Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

ONLY ONE BED

Holly

J ack folds himself into my car and racks the passenger seat way back. He’s tall, but not that tall. Then I remember how I pushed the seat all the way up to load the back seat as full as possible with the last of my belongings from my old place—the one I shared with Anderson. What Delphina, my sisters, and I couldn’t shove into the car, I simply abandoned. Giving up my stuff was a small price to pay to not have to see Anderson again. I laugh bitterly at the thought.

Jack cuts his eyes toward me, curious. I pretend not to notice and flip on the radio. Unsurprisingly, the local station is playing Christmas music.

He hums along to “Santa Baby” for a moment before I snap off the radio. It’s not even officially December and I’ve had my fill of Christmas songs. Fa-la-la-la-la-la-just-my-luck.

He clears his throat in the sudden silence. “Noelle seems great.”

“She is.”

Noelle’s so great. She’ll never replace my mom, but then, she isn’t trying to. She and my dad are happy, genuinely happy. And I’m genuinely happy for them, even though I’m convinced happily ever after is a straight-up scam.

We lapse back into silence. Then, as I’m pulling into the alley behind the inn, I ask the question that’s been on my mind since the arraignment. “You really don’t have plans with your family for Christmas?”

“I really don’t.”

I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.

Even though I park in the back, I want Jack to get the full experience of walking into the Inn at Mistletoe Mountain, so we follow the cobblestone path to the walkway around the house to the front. As we pass by the family wing, I glance up at the roof and stifle a giggle. Renata’s temporary tarp is camouflaged by a dusting of glittering, decorative fake snow. Leave it to my dad to make lemonade out of that lemon.

As we round the house, I pause before mounting the steps to the wide front porch. Seeing my childhood home all dressed up for the holidays floods me with warmth, nostalgia, and longing even now, in my anti-Christmas era. When we were girls, Ivy proclaimed that the sight made her feel like she swallowed the sun, and, now, in this moment, I finally know what she meant.

Snow sparkles on the lawn and garlands of greens intertwined with tiny white lights wind around the railings and drape the porch’s roof. I crane my neck to take in the simple wreaths that grace all eight front windows, each one hanging from a wide, red ribbon, before leading Jack up the stairs. Two life-sized nutcracker soldier statues flank the entrance, as if they’re standing guard. Two large, vibrant wreaths hang on the double doors. Ivy and my dad make these floral wreaths every year. This year’s wreaths might be the best yet. They’ve used red velvet celosia, strawberry globe amaranth, and bright red salal berries.

“Wow,” Jack breathes out as he takes it all in.

Despite my current anti-Christmas stance, I have to grin. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

I open the door and we step inside.

The lobby is awash with twinkling lights, fragrant greens, and the distinctive spicy, citrus scent of pomander balls that hang from the wall sconces. Nutcrackers of every imaginable persuasion—traditional, fantastical, whimsical—are displayed on the built-in bookcases. Soft instrumental music plays, a welcome respite from the version of “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” that’s stuck in my head. All that’s missing is the giant concolor fir we’ll put up this weekend, per tradition, and invite our guests to help decorate throughout the month.

Before I can pilot Jack through the lobby, my dad swoops in from the back of the house with a hearty, “Ho, ho, hello!”

“Dad, Jack Bell. Jack, Nick Jolly, the proprietor of the Inn at Mistletoe Mountain and my dad.”

“Welcome, welcome. Come on in.” Dad lunges forward to give Jack an enthusiastic handshake, gripping his elbow with his left hand as he pumps Jack’s hand with his right. Noelle jokes that my dad has real golden retriever energy. She’s not wrong.

“Mr. Jolly, it’s a pleasure—” Jack begins.

“Call me Nick,” Dad instructs before turning to sweep me into a quick, tight hug. “Hi, Holls.” He releases me and holds me at arm’s length, studying me with a wry smile. “I hear your Uncle Chris gave you the business in court.”

Humiliating news travels fast—an immutable fact of small-town life.

I groan. “I’m guessing Noelle called.”

“She did, and I have a solution.”

Bless this man. “Already? What is it?”

“Wait—the judge is your uncle?” Jack wades into the conversation, no doubt appalled by the impropriety.

“Not really,” my dad assures him. “Chris is my late wife’s second cousin. But he’s our middle daughter’s godfather, so the girls have always called him Uncle Chris.”

Jack nods, either clear on the matter or pretending that he gets it.

I bring the conversation back to a more pressing topic. “What’s your plan, Dad?”

“The guest cottage just became available.”

That’s impossible, I think.

“How? The Bryants reserve it every year.”

“They do,” he agrees. “But Jodi and Mark’s kids all pitched in to surprise them with a two-week cruise for their fiftieth anniversary. The whole family’s going. I’ll spare you all the details, but after a twenty-five-minute-long logistical phone call with Mark this morning, it became clear that getting from Tennessee to here and then to Los Angeles, where the cruise starts, wasn’t feasible. I think he was on the verge of tears. So I refunded his deposit, rebooked him for next December, and wished him a bon voyage. Long story short, Noelle called before I had a chance to start working my way down the waitlist. It’s yours if you want it.”

Relief floods my body. Problem solved. Then I freeze. “Wait.”

“There’s only one bed.” My father is smirking. Like this is funny. It’s very not funny.

Jack clears his throat. “I think I have a sleeping bag in my car. I can bunk on the floor.”

See? Tent camper. And apparently a gentleman, which makes this whole situation even more awkward somehow.

This declaration wipes the smirk right off my dad’s face. It’s replaced by a look of horror. “Absolutely not.”

“Really, it’s no problem,” Jack assures him.

Dad shakes his head. “Nonsense. You’re a guest.”

I raise both hands. “You know what? It’s fine. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

This appeases my father even though he and I both know I’m too tall to stretch out on the couch—more of a loveseat, really—that he and Noelle put in at the end of the summer so they could give the old leather couch to a family who lost everything in a fire. But, it’s only for a month. I’ll survive.

Jack’s frowning like he’s going to argue, but I cut him off. “Save your breath. Nick Jolly is nothing if not focused on the comfort and delight of every guest.”

“I’m not really a guest,” he counters, no doubt acutely aware that this situation is beyond weird.

“Every guest,” I repeat. “Even the ones foisted on him by order of court.” As soon as I say foisted, I regret it.

My dad glares at me before saying, “You haven’t been foisted on me, Jack. We’re delighted to have you.”

He reaches over the gleaming walnut registration desk and lifts a red hiking backpack from the shelf under the desk. It’s stuffed full and obviously well loved. It was also confiscated by the police, and I had drafting a motion to get it back on my list for this afternoon.

“How?” I ask, even though I should know better than to question my dad’s magical ability to make things easier.

“I ran into Officer Liza at the post office. She’d just heard about the judge’s order, so she offered to bring it by after she mailed her package.”

Offered. Right. Dollars to apple cider donuts, he promised to save her and her wife spots in Ivy’s wreath-making workshop. Mrs. Officer Liza is a crafter, and Ivy’s workshops fill up fast. The county police, like almost everyone who works at the court complex, mainly live in the valley, not here in town. And while they love to joke about how corny Mistletoe Mountain is, come December, they’re suddenly big fans.

“However you got it, thanks. You’ve freed up a couple hours of my time.”

He claps his hands together. “Perfect! Then you have no excuse not to join us for dinner and the tree lighting.”

I suppress a groan and hedge. “We’ll see.”