Chapter 1

Chapter One

Brynn

I ’m not off the plane and in the taxi for more than a minute when my watch vibrates.

Mom.

I should’ve known. Ever since my siblings and I agreed to give her the ability to track us as an early Christmas gift, she’s been texting or calling whenever I’ve hit a pit stop on my journey from Portland to New York City.

I send her to voicemail and dig my phone out of my purse to send her a quick text.

Hey, I’m in the taxi. Will call you when I get to the hotel.

Just wanted to wish you good luck on the job interview!

Thanks.

Can’t wait to see you. The snow makes for great skiing here. Your snowboard made it safe and sound.

My thumbs hover over the phone. I love my mom, but this is her way of finding out if I’m still upset about spending Christmas in a mountain resort town in Utah instead of my childhood home outside Portland, Oregon. My older brother, Tre, and his wife, Tessa, were the ones to bring up this winter escape to Utah. There was a family vote in October, and needless to say, I was the single one who voted to stay home.

Who cares about a lifetime of traditions? None of my family obviously.

Can’t wait to hit the slopes.

The three dots appear immediately.

Love you. Remember, they’d be lucky to get you.

Me: Thanks. Love you too.

I tuck my phone inside my purse and sit back in the taxi, admiring Christmastime in New York City. It doesn’t come close to comparing to my small hometown of Climax Cove, but I chalk up my comparison to the sourness I feel about not getting my way.

That damn expectation from being the baby of the family popping back up.

The city glitters under the glow of colorful holiday lights. Strands of garland and wreaths hang on storefronts as shoppers bundled in heavy coats and wool hats hustle in and out with handfuls of shopping bags.

I jerk forward in my seat when the cab stops at a red light. The driver is busy honking his horn, yelling at the guy in front of him, while I admire the windows of a department store alive with animated dancing ballerinas.

There’s a pulse to the season here, even in the gridlock of traffic, that isn’t present in Climax Cove. The city is alive, exciting, and electric. The holidays are everywhere you look.

But I’m not sure I can see myself living here.

There’s a reason I decided to take a position with a marketing firm in Portland after college. I want to be close to my family, and New York City is about as far away as I can get. Sure, I have one brother, Carter, here, but everyone else is out west, and I love Oregon so much.

That said, there’s also no way I was going to pass up an interview to be a marketing director with one of the biggest advertising firms in New York City. Who would have thought Enzo Mancini would call me, a twenty-five-year-old fresh face in the industry, off a referral from a mutual client? Not me.

The cab stops beside the curb in front of the hotel. I pay with my phone then step out, grabbing my suitcase and thanking the doorman when he opens the door.

The luxurious hotel lobby has been decorated with an elaborate array of twinkle lights, red bows, and more poinsettias than I’ve ever seen in one place in my life. Holiday music rings out, and a Christmas tree with fake snow on each branch and matching ornaments in red and green sits right in the middle.

I roll my suitcase over the marble floor, heading to the reception area to check in. After the attendant there gives me my room keys, I follow his instructions to the bank of elevators and press the up arrow.

More people join me in waiting while others walk past, and soon, I feel crowded in the small space like a herd of cattle at feeding time. The elevator dings, the doors open, and a rush of people file out before I’m shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, moving toward the open doors and vying for a spot.

“What floor is everyone?” a man with a British accent asks, but I can’t see his face because a guy I have to assume is a professional basketball player stands in front of me.

“Fifteen please,” I squeak out.

“Done,” he says.

Other people call out their floors, and I say a small prayer on our way up that we aren’t over the weight limit. I’m not claustrophobic or scared of elevators, but the words death and trap come to mind.

The elevator stops at every single floor, and finally the man who might be taller than the Christmas tree in the lobby exits. I inhale a deep breath after being stuck in the corner. But the problem is, when I look around at who is left, the first person I get an eyeful of is the British man who took up the impromptu job of elevator operator. He’s leaning with his back against the wall, ankles crossed, his head buried in his phone.

I freeze for a split second, and the air all rushes out of my lungs because I know exactly who he is.

I look left and right, as if I can escape before he sees me, but it’s not a scene from Mission Impossible. Although I don’t consider myself completely risk averse, I’m not up for the whole “opening the hatch to the elevator and climbing out the top” thing. As I’m about to turn around to give him my back, hoping he gets off on a floor before me, the elevator stops, and he glances up to check which floor we’ve stopped on.

Our eyes meet, and the affable look on his face transforms into shock first, confusion second, and finally settles on wariness.

I lift my hand and wave like an idiot, but hello, surprises make me antsy, especially the bad kind.