Chapter 2
REESE
It’s seven thirty on Christmas Eve morning, and I’m knocking on the door of room twenty-three at Timber’s Edge Inn instead of face-down in bed where I belong.
No answer.
The place has the holiday spirit, which, admittedly, I do not quite have this year. By that, I mean my rental can’t so much as boast a wreath, never mind a Christmas tree.
As for me, the stocking with my name embroidered on it hangs at the station—thanks, Mrs. Weaver.
I think she feels bad that she calls us every other week because her kitchen’s fire alarm goes bonkers when she tries to cook.
Best stick with the needle and thread, ma’am.
While I appreciate the stocking, I‘m wary of what the guys may stuff it with this year.
I also may have nabbed more than a few of the iced sugar cookies the Williams family brought by.
They were worth the extra reps at the gym.
I’ve been busy this year, caught up in life as a fireman, and haven’t been able to fully settle into the fact that it’s already Christmas Eve. Seems like Thanksgiving was only last week.
I knock on the door again, louder this time. After pulling a forty-eight-hour shift at the station, the last thing I want to do is play “wellness check” for my best friend’s little sister. But Brady sounded worried on the phone, and when he asks for a favor, I show up.
Even if I’m running on two hours of sleep and the questionable coffee Hayes made. I’m pretty sure I swallowed at least half a cup of grounds.
A dog barks from inside the room. At least, I think it’s a dog. Sounds more like a faulty squeaky toy made by a rogue Christmas elf.
The shift was relatively quiet—just the usual calls.
My favorite was the SkyBnB guests who were convinced the place was on fire because they heard an alarm going off.
Turned out that the previous renter set an alarm clock, so they wouldn’t miss their checkout time, and it somehow managed to get wedged behind the nightstand.
I could resent calls like that, but it keeps us sharp.
Plus, playing Sherlock Holmes in the “mystery of the beeping wall” is sure better than a burning one.
I’m about to knock a third time when the door swings open.
And there she is.
Rebecca Rivers—sorry, Rebecca Rios now—looking adorably disheveled in a glittery gown.
Some women sleep in flannel nighties. Apparently, her preferred sleepwear consists of chiffon, satin, or whatever that gauzy fabric is.
Her auburn hair comes loose from what must have been a fancy updo.
Her brown sugar eyes are still heavy with sleep, while still covered in day-old makeup.
As if slipping on a second costume, she shifts with an irritated posture, like she temporarily forgot her stage persona when she first woke up.
Though she blinks at me like she’s still dreaming.
We stare at each other for a solid ten seconds.
“Hey, Becca.”
Her eyes widen as recognition kicks in. “Reese?”
“The one and only.” I lean against the doorframe, trying to look more awake than I feel.
My turnout gear is back in my locker, but I’m wearing my station uniform—a navy blue shirt with the Sierra Nevada Spur Municipal Complex logo and matching utility pants, looking every bit the firefighter who just rolled off shift.
“What are you doing here?” She sounds genuinely confused, which tracks with what Brady said about her abruptly going radio silent when he called no less than two dozen times to confirm her travel plans after her show in Vegas.
“Your brother wanted me to check on you.”
“Brady sent you?” Her voice pitches higher. “How did he—?”
That’s when something small, furry, and wearing what appears to be a rhinestone-studded jacket shoots between her legs and bolts down the hallway.
“Oh no, Pookie!” Rebecca lunges after the dog. “How did you—? You’ve never jumped off the bed before—it’s so high!”
I’m already moving, my training kicking in even though this is definitely not the kind of rescue I’m used to. The tiny pug—and I mean tiny because it could fit in a coffee mug—is surprisingly fast for having legs shorter than candy canes.
“Pookie, come back!” Rebecca is right behind me, barefoot and frantic. “She’s going to ruin her paw-di-cure!”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “Her what?”
“She had a spa day yesterday before the show!” Rebecca’s eyes are wide with panic. “Do you think this place has a pet spa?”
“I think we should focus on catching your dog first.”
We round the corner and nearly collide with Hollis, who co-owns the inn with his wife, Noella. He takes one look at me in my uniform and his eyebrows lift. “Reese, are you here on a call?”
“Something like that.” I scan the hallway. “Have you seen a small dog?”
“A puglet,” Becca says.
“A piglet?” Hollis’s eyebrows practically disappear into his white hair.
“My mini teacup pug.” Rebecca skids to a stop beside me.
She’s breathing hard, and I try very hard not to notice how the rosy flush to her cheeks makes her glow, despite the situation. I turn the dial on my thoughts down. She’s Brady’s little sister, which means she’s off-limits. I have to focus on the dog.
“Pookie!” Rebecca calls.
I tuck my chin, not necessarily eager to holler, “Pookie” in public.
“Pookie?” I ask.
Rebecca lifts her chin, contrite. “Yes, like pug and cookie mixed together. She’s my little pugcess.”
Letting out a sigh of what may very well be disbelief at the situation I find myself in, I say, “Let me guess, ‘pugcess’ is a play on the word princess?”
She beams as if I just answered a trivia question correctly. “That’s right!”
“You should’ve named her Dasher at this rate.”
Hollis points toward the end of the hall where a small Christmas tree stands in front of a window with frosted panes.
On one side is the exit to the stairwell, and on the other, a small library, if I remember correctly.
I’ve never stayed here, but I’ve been through several times as a matter of training and for various community events.
Hollis says, “Saw something zoom past a second ago. Thought it was a dust bunny or that I ought not have had that second cup of eggnog,” he mutters that last part.
We take off again, and a tiny, sparkly critter streaks past the tree, darting toward the library.
Practically sprinting, I catch the pug as she’s about to careen into a large, lit-up, trumpeting angel.
In one smooth scoop, harkening back to the days when Brady and I would play ball, and I’m holding the squirming, yipping ball of fur at arm’s length.
“Got her.”
Rebecca’s face floods with relief. She takes Pookie from me, cradling the dog close, and cooing like a mother would to a frightened child.
All pretense of an irritable and entitled starlet has vanished.
She’s Becca now. Then, turning to me, she says, “Thank you, Reese. Thank you so much. How can I pay you back?”
I nod in acknowledgement. “Just let your brother know you’re okay.”
Her smile drops and a guarded wall of ice slides onto her face. “I can’t.”
“You can’t tell him you’re okay?”
“I can’t call him.” She shifts Pookie to one arm.
“Why not?” I ask, exhaustion replacing adrenaline now that the dog is safe and sound.
Rebecca says, “I don’t have my phone.”
Not surprising since that dress clearly doesn’t have pockets, which also might mean she doesn’t have her room key. “Don’t tell me you got locked out of your room.”
She glances over her shoulder. “That would be the frosting on the sugar cookie, wouldn’t it? But I mean that it’s not here. I, uh, lost my phone.”
I raise an eyebrow. Someone like Rebecca Rios—a pop star with millions of followers, constantly posting on social media—lost her phone? Unlikely. I smell something suspicious and it’s not the aforementioned cookies wafting temptingly from somewhere in this building.
“You lost it?” I ask.
She bites her lip.
“By accident? Depending on the model, I’m sure we can track it.” I start to explain the feature, but she shakes her head.
“Not exactly.”
I ask, “Do you mean you lost your phone on purpose?”
She winces. “I, uh, threw it out the window on my way here.”
My brows pinch together because that doesn’t seem like something a person who lives and breathes for the spotlight would do.
I pull out my phone. “Brady has been worried. I’ll call him for you then.” I’m already pulling up his contact info.
“Wait.” Her hand shoots out, stopping short of grabbing my wrist.
“How did he even find out that I’m here? Nobody knows where I went.”
Panic mixed with desperation turns her smooth, smoky voice into sandpaper. That makes me pause. I study her face more carefully. Dark circles color the space under her eyes. Tension tugs at her shoulders. And she’s holding that ridiculous dog like it’s a rescue float.
This isn’t just a pop star having a diva moment. Something is wrong. My protective instincts kick in.
“Becca,” I start softly, wanting her to know she’s safe with me, whatever is going on.
My mind instantly flips to worst-case scenarios, but as a first responder, I’m trained to deal with situations that go well beyond the scope of fires.
“Someone named Lilith called Brady. She asked if he’d heard from you.
That was a red flag. He tracked your credit card,” I admit, wondering if she’ll hold it against him.
He’s her older brother and has always looked out for her. Also, he’s a cop, so there’s that.
Her throat bobs on a swallow, whether because she’s guilty or nervous, I can’t quite tell.
“Brady called me because I’m close by.”
“Of course he did.” She deflates a little, then seems to remember she’s standing in a hotel hallway in a sparkly gown and bare feet. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Thank you for finding Pookie. And for ... checking on me.”
“That’s what friends do.” The words come out soft, almost like a secret.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see the girl I used to know. The one who’d sneak extra cookies when her mom wasn’t looking. Who laughed at my terrible jokes. Who I definitely did not have a crush on, thank you very much.
“Are we … friends?” she asks quietly, as if the notion of friends of any sort is ancient history.
Before I can answer—before I can even process the question—Pookie lets out another squeaky bark, as if reminding us she’s the real star of this show.
Rebecca manages a small smile. “I should probably get her back to the room and put on actual clothes.”
I point to the snorting little animal. “On her—?”
She exhales a baby’s breath. “No, I left Pookie’s luggage behind.”
“She has luggage?”
“She’s a dog, of course she has—”
“That is not a dog.”
The corner of Rebecca’s lip twitches. “She’s a dog-ish.”
The tight knot at the base of my neck loosens. Whatever is going on in Rebecca’s life that brought her here isn’t so bad that she lost her sense of humor.
“I meant my clothes. I don’t have any.”
“Was there a fire or a flood?”
“No, um, I made an abrupt exit, stage left.”
I nod slowly as exhaustion turns the edges of my awareness fuzzy. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, um, I’ll leave my number at the desk downstairs. I should leave. Um, call Brady, report back, go home, and crash.”
Just then, my phone beeps with an aggressive emergency alert, setting Pookie into another squeaky barking fit like I heard when I originally knocked on Rebecca’s hotel room door.
She pales as if it’s a missing person’s report and I’m going to send her back to wherever she came from.
I skim the briefing. “Ooh. This doesn’t look good. The weather center has escalated the snowstorm headed this way to a historic blizzard. The roads are officially closed except for emergency vehicles.
Rebecca looks at my uniform. “That would be you, right?”
“I’m off the clock, but otherwise, yes.”
From the foot of the stairs, Noella, inn co-owner and the kindly woman who has occupied the main desk for as long as I can remember, rings a soft bell, making a general announcement to anyone within earshot. “Roads are closed. But we’re all safe and cozy here.”
“That means we can’t leave?”
“It would be at your own risk.”
“Is there an electric vehicle charging station here?”
I shake my head. “I’m afraid not.”
“So I’m stuck.”
“Where were you trying to go?”
“Home.”
Knowing Brady and I do—the man is practically a brother—he wouldn’t want her risking the drive through the mountains. Not even with me behind the wheel.
She looks at me, expectant, and I know what she’s going to ask.
This feels like it could be trouble or the best thing in my life waiting to happen.