by Bridget Snow
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
About Author Bridget Snow
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 Bridget Snow.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication, including the cover and including the blurb that accompanies it, may be used, copied, or reproduced by any electronic or non-electronic means or methods, or in any manner, form or format, without consent from the author.
This is a writing of fiction. Names, places, people, characters, occurrences, and unintentional likenesses are fictitious and purely the product of the author’s imagination.
Chapter One
Melody
“The house has good bones,” Melody said. “Right? Isn’t that a thing?”
“Sure,” Harvey replied, his voice wandering into a higher octave as he drew the word out longer. “The way a race horse has good bones, but they still turn race horses into glue, don’t they?”
“That’s awful.”
Harvey shrugged and started to pull on his gloves, like he had seen all he needed to see. He was a real estate agent from Billings, two counties away and the nearest professional in the entire state of Montana willing to hoof it all the way to Pine Corner. He initially seemed enthused about an honest-to-goodness mansion for sale, but his mood soured when he saw how old and outdated the place looked.
“I need to sell the house and get home to Manhattan,” she said, following Harvey as he passed the kitchen’s oversized island and headed through the dining room.
“Especially before the property taxes hit in February,” he said. “Eight thousand dollars? This town is out of their minds.”
“Eight thousand is twice my savings account.” Melody’s stomach knotted just admitting that out loud. “I can’t afford that.”
“And it goes up every year,” he said. “Wait, you only have four thousand dollars in the bank? That’s not much of a cushion. Is Santa bringing you a Christmas bonus or something?”
“Not unless he brings me a new boss first. Or I can sell this house. What do you think it’s worth?”
“An eight-bedroom mansion with archaic fixtures that sat idle and empty for a decade, in a small town with a dwindling population? It’s worth taking the first offer you get, if you get any at all.
“Plus, it smells like abandonment issues in here,” he continued, his gait and his words picking up speed once the front hall was in sight. “Like dust and ancient wallpaper.”
“We could have an open house,” Melody said.
Now, Harvey laughed. “This isn’t some brownstone walk-up near Times Square. You can’t just open the doors and expect people to wander in and buy the place. Not with it looking like this.”
“I took off work to fly here,” she said. “I don’t need a house in the middle of Montana, but my grandfather left it to me in his will, with express instructions to find a family that will keep it warm, fill it with memories, and keep its history alive. If I’m going to honor his memory and his last wishes, I can’t let it rot here. Even if it doesn’t sell for much, someone has to want it.”
“If you’re trying to sell this house fast,” the realtor said, “make it look like Christmas threw up in here. It will hide all the hardwood stains, the ceiling stains, the wallpaper—”
“Stains,” Melody said. “I get it.”
“Deck your halls, Ms. Lane. Then I’ll see if I can get some buyers interested.”
With a weak smile and a limp handshake, Harvey turned and left Melody standing in the foyer of her grand inheritance.
She looked up at the transom window over the double doors, where a ray of sunlight filtered through a swirling cloud of dust she and Harvey had kicked up as they toured the house. Above that, an antiquated chandelier hung from a high ceiling, with cobwebs she’d never reach. A spacious living room sat to one side, with a full set of furniture beneath canvas tarps, matching the tarps that covered the dining room set, the kitchen island, the beds and dressers — every room in the house was shrouded in white, like a Christmas snow of canvas and dust.
The house was neglected, and oversized for this real estate market, but the worst part was that it was cold. Not drafty, thank goodness for that, but the basement furnace was a silent hunk of foreboding metal and she didn’t know the first thing about it. She had the utilities turned on in advance though, so she could buy a space heater. No, ten space heaters. A house this size would take a lot before it was nice and toasty.
See, Melody loved winter because winter was warm. Mittens and scarves, roaring fireplaces, fresh-baked gingerbread that warmed your tongue from the oven’s heat. That’s what she’d have when she got back home, and she couldn’t wait. Her tiny, single-bedroom apartment in Manhattan’s lower east side was waiting for her.
It was already halfway through December, her favorite time of year. Every night was a marathon of cheesy, feel-good Christmas movies. Just Melody on her couch, under an electric blanket, with a mug of her famous hot cocoa. Of course, she’d rather be wrapped up in a man than a blanket, but at least the men on TV were sweet-talking eye candy, and the cocoa was a soothing consolation prize.
Except, here in Pine Corner, she didn’t have a TV. Or TV service. Or wifi.
“No sense standing around gawking,” she muttered to herself. “I’m on a clock. It’s time to cheer this place up.”
Melody buttoned up her extra-long, Sherpa-lined pea coat and cinched the belt strap tight. A heavy hood lay against her upper back, but she left it down, securing puffy white earmuffs over her ears instead. Now, she was ready to face the outdoors.
With the house locked up behind her, she crossed the wooden porch that wrapped around the building. A set of wood steps led to a stone path that wound around a few thick trees en route to the sidewalk. Along the way, a weathered sign creaked on rusted hinges.
Hansen House
Built 1912
The sun warmed her cheeks as she looked up and down the sidewalk, straining to remember which direction the cab had taken her just a few hours earlier. The house was on a small side street not far from the main road that cut through the town’s center. Homes were spaced pretty far apart here, unlike the row homes and tenements that shared neighboring walls up and down a city block.
“Oh!” a little girl exclaimed, taking Melody completely unawares. She nearly jumped out of her heels at the girl’s high-pitched squeal. When she turned toward the sound, she saw a middle-school-aged girl with a long blond ponytail that swished back and forth as the girl charged toward her.
“Um, hi,” Melody said.
“Are you…” the girl started, slowing as she approached but already out of breath. “New in… town?”
“No, I’m just visiting.”
“But you were… in that big house. I bet it’s so pretty inside.”
“Maybe one day, if I manage to spruce it up. Say, if I needed some cleaning supplies, where would I go around here?”
“Grover’s All-In-One,” the girl said, without hesitation, pointing the way with her tiny index finger.
“And groceries?”
“Grover’s All-In-One.”
“And maybe some decorations.”
“Like what?” the girl asked.
“A Christmas tree would be a good start.”
“Two Archers Farm has ‘em. Too far to walk though.”
&n
bsp; “Maybe I’ll settle for an artificial one this year,” Melody said. “Easier to set up.”
“They might have that at Grover’s too. I can’t think of what they don’t have there. I’m Jessie, by the way.”
“Melody. Pleased to meet you.”
“I have to go home for lunch now. Welcome to Pine Corner!”
“Thanks, but I’m—” The girl had already turned to run back toward a small house diagonally across the street. “—not staying.”
It felt like a long walk, at least in heels. Melody always made sure to dress up for travel, even though she took a red-eye flight from J.F.K. airport that morning. She was starting to wish she had packed her comfy walking shoes. She was thousands of miles away from her real life; who would have known if she slummed it?
Following Jessie’s advice, Melody wandered toward the intersection ahead, and as it came into view, it was clear there were holiday lights strung across telephone poles, with shaped garland decorations on metal frames glinting back the sunlight. The main road was wide, far wider than Melody would have expected for such a small town, though most of the parking spots sat empty.
For what it was worth though, Pine Corner was a charming little town. A small café sat quietly at the start of the main drag, along with a hair stylist and a toy shop. A train set sat in that last window, with a small Santa hat on the caboose. There was an antique shop, a stationery store, and the cutest pet shop with a sleepy old dog lying just inside the glass of the front door who seemed completely nonplussed by the pair of fake reindeer antlers on his head.
The next storefront was none other than Grover’s All-In-One.
The second Melody stepped inside, she felt like she had gone back in time. A lunch counter with red vinyl stools lined one wall, while a series of shelving units took up the store’s center. There were bins of odds and ends, tools, a refrigerated section for food, and paintings on the walls that looked like old-school Americana.
This place had a real Woolworth’s vibe to it, and it was a striking change from the sprawling megastores and cramped little bodegas she had back home. Her skin still prickled with goosebumps from the cold walk here, but she would warm up, in time.
She picked up a shopping basket and got to work, filling it with sponges and soap, cocoa powder and sugar, eggs and other essentials. As she rounded the front end of one aisle, she noticed a single artificial tree in the store’s main window. Melody took a few steps toward it before something else caught her eye.
A man.
And not just any man, but a quintessential “Montana” man if she had ever seen one.
He bent over a pull-cart piled high with cardboard boxes, then lifted one and set it next to a shelving unit. His leg muscles bulged beneath his tight blue jeans, and when he stood tall his ass rounded nicely. Melody’s fingers curled involuntarily, imagining the feel of his powerful glutes clenched in her palms.
Melody wasn’t cold anymore. She was suddenly flush with warmth.
This mountain of a man tore open the cardboard box and reached inside, lifting appliances with ease and placing them neatly on the shelf before him. He started at the bottom shelf and worked his way up, almost teasingly. By the time he hit the topmost shelf, his outstretched arms forced his shirt to lift, revealing an inch of skin. It was enough to expose his toned oblique muscles, hinting at the abs that must wrap around his front.
Cities didn’t make men like that, with broad shoulders and massive torsos that stretched the buttons on their plaid shirts with every movement. There would be no posing him at a desk all day and stuffing him into a tight, boxy suit. Though Melody did think about stuffing him somewhere tight, allowing herself to imagine—
“See something you like?” an old man asked.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Was it that obvious that she was ogling the stock boy? Well, stock man. A boy wouldn’t have that mature, chiseled jawline and that well-coiffed head of thick, blond hair.
And not for nothing, but how high-strung was she that every holler in her direction made her jump out of her skin? Life here wasn’t a mad rush spent ignoring strangers, and there wasn’t a danger lurking around each corner. Just eager locals happy to meet a new face.
“It’s never too early for Christmas ornaments,” the old man said, gesturing at the fake tree on display in the store’s window. Thick red garland wrapped around the tree in a tight spiral with red-and-white swirled ornaments hanging on every branch, like glass-blown candy-cane orbs. She could almost taste the peppermint just looking at them.
“Oh, right,” Melody replied. “I wasn’t looking at the ornaments though, I was looking at the tree. What’s your tallest size?”
“I think you’re looking at it,” the man said.
“Would you mind double-checking?”
“It’s my store, I think I know what’s in it.”
Melody smiled. “Don’t tell me. You’re Grover.”
“I’ll keep it a secret then,” the old man replied with a wink and a toothy grin. His jet-black hair might have been dyed with left-over shoe polish, but his eyes were warm and his kindness was genuine. “But I suppose it couldn’t hurt to check on that tree. Mason! We have a customer.”
“So we do,” the man said, his deep, smooth voice forcing Melody to swoon all over again. He ran his fingers through that thick mane of blond hair, tucking a few loose locks back into place now that he was done stooping over boxes and flexing that glorious ass. He closed the space between them, walking with a slight swagger and stopping inches away from Melody.
“This,” Grover said, “is Ms.—”
“Lane,” she said.
“Hello, Lane,” Mason said, extending his hand for a formal shake. “You’re not from around here.”
Melody set her shopping basket on the floor, then placed her hand in his, letting her smooth, delicate fingers slide into his rough grip.
He smelled deliciously like pine, like a man born in a forest of Christmas dreams. Maybe she could just put him in the living room, wrap him up in garland and hang a candy cane on his—
“Melody!” she said, a little flustered. “It’s Melody. Melody Lane. Is my name.”
“I see,” Mason said.
“Ms. Lane wants a tree,” Grover said. “Bigger, if we have it.”
“We have one tree still in the back,” Mason said, “but it’s the same size. Six feet flat.”
“That won’t do,” Melody said. “The ceilings are so high it would be dwarfed. Look, this tree is shorter than you are, how’s it going to look in a mansion?”
She swallowed hard. This man was taller than a tree. Sure, it was an artificial tree, and a small one, but still. He was several inches over six feet high.
“The only mansion in town is the old Hansen House,” Mason said.
“That is what the sign said out front,” she said. “I inherited the old thing, and now it’s my job to sell it to someone that will love and care for it.
“It actually says that in his last will and testament,” she continued, “that I’m only allowed to sell it to someone that will love and care for it. What was my grandfather thinking, I haven’t even found someone to love and care for me, and now I have to do it for a spooky old house?”
Slow down, Melody, she thought.
“So my real estate agent said I needed to Christmas-up the joint if I was going to hide all the wear and tear. Another tactic that never worked for me. Put me in as many Christmas sweaters as you like, I’m still the same Melody Lane.”
Stop. Talking. Now.
“I mean, if you ask my mother, she’d tell you—”
“The Hansen House isn’t far,” Mason said. “And you’ve got your hands full. I could deliver the tree to you, but I wouldn’t make it until this evening — that is, if you still want it.”
Thank goodness someone stopped me. “That would be very sweet of you, and I don’t seem to have another option, so yes. I want it. Just come to the house and you can give it to me there.”
“Here’s my address…” she said, walking to the lunch counter for a napkin and swiping a pen from the register’s desk on her way back. She wrote against the palm of her hand, eager to jot this down before she melted into a puddle of Christmas nerves.
“Everyone knows where the Hansen House is,” Mason said, but Melody didn’t pause.
She wrote as the napkin crumpled against her palm. “… and my phone number. Just in case I don’t hear the doorbell.”
“That’s $59.99 for the tree, and let’s see what else…” Grover said, rushing to the register.
“That’s a bargain, actually,” Melody said. “I may have to come back for those ornaments. Here, let’s break a hundred. Sorry for the big bill, but I hit the wrong button at the airport ATM and got stuck with it.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a large, crisp bill.
Her heart beat like mad and her foot tapped against the tile floor as she waited for change. With a quick smile back at Mason, she turned and raced out of the store with a brown paper bag filled with cooking and cleaning supplies tucked under one arm.
The walk home sped by, if that echoey old house could be called “home” at this point. Her free hand stayed balled in a fist at her side the whole way back, and her mind replayed all the ways in which she let nerves take over, in a very un-Melody-like way.
“What kind of a ditz did I just turn into?”
Chapter Two
Mason
“What a ditz,” Mason said. He ran a bow saw against the base of a pine tree, lobbing off the bottom inch so the tree would “drink” properly once it found its new home in a tree stand.
“It’s a cold Montana day,” he continued. “And she’s in a skirt with a long coat.”
Why couldn’t you just wear a bubble coat, Melody Lane?, he thought. Something that makes it look like a brightly-colored garbage bag filled with feathers swallowed your whole body from neck to knee. Don’t tempt me with heels that make your calves tight and round, and smooth pale skin that vanishes just below the hem of a soft green skirt, taunting me with an invitation I will not accept. An invitation to imagine the shape of your thighs, and other things.