Chapter 11
REBECCA
The lobby phone keeps ringing with calls from Lilith, my publicist, and my social media manager. It’s like she launched a full-scale attack on Christmas. Everyone demands a piece of me, needs an answer, requires my attention.
When I left Las Vegas, I was running on empty and even though I’ve been filled up with the Christmas spirit, I want to guard it with my life.
But nobody at the inn is making a fuss that a famous pop star is among them.
I’m just Rebecca here. The woman with the yappy little dog who is undoubtedly flirting with the attractive firefighter who is also stranded here. The one searching for a missing star. No autographs. No selfies. Just ... normal.
Then, with startling clarity, I realize that this is what I want. Not the absence of music, but the presence of genuine connection. Of being seen for who I am, not what I can do for someone’s bottom line. The ability to be myself without all the baggage.
The decision crystallizes in my mind like frost on a window.
I’m retiring.
Not from music—never from that. But from the version of my life where I’m a product, a brand, a carefully curated image that strayed far from the girl who fell in love with the piano because it made people feel something special.
I’ll do the New Year’s concert. One last show before I announce my retirement from touring, from the manufactured relationships, and from attaching my name to causes I don’t believe in.
I’ll sing on my terms. Maybe in small venues. Perhaps in coffee shops—even at a certain bakery in Huckleberry Hill that serves Crush Cakes.
Even if it results in a lawsuit, as Lilith threatened. However, if I’ve learned anything in show business, it’s that most of it is flash, dazzle, and illusion.
My freedom is worth the price, whatever the cost.
I ask Noella if I can use the computer. She agrees on one condition, that I try one of her gingerbread cookies fresh out of the oven.
She must see that I’m about to snap.
After one bite, I relax. “Oddly, this is exactly what I needed.”
She laughs knowingly.
But it’s not just the cookie. It’s my great escape, Reese, being snowed-in. Being forced to slow down. No, stop and take a hard look at my life.
My hands are surprisingly steady as I pull up my banking app on the computer. I make a donation—a huge one—to a legitimate children’s medical research foundation. In Brady’s family’s name. In Ruthie’s honor.
Because my brother keeping track of me from afar and sending Reese to find me gave me the best Christmas of my life. The one that reminded me who I actually am.
I try to find Reese to tell him, but he’s not by the tree and not in the game room. When I finally spot him by the window, staring out at the snow, my chest craters.
He’s pulling away. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he doesn’t quite meet my eyes when I approach.
“Reese—”
“We should keep looking for the star.” His tone is neutral, lacking the warmth I thought had been kindling between us.
He doesn’t believe I’ll leave my career. He thinks I’ll go back to Los Angeles and forget about him, about this, about everything we’ve found here.
Maybe I deserve that doubt. I’ve spent years being exactly the kind of person who chooses fame over what matters.
But not anymore and I’m going to prove it.
Christmas dinner is a traditional feast—roasted turkey, glazed ham, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and more than enough homemade rolls to feed all the carb-starved women in my pop star orbit.
However, I sense a slight damper over everything because of the missing star.
Still, I have a feeling it’s going to turn up.
Things have a way of working out. I have to believe that.
After the feast, Noella mentions that the lobby piano is available if anyone wants to play—it’s tradition, but she seems forlorn, missing the star.
I glance at Reese. “Will you play with me?”
He looks surprised. “I don’t really play.”
“You know chopsticks. Come on.” I nudge him with my shoulder.
We sit side by side on the piano bench, legs pressed together.
I start with a simple melody I wrote years ago, very likely when he and my brother were in the other room, watching a hockey game and hollering at me to keep it down.
My voice drips with longing as I hum along, warming up my fingers and my voice.
I switch to a Christmas tune and Reese perks up, singing a few words here and there. I show him where to position his fingers to play the deep parts.
We harmonize on “Joy to the World,” and then I add a little vibrato on “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” Though the truth is, I am home.
Through the music, I’m trying to tell him everything I can’t quite say with words. That I’m choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing a life where I can be present for the people I love.
When the last note fades, there’s applause from the other guests, but I’m only looking at Reese.
“That was beautiful,” he says softly. “So are you.”
I want to press my mouth to his, but one of the kids in the group of people standing nearby asks us to play “Jingle Bells.”
I happily oblige and take requests, losing track of time as my voice melds with everyone else’s in a picture-perfect Christmas evening scene.
Later, after braving the chill for Pookie’s walk, Reese and I are walking back to the room for the night.
The grand Christmas tree glows, but is still missing its star.
Then I notice something odd. From this angle, it almost looks like a bare stripe runs down the side.
The ornaments are missing in a straight line from the top of the tree to the bottom.
Setting Pookie down, I point it out to Reese.
He studies it for a long moment. “I didn’t see that before, but you’re right.”
Noella is behind the desk and I ask her if, earlier, when she found the star had gone missing, she found any ornaments on the ground. “Hollis did.”
Reese motions as he says, “It’s almost like the star glided down the side of the tree, like a sled down a hill, clearing everything in its path.”
Noella shows us where her husband found the ornaments, indicating they were scattered around.
“This is helpful to know,” Reese mutters.
We follow the various locations of the ornaments, turning around a corner and past the gift shop. Pookie takes off running behind a massive stack of wrapped presents for the lodge’s charity drive.
“Pooks,” I call.
Noella’s eyes are wide as if nervous the pug is going to unwrap—or tinkle on—all the gifts.
“She’s off her usual routine,” I explain.
“A very pampered pooch,” Noella says, understanding.
But I don’t at all understand what happens next as I continue to call my dog out from her hiding place. Reese carefully shifts some of the boxes and I spot something glinting next to where Pookie sits, wagging her tail proudly.
“Is that the star?” Noella exclaims, palms pressed to her cheeks.
I reach behind the presents and pull out the beautiful silver star. Thankfully, it’s intact and gleaming.
Pookie lunges for it as if she’s a dragon and I’m robbing her hoard.
“Pookie,” Reese and I say at the same time.
Sure enough, there are tiny paw prints in the dust behind the presents.
We put the pieces of the puzzle together, speculating that the star must’ve fallen off the tree and slid down the side. Pookie, spotting something shiny, must have dragged it here. She’s used to luxury, sequins, glitter … I’ve spoiled her.
I apologize profusely to Noella. She speculates that my dog is acting out since this isn’t the type of vacation that she’s used to. The woman dressed as Mrs. Claus winks.
So she does know who I am … interesting. My heart warms with gratitude that she treated me like a normal person.
I tell Pookie that she’ll have to get used to a new way of life. Then again, nothing about the last few days has been ordinary.
“Everything always has a way of turning up and working out the way it’s supposed to.” Noella whisks down the hall to share the good news with the star held aloft.
We follow slowly and I look at Reese meaningfully and think about my career and our future. It’s all going to work out for us, too. I have to believe that.
Those evergreen eyes brighten with hope, maybe. Or the beginning of belief.
Unable to hold it in or risk losing the chance, I blurt, “I’m retiring from touring, from all of it. I’m doing the New Year’s show and announcing it there, and I’m moving to Huckleberry Hill.”
His eyebrows pop. “What?”
“I want to be near my family. Near Brady, his wife, who is like the sister I never had, the boys, and Ruthie. I want to be the kind of aunt who shows up for soccer games and doctor’s appointments.
The kind of sister my brother can rely on, talk to.
” I take a shaky breath. “And I want to be near you. If you don’t mind. ”
“If I—?” He stops, shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Becca, are you sure? This is your career, your life—”
“No. This—” I gesture between us. “This is my life. What I had before became noise … like a piano, a life out of tune.”
His gaze hovers over my face, searching for certainty, for truth.
He must find it because suddenly his hands are cupping my jaw and he’s kissing me. Deep and sure and full of promise.
My stomach clenches with want. The world blurs around us. His voice is deep and husky when he pulls back just enough to speak.
“Stay,” he says. “Please stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise.
We collide again and linger, lips brushing, heads adjusting, the space between us nonexistent as we continue to kiss.
Even though it’s cold and storming outside, this feels like the perfect amount of warmth.
It’s a cozy fire in a kiss. A soft glow as our lips work together. Candlelight that never flickers.
The idea for a new song floats into my mind and I can almost hear it playing in the room.
My hands explore the terrain of Reese’s back as he grips me close, fingers strong and sure, capable and gentle at the same time.
The kiss deepens and I can’t help but think we’re writing a story, complete with a soundtrack that’s all our own.
When we part, Reese laces our fingers together and kisses the top of my hand. I know with complete certainty that I’ve finally found what I’ve been searching for all along.