Chapter 3
three
brIDGET
MARCH 9
I don’t believe in luck.
I believe in hard-earned rewards.
So coming to Enchanted Hollow to figuratively lick my wounds is probably an odd choice. I’ve seen enough in the last few months to know this place is full of silly superstitions and whimsical happenings.
But I needed to escape Colorado and this was the first place I thought to come.
Before our mother moved us all away in high school, I suppose Enchanted Hollow felt like home. I had friends here—a whole life. Even if I squint just right looking for bad memories, the only one that crosses my mind is when we left.
Ella’s heart never left here. And I suppose Laila’s didn’t really either. She surprised both of us when she came clean about seeing Holden for years in secret.
I kept my mouth closed, but it was the first time I realized how far out of the loop I’d become. Where was I a few months ago when Ella was confiding in Laila about her feelings about her secret pen pal and about her cute neighbor, Luke?
How did I miss Laila spending whole weekends here with the love of her life? And why didn’t she feel like she could tell me about him? Ever? It took one snowed-in experience in an enchanted rental—affectionately named Wanderlust Refuge—for her to realize what she was missing.
I’m not looking for a magical glimpse into my future à la Ebeneezer Scrooge. Or any magical glimpse.
I just want a place to collect my thoughts and figure out who I am post-Andrew. With no marriage left to plan or a relationship to speak of, I’m really not sure who I am anymore. Toss in the fact that my career—the one thing I was exceptionally good at—burst into flames, and I just need some direction.
Some peace.
So I’m following Weston’s random advice and my sister’s suggestion to just… get away.
I pull into the driveway of the Victorian house and take a moment to just sit. It’s off the beaten path, nestled in tall trees, hidden away from the world. Technically, it’s a little creepy to be so far away from everything, but I’ll try to ignore all the horror stories I’ve accumulated over the years from true crime podcasts.
Both Laila and Ella told me it would just make me paranoid.
But, I’m perfectly fine.
Checking everything out is the first priority on my list, so I open my door, wholly unprepared for the blast of wind from the North when I step out.
“Holy moly,” I mutter to myself.
A cute short-sleeved top is not appropriate clothing for this weather. I rush to the front door, eagerly punching in the code as the sun gets even closer to the horizon. Of course, as deep as I am in the woods, there’s even less light.
I’m grateful for the light-up keys to make the process quicker.
As soon as I step inside, things feel a little off. It’s dark, save the fire in the fireplace. I don’t know why there would be a fire already burning, with no extra light to welcome me, but Laila and Holden mentioned the rental could be a little moody with the enchantments.
I was wishing for warmth, not light so I let it go and hustle straight for the flames.
The heat from the fire in the stone fireplace feels a little like Heaven. Neither sister mentioned it being cold when we talked last, but I also didn’t tell them I was coming in early for the Shamrock Shuffle.
So that’s on me. I’d have packed better if they’d known my whole schedule.
But I wanted a couple of days to myself. Well… not alone . Just not with them. Not that I’ll be spending a ton of time with them anyway, they’re both busy with all the events this week. We’ll get to see each other a couple of times and I’ll get to enjoy the festivities.
Alone.
I’ve loved every minute of planning weddings—their weddings—but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone now. And they want me to be as happy as they are, so if they know my engagement is toast, word will get around this town.
Fairy godmothers have zero boundaries and I’m not loving the idea of being fixed up by one. Maybe someday, but not now. I’m here to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day festivities and to love on my niece and catch up on time with my family.
I sigh as the heat from the fireplace replaces the cold in my body. Exhaustion creeps in to replace the shivering sensation. Maybe I can order some soup and crawl into bed.
First, I’ll just sit for a few minutes. Then, I’ll head back out to the car and grab my suitcase before I bring it in and unpack everything.
I take a step back, lowering myself onto the couch, only to land on something solid.
Something warm.
Something that lets out a groan beneath me.
Someone .
A yelp escapes me and I dart forward, slamming my shins into the coffee table I didn’t previously see.
This is exactly how people are murdered.
My pulse climbs as my heart jackhammers against my ribs.
The blanket-covered mass on the couch shifts, mumbling something unintelligible and I panic a little more. They sound like a male voice, which is only verified by the muscular arm that swings out from beneath the fabric.
There’s a man on my couch.
My true crime podcast inner voice takes over and shouts all the possibilities into my brain: Intruder. Serial killer. Kidnapper.
The words flash through my mind like neon signs.
“I’ve got pepper spray!” I shout, right before I do the next thing that makes the most sense in this exact scenario.
I scream bloody murder.
In my defense, it does the job. My shrill, horror-movie worthy scream forces the stranger in my house into motion. Somewhere, Jamie Lee Curtis is giving me a standing ovation. And then I go slack-jawed as the blanket falls away to reveal rumpled auburn hair, broad shoulders, and a very shirtless, irritated Weston Reilly.
For a second I forget I’m supposed to be terrified and stare, because it’s like seeing Jack Reacher shirtless for the first time.
I can’t help it. It’s impressive.
Then my brain finally shifts from panicked overactive imagination to absolute horror.
“You,” I hiss, my eyes narrowing.
“Who else would I be?” he rasps, his voice thick with sleep. He scrubs a hand down his face before pinning me with a bleary-eyed gaze. “Why are you screaming at me? I was enjoying a perfectly good nap.”
On my couch. In my rental.
How did he even get in here?
“Because you don’t belong here? Because stranger danger?”
He ignores me and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You probably scared my dog.”
My brain is officially short-circuiting.
Weston is here , in my rental. Quite at home I might add.
And he’s got a dog. I never pinned Weston as a dog person, but I’ve also only met the man twice.
He is not supposed to be here.
Despite my thoughts calming down, my nervous system is still in full-blown fight or flight. So I grab a pillow and heave it at his face.
He catches it mid-air and tosses it onto the couch. “That’s unnecessary. Are you always this violent?”
“Me? Who breaks into a house to take a nap?” I shout.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, grabbing a shirt off the back of the couch and pulling it over his head. “Why did you break in here while I was taking a nap? If you wanted an autograph all you had to do was ask.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “I didn’t break in.”
“I didn’t either.” He pauses, then whistles. “Bailey! Come here, boy.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t break in? What else would you call it?”
Weston bends as a fluff of a golden retriever trots to him, barely giving a glance in my direction. You’d think I hadn’t just practically gone Final Girl on him with the way he’s so casually dealing with everything.
“I booked this place for the next few weeks.” His voice drops to a low tone as he leans closer to the dog. “Didn’t we? Did that crazy lady scare you? She scared me, too. Who’s a good boy? You are.”
Dread coils in my belly. He can’t be serious. Can he?
I booked this place on the website for the next week and a half. It’s mine, fair and square. Without saying another word, I turn to my bag and dig out my phone, my fingers dancing across the screen as I unlock it and pull up the app to double check.
It’s unnecessary really, because I called and confirmed. I printed the reservations.
The planner on my passenger seat contains nearly all the information, color-coded and ready for presentation to anyone who asks.
The problem is that if he has the same information, we’re both right.
And that’s definitely a problem.
He straightens from the couch, wincing with the movement. “You’ve got a look on your face that says I’m right.”
Of all the people for this to happen with.
He raises an eyebrow as he crosses his arms across his chest, and I try to erase the image burned into my brain of the cut muscles beneath the fabric.
I’m mentally mashing on the delete button like my life depends on it.
We hate him, remember? Just look how inflated his ego is.
Bailey trots over to me and sits, peering up at me with chocolate brown eyes.
Do dogs really look like their owners? Because the pair of them is too much in my current situation.
“It’s fine. I’ll get to the bottom of this!” I announce, my voice taking on a higher note than I usually speak with.
It’s fine. I can fix this with a few phone calls. I’ve gotten brides out of more complicated double bookings and predicaments than this.
And I will. Because I will absolutely not be stuck in the same house as him.
No way.