“Only I made the mistake years ago of mentioning it to Tom. Back when I thought I had an investor. Then suddenly, the money guy bailed on me and Tom got super into the Airbnb boom. Buying up properties to turn into outrageously expensive rentals. Then last year, he announced he was partnering with a new restaurant chain to do basically the exact same thing I’d told him about, except squeezing out all the locally owned businesses that were supposed to be the whole point.”
“Once the new money came in from all the rich folks up the mountain,” Delilah interjected, “big chain corporations got interested. They want to turn this whole place into ski-themed Disneyland and completely wreck the vibe.”
“Don’t get us wrong,” Bea said. “Tourism is great. It keeps the lights on around here. We’re not allergic to money.”
“But you all were here first. It’s only fair locals should reap the benefit,” I said.
Mia pounded the table, rattling our glasses. “Exactly. She gets it.”
“So, what happened to your investor?”
We shared a pointed glance just as our waiter arrived with our food, putting an end to the topic.
“Let’s just say, never rely on a man for anything,” Mia answered flatly. “They’ll only let you down.”
Once we had put down a few dozen wings, the four of us pulled on gloves and scarves as we prepared to brave the cold and check out the progress of the holiday decorations down Main Street, in all their lighted glory.
“I swear, the bakery better have upped its game this year,” Delilah said, pulling a faux fur hat over her braids. “If their display is as uninspired as last year, I’m deducting points.”
“You’re brutal,” Bea teased, zipping up her puffy jacket. “It’s supposed to be fun, Delilah. Not the Hunger Games.”
“Fun? This is serious business,” Delilah shot back with a wink. “The winner gets that big trophy and bragging rights for a year.”
“Speaking of bragging rights,” Mia said, “Elle, have you given any more thought to the Thanksgiving Throwdown? I heard Tom is sponsoring a contestant, too. Would be nice to shove an epic defeat in his face.”
“Yeah, come on, Elle.” Bea gave me a playful nudge with her elbow. “Win one for the good guys.”
“I did run it by the Hawthornes’ house manager. She didn’t think it’d be a problem. Just so long as Mrs. Hawthorne doesn’t decide to throw an impromptu twelve-course tasting lunch that day.”
“So, that’s a yes?” Bea asked.
“Yeah, okay. Since it’s a matter of town pride. I’m in.”
“Excellent.” Mia clapped her hands, rubbing them together like she was already imagining the ruthless levels of gloating that would take place when Tom tasted defeat. “I can’t wait to rub that bastard’s stupid face in it.”
Mia linked her arm through mine, her cheeks pink from the cold. Outside, the streets were alive with twinkling lights, garlands, and window displays, each shop more elaborate than the last. It felt like something out of a movie—the kind of small-town charm that was impossible not to fall in love with.
As we strolled the sidewalk, commenting on everything from the giant arch over the toy store’s entrance to the elf hockey team skating on a fondant pond in the bakery window, Mia pulled out her phone to snap a few pictures. “Have you guys seen this account?” she asked, holding her phone up so we could see. “It’s called Après Brie—this foodie account that’s been posting about stuff from all over town. Some of the captions are hilarious.”
Bea leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “We were just talking about that the other day. Didn’t they post something about the caramel pecan pie at the diner last week?”
With the family constantly out of the chalet, I had more free time on my hands during the day than I’d expected. So, I had spent some of it exploring the town for content on my new account. I wasn’t going to break the internet any time soon, but I was definitely starting to build a small following. Particularly among the Maplewood Creek residents, it seemed.
“Yep.” Mia nodded enthusiastically. “I heard they sold out the next day. There was a mad rush for pecan pies.”
Delilah laughed. “Who runs it? Do we know?”
“Definitely not a local,” Bea insisted. “I told Elle I’m betting on an influencer. Some viral marketing campaign.”
“That would make sense,” Mia said, nodding while we continued to walk. “Sounds like the kind of thing Tom would come up with.”
“I don’t know about that,” Delilah argued. “The posts feel a little too sincere for the usual online influencer types. And the dishes they post are chef-quality. Lots of fancy plating and whatnot.”
“Well, we know a chef who’s new in town,” Mia joked, elbowing me in the ribs. “What do you say, Elle? Are you a secret celebrity?”
“Oh, um, yeah.” I froze, the words catching me off guard. My heart thumped wildly as I tried to play it cool. “You caught me.”
Mia raised an eyebrow. “Wait. I don’t think you’re kidding.”
