Jingle Blades (The Peppermint Playbook #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

CHLOE

The dense forest of pine trees thins, giving way to a cluster of chalet-style buildings with turrets and steeply pitched roofs.

Their facades are a warm blend of sandstone, cream stucco, and dark hand-carved wood.

Wrought-iron balconies curve along the upper floors, wrapped in evergreen garlands and twinkling lights, reminding everyone that Christmas is only a week away.

Then I see it—the rink. My breath catches.

The smooth frozen surface reflects the lights strung overhead and the snow-dusted mountain peaks beyond.

For a second, all I can think is this is where I get to skate this week.

Not in a dim practice arena or under flickering fluorescents, but here, in this storybook setting.

“This is the Mynt Peak Resort?” I ask, my nose pressed against the window. “It looks like something straight out of a European postcard.”

“Yes, Miss Reynolds.” The driver chuckles. “Where do you think Mr. Mynt took his inspiration from?”

“We’re in the big leagues now,” I whisper to myself, pinching my forearm, still unable to believe how far I’ve climbed up in the world since winning the US national figure skating title earlier this year.

I may come from a wealthy family, but I’ve been financially independent since I was eighteen.

And on my own longer than that. Staying in a place like this is a dream.

Less than six months ago, whenever I traveled for a competition, I was googling motels under a hundred dollars a night and praying the bathroom had halfway decent water pressure, and the walls weren’t paper-thin.

And now? Now I’m staying at a five-star resort where the fireplace in the lobby is larger than the bathroom in my apartment.

As the car pulls up to the front entrance, a doorman in a forest-green pressed coat opens the door, and the resort’s valet team rushes forward to unload my luggage. They’re like a well-oiled Formula One pit crew.

“Chloe! Chloe!” a familiar voice shouts.

I turn just in time to see a blond pixie come flying past the doorman. Emma barrels into me with one of her signature bear hugs, knocking me back a step against the SUV.

“Oof. It’s good to see you too.” We both start laughing. Some things never change. Emma’s always been tiny but mighty.

Standing a hair under five feet tall, Emma always wears her strawberry-blond hair piled high in a bun and has ice-blue eyes.

She’s as close to the real-life Tinker Bell as you can get.

Like me, she’s twenty-three years old. We met in California when we were freshmen at Fresno State, and have been best friends ever since.

“Why didn’t you text me that you were almost here? I had to hear the valet guys announce your name over the radio,” she says, finally letting go of me.

“Cut me some slack. I didn’t even know where we were.” I laugh. “I’ve only been to Winterbrook one other time. After we left the Denver airport, it was just pine trees and snow for miles. I could’ve sworn we were driving in circles.”

Emma smirks. “Okay, fine. Being lost in the forest is a valid excuse.” She glances at her watch, then bites her lip. “Hmm . . . technically, it’s a little early for me to clock out for my lunch break, but since you’re here . . .”

Her voice trails off. Her eyes gleam the same way they used to when we’d go on our midnight milkshake runs.

I snort. “Didn’t your shift start at ten? You haven’t even been on the clock for an hour yet. It’s only ten fifty-five. Won’t your boss get mad?”

“He’s not here yet,” Emma says with a shrug. “I’ve got the opening shift at the concierge desk today, which basically means all I have to do is smile at people, hand out resort maps, and pretend to look busy until noon.”

“Emma.” I groan and face-palm. “What if somebody actually needs you?”

“I put the ‘We’ll Be Back Soon’ sign up,” she says with an air of confidence.

“Besides, I’m with you. You’re a VIP guest.” She rests a hand on my shoulder.

“Mr. Mynt gave the resort staff strict orders. All the athletes coming here for the Mynt to Make a Difference charity event this week are to be treated like royalty. I’m just doing what he wants. ”

Barry Mynt is the eccentric owner of Mynt Athletic Clothing and the resort.

He likes to name things after himself. I’ve only met the man once, but he’s not the type of person you’re likely to forget.

He may be in his early sixties, but his energy and enthusiasm would make you think he’s still in his twenties.

I sigh. As much as I’d love nothing more than to catch up with Emma, preferably over mugs of hot chocolate by the fireplace, I don’t want my bestie to lose her job. I know how hard she’s worked to earn one of the resort’s coveted concierge positions.

“Em, seriously,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’ll be here for five whole days. We’ve got plenty of time to catch up.”

She gives me a look, the kind that says, You’re being reasonable, and I don’t like it. “Fine. But only because I know where your suite is and I can ambush you later.” We enter the lobby. “At least let me help you get checked in.”

We enter the lobby. Soaring timber beams stretch overhead. A massive stone fireplace anchors the far wall, its hearth framed by cozy armchairs and oversized plaid pillows.

“It smells so good in here,” I say, pausing just inside the doorway. “Like fresh pine and . . .” I frown, trying to place the warm, spiced note dancing under my nose. I inhale again, slower this time. “Something like . . . cinnamon?”

“Mulled wine?” Emma offers.

I sniff the air again. “Yeah, that’s it. Mulled wine.”

Emma grins. “I’ll let you in on a trade secret. There are diffusers spread throughout the lobby that pipe the scent inside. Mr. Mynt had it created exclusively for the holidays here at the resort.”

“I’m impressed,” I murmur, my gaze sweeping across the room.

“It’s all about the details. That’s why we’re a five-star resort.”

She’s right. The details are everywhere.

Garlands of cedar and twinkle lights wrap around every column, dotted with velvet bows and sprigs of holly.

A pair of reindeer sculptures made entirely of silver bells flank the grand staircase.

In the center of the lobby, a towering Christmas tree sparkles with vintage-style bulbs.

And near the check-in desk, there’s even a life-sized gingerbread cabin.

“Is that real?” I ask, pointing to the gingerbread house.

“What do you think?” Emma asks.

I squint at it. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Ding, ding, ding. Ten points to Chloe Reynolds.” But before I can wander over for a closer look, Emma steers me gently toward the front desk. “Come on, gingerbread later. Let’s get you checked in.”

Afew hours later, once Emma’s officially on her lunch break and no longer sneaking around like a criminal, we head to the resort’s café just off the lobby.

Inside, it’s warm and bustling, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the snowy courtyard and rink.

The air smells like espresso and freshly baked bread. We grab a table in the back corner.

“So what’s it like being the best figure skater in the country?” Emma asks, taking a bite of her sandwich and eyeing me like she already knows I’ll downplay it.

My cheeks burn. “The same as being the fifth best. Just with a little more funding.”

She rolls her eyes. “Chloe. You seriously still think your win was a fluke?”

I stay silent and lean back in my chair, letting my gaze drift to the snowflakes falling outside.

Nationals is the most important domestic competition for American figure skaters.

It’s the one that decides who goes to Worlds, and in Olympic years, who gets to represent the red, white, and blue on the biggest stage of all.

Normally, everyone brings their A-game. But this year? It was a total splat-fest. Falls, under-rotations, missed elements—you name it, it happened. It was as if the ice was cursed.

Everyone had a horrible competition. Except for me. That night, I was one of the few people who skated clean. I’ve never been one of the skaters with the most technically difficult program, and usually, that holds me back. But this time, it worked in my favor.

“I won because everyone else messed up,” I say in a low voice.

Emma shakes her head. “No, Chloe. You’re looking at it backward. You were calm and cool, and delivered when it mattered. That’s not luck. That’s what champions do. And if it was really a fluke, you wouldn’t have been the top American finisher at Worlds.”

I stir my soup, watching the steam rise, not quite ready to meet her eyes.

I guess she has a point. Worlds was strange too.

Even though it was my first time, I felt like there was no pressure.

The American Skating Union just wanted me to finish high enough to ensure the US earned a full three spots for the Olympic Games.

As long as I skated like I do every day in practice, I knew it was within reach.

But I did better than that. I skated the best programs of my life and finished fourth. Amaya Gilcrest and Samantha Porter, both previous national champs, were expected to challenge for the podium and finish ahead of me. I was supposedly the weak link.

But once again, like Nationals, they both fell apart in the free skate, and suddenly, I was the top American. Sure, a medal would’ve been nice. But honestly? I’m just happy I can officially call myself the fourth-best skater in the world.

I take another sip of soup, letting the warmth settle in my chest. Then I change the subject. “How’s your family?”

Emma’s parents own the local florist shop, the one that supplies all the flowers, gift baskets, and a few other special amenities for the resort.

“They’re good. Mom and Dad would love to have you over for dinner at least once while you’re here.”

“I’d love to see them,” I reply with a smile. “And, um, how’s your brother?”

“Drew’s good.” She shrugs, and frustratingly, doesn’t offer any more information.

I try not to look too disappointed, but I was hoping for at least some news. Even a tiny breadcrumb. Drew is four years older than Emma, and he’s always had a way of causing my heart to play hopscotch whenever we’ve crossed paths.

Drew’s the kind of guy you don’t forget easily. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and built like someone who runs marathons for fun—which he does. His wavy nutmeg-colored hair somehow always looks perfectly tousled, even after running ten miles.

His eyes are a warm-brown, like maple syrup in sunlight. But my favorite feature is his grin. It’s a smug, smoldering kind of grin, like Flynn Rider from Tangled. Personality wise, Drew thinks he’s funny—and unfortunately, he is.

“Is he, um, still doing marketing for Pacific Skyways?” I ask, trying to sound casual as I take a sip of my soup.

“Nope. They filed for bankruptcy and laid off his whole department.” Emma makes a face. “I could’ve sworn I told you that.”

“Nuh-uh.” I shake my head. “When did that happen?”

“About six months ago. He’s moved back in with Mom and Dad and is working in the shop part-time until he figures out what he wants to do next.”

“And you’re just mentioning it now?”

She shrugs. “It didn’t seem all that important.”

Maybe I’ll actually get to see him. My stomach performs the type of somersaults that would earn bonus points from any Olympic judge.

He’s never looked at me as more than his little sister’s friend.

But Christmas is around the corner, and who knows .

. . if I find a little mistletoe, maybe I’ll be lucky enough to steal a kiss.