Chapter One

Emberleigh

I should have left when the rest of the crew did. That thought rang in my head—no, practically blared—like a shrill arena horn, as I trudged up the snowy path toward the North Star Chalet, camera bag weighing down my shoulder. I’d lingered in Pine Ridge, Montana after covering the holiday charity game for what? Some extra B-roll of twinkling lights and storefronts decorated with enough cheer to make an elf choke? Because my producer, Nina, had begged for more “festive flavor”? If I’d known I’d be stuck here in a blizzard, I would’ve run like a puck headed for an empty net.

I scowled at the wind as it pelted my cheeks with icy flakes. Pine Ridge looked like a Christmas card come to life—the old-fashioned lampposts decorated with pine swags and red bows, the quaint shops glowing under frosted eaves—but now that the roads were closed, my escape options were zip, zilch, nada. I was supposed to be back in Denver working on my next segment by tomorrow afternoon. Instead, I’d be cooling my heels at this boutique chalet in the middle of la-la land, praying for the plows.

Sighing, I pushed open the chalet’s heavy wooden doors, stepping from biting cold into a world of cinnamon and pine scented warmth. The lobby’s soaring beams and roaring fireplace should have relaxed me instantly, but I was too busy rehearsing what I’d say if I ran into him. Yes, him —the reason I really should have fled this town before the storm hit.

Logan ‘Bear’ McKenzie.

The mere thought of his name sent a flurry of conflicting emotions skittering through my chest. The last time I’d seen him was years ago, before he vanished from the hockey scene, before he ghosted me without a backward glance. We’d been flirting on the edge of something more, a slow simmer of tension and possibility. Then he’d gotten injured—and poof—he disappeared as if our connection had been nothing more than a glitch in his schedule.

I’d followed his career from a distance afterward. He’d retired as a player, gone off-grid, and recently reemerged as the newly minted coach of the Denver Warlords. Everyone in the sports world was buzzing about his comeback, about how he was turning the team’s fortunes around. I’d done my best to avoid him in person, ducking out of press conferences whenever he appeared, passing off interviews to colleagues. Seeing him in the flesh would be…complicated.

Yet fate, or maybe some twisted Christmas spirit, clearly had other ideas.

“Welcome to the North Star Chalet!” The front desk clerk greeted me, her cheeriness nearly blinding me. She wore a green sweater dotted with tiny silver bells and a bright red name tag that read Holly Joy Green. Holly Joy. Of course her name was Holly Joy. Could this place be any more on the nose?

“Emberleigh Quinn,” I said, pasting on my reporter smile. “I called earlier.” The storm had forced me to make a last-minute reservation for who knew how long.

Holly Joy tapped at her computer. “Yes, Ms. Quinn, we’ve got you in a beautiful room in the main lodge. I’m afraid you’re stuck here with the rest of us until the roads clear. The plows won’t come until morning at the earliest.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But don’t worry—we’ve got cocoa, holiday activities, and even a spa. Celestia Moon, our spa therapist, is offering special ‘cosmic realignment massages.’ Isn’t that fun?”

Fun was a stretch, but I nodded politely. “Sounds…unique.”

Before I could escape upstairs, the lobby’s door creaked open again, letting in a gust of cold air and a man’s heavy footsteps. My spine stiffened. Please be a traveling salesman. Please be Santa Claus himself. Anyone but—

My heart did a painful little flip as I turned and found Logan McKenzie framed by a swirl of snowflakes. He stepped inside and shook the ice from his jacket. He was taller than I remembered—no, that was impossible. More solid, certainly. That broad chest and sculpted shoulders hadn’t vanished with his retirement. He’d just filled out into a more rugged, mature version of the player I once knew. The crackling firelight caught the edges of his beard, and my stomach twisted.

I had a choice: duck and run or stand my ground. I’d interviewed big-name athletes under worse conditions. I was a professional. If he thought he could slip back into my life like a re-gifted fruitcake, he had another think coming.

I turned away and pretended to be engrossed in the cluster of guests scattered around the lounge. There was a stylish influencer holding up a tube of lipstick and pouting at her phone near the Christmas tree, an older couple bickering softly over who got the best seat by the fire, a serious-looking guy in a suit frowning at his laptop, and a pair of young lovebirds who looked like they’d wandered off the set of a reality dating show. None of them paid me any mind. Good. If I was going to freak out, I preferred a small audience.

Behind me, Holly Joy called out cheerfully, “Welcome back, Mr. McKenzie!”

I cringed. So he’d been here before, maybe for that meeting with the lodge owners about off-season hockey clinics I’d heard rumors about. My network’s grapevine had mentioned Logan’s interest in expanding his coaching role. Just my luck to run smack into him now, when I was trapped in this gingerbread-scented snow globe of a lodge.

“Emberleigh.”

Of course he found me. My name rolled off his tongue with that familiar, low rumble that had once made me blush. I turned slowly, my carefully painted-on TV persona sliding into place.

“Logan,” I said, voice even. Inside, I was less steady. He looked infuriatingly good, like he belonged in this rustic setting—denim, flannel, well-worn boots. He’d always been more than a pretty face though. He’d been someone I thought…well, I guess I thought wrong. He didn’t want me in his life back then, and I wasn’t about to beg for space in it now.

“You’re stuck here too, I see.” He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. His gaze flicked over me, noting my silk blouse, pencil pants, and perfectly styled blonde hair I’d chosen to maintain my reporter image. I wondered if he remembered my more relaxed look from years ago, when I’d sometimes show up for late interviews in a ponytail and minimal makeup. I’d grown a lot more professional—and guarded—since then.

“It appears so,” I said lightly. “I stayed behind to get more holiday footage. The roads closed earlier than expected.”

A wry smile touched his lips. “Yeah, the storm came in fast. I guess we’ll be here awhile.”

Not if I could help it. I let out a polite hum. “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we.” Turning on my heel, I marched toward the staircase, ignoring how my heart pounded. There. I’d been civil. Sort of.

Halfway up, I glanced over my shoulder. He was still there, watching me, his brow knit in a puzzled frown. Good. Let him wonder. The last time I’d allowed myself to be vulnerable with him, he’d vanished. Now he didn’t get to waltz back and expect chit-chat over hot cocoa.

In my room—a cozy space with a canopy bed, soft quilts, and a miniature Christmas tree on the dresser—I dropped my camera bag and peeled off my scarf. The mirror on the wall showed my reflection: still relatively composed at least, but slightly flushed. I closed my eyes and leaned against the door, breathing slowly.

Logan McKenzie, back in my orbit. I’d followed his story—who hadn’t? The once-promising player laid low by injury, then resurfacing as a brilliant coach. Sports media loved a comeback narrative. But I knew the personal side. I remembered him struggling when he’d first been sidelined after his injury. I recalled the anger and frustration lurking behind his public smiles. And then he’d cut me off altogether, leaving me to guess and hurt in silence.

If he’d hoped I’d forgotten, he was sorely mistaken. Now, trapped together, I wasn’t sure how to handle this. Should I confront him? Act indifferent until he got the hint and stayed away? My heart said one thing, my pride said another, and both were tangled in a knot of unresolved feelings.

Deciding to at least pretend I could enjoy myself, I freshened my makeup, smoothed my blouse, and headed downstairs again. There had to be an afternoon tea cart or something somewhere in this winter wonderland, and I could use something with enough sugar to numb the sourness of my thoughts.

Back in the lobby, I discovered that a cocoa and cookie station had indeed been set up near the lounge. I helped myself to a mug of steaming cocoa, marveling at the rich chocolatey scent, and took a walk on the wild side by adding a couple of marshmallows.

The other guests were clustered around the fireplace with glum looks on their faces. The influencer, whose name I learned was Sasha, was complaining about the lack of decent lighting for selfies to anyone who would listen, and the older couple, Pearl and Norman Fletcher, were busy fussing over how many cookies Norman had eaten. Scowling, he bit the head off another snowman-shaped cookie rather roughly, while his wife pinched the top of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and sighed loudly. The serious guy in the suit I’d noticed earlier had disappeared, and the young couple—apparently newlyweds—ignored the rest of us entirely and instead giggled over their plates of cookies, cooing at each other in the corner like a pair of lovebirds.

I found a seat near a smaller Christmas tree decorated with shiny ornaments and sipped my hot chocolate, figuring I’d give myself a few minutes to enjoy the treat before returning to my room and prepping myself on background information for my next assignment.

When Logan strolled casually towards the cocoa station a few minutes later, I pretended to be utterly fascinated by a sparkly ornament shaped like tiny ice skates, even though I watched him out of the corner of my eye while he took his time collecting cookies and pouring himself a cup of hot chocolate.

Just as I took another sip, Logan approached me, as if he had a right to step into my personal space. “So,” he said softly, “how’ve you been?”

I raised a brow, meeting his gaze. I noticed the shadows under his eyes, the slight hesitation in his posture, like he expected me to bite his head off like Norman’s snowman cookie. Well, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he rattled me, even though he did. “Oh, you know,” I said lightly. “Working. Traveling. Doing interviews and segments. The usual.”

“I’ve seen some of your work,” he offered, voice low. “You’ve come a long way.”

I searched his face for sarcasm but found only sincerity. That irritated me even more. I wanted him to be smug, or rude—something I could latch onto to justify my chilly demeanor.

“Thanks,” I said, tone clipped. “I guess you’ve come a long way too. Coaching the Warlords? Quite the step up.”

His gaze flickered, acknowledging the barb. “It’s been challenging. Rewarding too.”

“How nice,” I replied, stuffing my irritation behind a polite smile. The tension crackled between us like the logs in the fire.

Before he could say more, Sasha—trying to snap a photo of herself by the hearth—nearly bumped into him. He sidestepped, and I took the chance to get up, my pulse hammering as I slipped past them and returned my mug—still half-full—to the cart and turned for the exit. Ignoring Logan’s glance in my direction, I made my way back up the grand staircase to my room, where once behind my locked door, I sank onto the bed and exhaled. The quilt was soft, patterned with snowflakes and pine trees, and suddenly I felt tired, which made sense since I’d been up since before dawn with the crew.

I located a room service menu on the small desk beside the entertainment center and after selecting a combination of soup and salad for dinner, I called the restaurant to place my order. Afterwards, I pulled my laptop out of my bag and hit the power button, determined to focus on work. But after twenty minutes, I found myself scrolling through funny cat videos on YouTube mindlessly as my thoughts again drifted to the past.

Seeing Logan again was like finding myself out on the rink, unsure if I’d slip on the ice. I tried to console myself with the thought that by tomorrow, the roads would be clear, and Logan and I would continue on our separate ways. And if the storm hadn’t passed, at least I’d be well-rested and in a better state of mind to prove that I was over him. Right?