We’re only a few days oot now, sae we’ll run through the details one more time, for thae who’ve just draggit themselves away from their shops an telly.”
Soft laughter rippled through the crowd. I found a spot along the side wall, leaning back against the cool plaster, trying not to feel like too much of an outsider. A murmur floated through the chairs nearby.
“Is that him?”
“The London one?”
“Aye, that’ll be the Grant lad. Hm.”
I didn’t need to look to know who was whispering.
The knitting club trio occupied the second row like royalty, needles tucked away in their bags for the moment, hands folded neatly over their laps. They all glanced back at me at once. Mrs Campbell gave me a little wave, and I inclined my head politely.
They turned back, but I could feel the words they weren’t saying tangling in the air.
The mayor went on, gesturing animatedly as he spoke and I hard time understanding what he was saying due to his accent.
“Sae! As aye, the christmas ball will be held richt here in our beloved town hall. This Saturday, doors open at seven. We’ll have the band—thank ye, Calum, for ropin yer nephews into that, buffet tables lined along the walls, the tree in the centre will be lit at eight sharp. ”
A rumble of agreement and excitement. He flipped a page on his clipboard. “Decoratin’ starts tomorrow afternoon. We’ll neit volunteers tae strin the lichts, hang the garlands, an somebody tae help irene wi the table layouts–”
Hands went up. People shouted offers. It was all wonderfully chaotic.
“An o course,” the mayor added, his grin widening, “We couldn’t dae this without our own Miss Hart, who has kindly agreed to bake the christmas cake for the buffet.”
A low murmur of appreciation swept the hall. A few people even clapped. Brianna lifted her chin slightly at the sound, lips twitching into a small smile she tried to keep contained. She didn’t bask in it, but I could tell, even from a distance, that it meant something to her.
“That cake’s the highlight every year,” someone said behind me.
“Aye, her mum’d be proud,” another voice added quietly.
That hit harder than I expected. The meeting went on–discussing music, themes, even a “Best Festive Outfit” competition that the knitting club seemed deeply invested in. I caught maybe half of it. The rest of my attention kept circling back to Brianna.
To the crease between her brows when she thought no one was looking, to how she kept rubbing her thumb over the seam of her jeans, like she was trying to ground herself.
An hour later, the mayor wrapped things up with a flourish and a call for volunteers to help haul boxes out of the storage room later that day.
People began to stand, chatter swelling as chairs scraped the floor.
I slipped along the side aisle toward the exit, timing it so I reached the doorway just as Brianna and Ivy did.
“Brianna,” I said.
She stopped, turning halfway, the strap of her bag slipping a little on her shoulder. Up close, the tiredness was more obvious–a faint smudge under her eyes, a paleness that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”
“I went by the bakery this afternoon,” I said. “It was closed. I… was worried.”
Her expression flickered guilt, maybe, or something like it. Then she shook her head lightly. “Sorry. I forgot to mention it yesterday. Town business. They needed help with Ball planning.”
I nodded, though it didn’t explain the look I’d seen on her face during the meeting. “You all right?”
She opened her mouth to answer but before she could, the mayor’s voice boomed from somewhere behind us. “Brianna! You’ve no run off, have ye? neit ye for cake sizes an table space, lass!”
She flinched almost imperceptibly, then forced a small smile. “I should–”
“Go,” I said gently. “We can talk later.”
Some part of me hoped she’d protest. That she’d say she had a moment. That I mattered enough to delay cake logistics.
She just nodded. “Right. I’ll… see you.”
She turned, heading back toward the front, the mayor already waving her over with a stack of papers. I watched her go, that unsettled twist in my chest tugging tighter.
“Before you start overthinking,” a voice said at my elbow, “she’s not upset with you.”
I looked down to find Ivy standing there, arms folded, eyes sharper than usual.
“I wasn’t–” I began.
She gave me a look that said she wasn’t in the mood for lies. “You absolutely were.”
I huffed out a breath. “She seemed… off.”
“She gets like this every year,” Ivy said more softly, glancing past me to where Brianna was now talking to the mayor. “This week especially.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s the anniversary of her grandmother’s passing,” Ivy said.
“The one who taught her half the recipes she uses. The one who used to bring her here to help decorate the hall for the Ball when she was little.” Her expression softened.
“Her mum died in the spring, but this week… this is when it hits her first. Like clockwork.”
A thread of understanding tugged inside me.
“I didn’t know,” I said quietly.
“She doesn’t talk about it much,” Ivy replied. “Doesn’t like making people feel sorry for her. She throws herself into work. The bakery and the Ball. Anything so she doesn’t have to think too hard about who’s missing.”
I looked at Brianna again, standing beside the mayor, nodding carefully as she listened to instructions, her face composed.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“She’ll be fine,” Ivy said. “She always is. Just… maybe don’t push too hard today, all right?”
The way she said it had layers. A warning. A request. A measure of how much she was willing to trust me near someone she clearly loved like family.
“I wasn’t planning on pushing,” I said. “I just… wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
Ivy studied me for a moment, as if weighing something. Then she nodded once. “Good.”
From the second row, the knitting trio had turned in their seats again, watching me and Ivy with predatory interest. Mrs. Lennox leaned in to whisper something to Mrs. Douglas, whose eyes went positively gleeful.
Mrs. McAvoy just smirked. I had the distinct feeling my presence at this meeting had just promoted whatever story they’d already constructed about Brianna and me to a full-fledged saga.
“I should help with the boxes out back,” Ivy said, backing away. “You heading off?”
I glanced once more at Brianna. She was laughing at something the mayor had said now, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “For now.”
“Then I’ll see you,” Ivy said. “And, Oliver?”
“Yes?”
“Keep your promise please and do everything you can to help her not lose her home.” She didn’t say it like a threat. She said it like a promise she’d make the town keep if I failed.
I swallowed. “I’m trying very hard not to.”
She gave a small, satisfied nod and disappeared into the moving crowd.
I stepped out into the cold again, the door closing softly behind me.
Snow was still falling, gentler now, dusting the steps and railings.
The square below looked almost unreal–like one of those Christmas villages people put on mantels, frozen mid-scene.
My breath drifted in front of me as I stood there.
The Christmas Ball.
Her grandmother.
The bakery.
The estate papers weighed heavily on my shoulders.
I had come here to execute a set of instructions.
Sell what needed selling. Consolidate, tidy, move on.
Instead, I’d walked straight into the middle of a life.
Into memories and grief and traditions and a woman who looked at this town like it was stitched into her bones.
And I was starting to realise that whatever decision I made…
it wasn’t just numbers on a page anymore.
It was her.
Her home.
Her history.
And, if I was honest with myself for even a second–it was becoming mine too.