I wait for it. The double-take. The whisper to a coworker who passes behind the desk. Nothing.
“Thank you,” I manage.
Even the teenage girls in the lobby—exactly the demographic that usually spots me instantly—don’t look twice. They’re too busy decorating gingerbread houses and laughing with their families.
What I’d like to be doing tomorrow.
When I enter room twenty-three, it’s like waking up in a Christmas dream. Garlands frame the window. Stockings hang on the mantel. The canopy surrounding the four-poster bed is draped in soft velvet. In the corner is a small tree with white lights and delicate ornaments.
I set Pookie down, kick off my sky-high heels, and collapse onto the mattress.
For the first time in months—maybe years—no one knows where I am. There aren’t any demands. No camera flashes. No tired smiles.
Just peace. And Christmas.
I’m fast asleep and dreaming of sugar plums in no time.
Then, a knock on the door jolts me awake.
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.
