Snowflake

by Cecelia Rose

  Snowflake

  Cecelia Rose

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Recommended Read

  Sliding into Love

  Sliding into Love - Chapter One

  Snowflake Copyright © 2018 Cecelia Rose.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  Editing by Michelle’s Edits.

  For whoever invented hot chocolate. You, my friend, are a beautiful human.

  Chapter 1

  Taking a deep breath, I utter the words that I know will start another lecture. “I'm not going to be able to make it home for the holidays,” I say softly down the phone. I can almost hear the pin drop down the other end of the line.

  “Why not, Tamara?” my mother asks patronisingly.

  “I'm stuck on Stronsay.”

  “What do you mean you're stuck?”

  “I mean, the ferry isn't running because of the severe weather. The only other way off the island is by private plane,” I answer her calmly.

  “Surely you can find a way, Tamara. I just think you're not trying hard enough. I mean, you still have three days to get here,” she says. I roll my eyes. Not trying hard enough—I think those may be her favourite words.

  “Yes, but the ferry isn't running, Mother, and there honestly isn't another way off the island. I'm sorry,” I answer through gritted teeth. Sorry, not sorry more like. I can't help but feel relieved that I am trapped on Stronsay for a few more days.

  “This never would have happened had you not gone off gallivanting on an island by yourself so close to Christmas,” she remarks.

  “I'm not off gallivanting, Mother. I've been working,” I reply.

  “Sweetheart, you know that hobby of yours isn't a career. We've talked about this, you need to find yourself something more stable. A job at a good company. We didn't waste all that money sending you to university for you to waste your life on creative pursuits,” she says. Her next favourite thing to talk about—bringing up the fact she helped pay for my university fees, with Carlton's money of course.

  “Yes, I am well aware that is what you think would be best mother,” I reply dryly.

  “I'll let your father know you won't be coming,” she informs me, clearly abandoning her lecture for now.

  Maybe it's time for yoga?

  “Okay,” I mutter. My father is dead, and the father she is talking about is actually my step-dad. Who happens to be as far from a father figure as someone can be, but he made great mince pies. Those I will be sad to miss out on. The family? Not so much. “I'll catch the next ferry as soon as they are running again,” I add.

  I glance around myself, again taking in the beautiful views that don’t seem capable of stopping their wow effect on me. Or maybe I'll drag it out for a few more days… The island is beautiful, and currently carpeted in a layer of dazzling white. This place is almost magical, and I haven’t felt so relaxed in such a long time.

  “Take care,” she says coldly, and then hangs up without warning as she always does. No “I love you” or “goodbye.” My mother is a few things, but warm and loving? They don’t make it onto her preferred qualities list. My mother values four things more than anything else. Money, intelligence, connections, and finally, the willingness to use all of those things regardless of anything else to succeed. I am my mother's most bitter disappointment, but frankly, she is mine.

  I rub at my temples staring out at the rough, choppy waters off the coast for a minute, just taking in the way they crash against edges of the island, beautiful and violent.

  I jump back into my car eager to escape the frigid air of the December afternoon. I crank up the heat and try to decide what to do. It’s a small island and the hotel I stayed in was the only one, and to be honest, it was more of a bed and breakfast anyway.

  I turn the keys in the ignition and decide to head back over to the bed and breakfast, hoping they'll still have a room available I could rent. I was the only one staying there the past few days, so I doubt they're booked up now, and I can't exactly sleep in my car until the ferry starts running again, especially not in these temperatures. I drive the short distance back to the hotel, thankful for the island being a small one. Driving across it really takes no time at all, even with the crappy roads.

  After only a few minutes, I pull up outside the cute, cottage-style place, and jump out from my car, leaving it idling to keep the heat up just in case. It's not as if there's anyone around to steal it. And if they did, where would they take it anyway?

  I chuckle at the mental image of someone trying to airlift my crappy car away from the island. Somehow, I don’t quite think it’s worth the bother. I pat my little, beat-up, red Corsa affectionately on the bonnet as I walk past it. It may not be fancy or pretty, but I'd paid for it myself. To me, that made it the best, little, beat-up car in the world. It was something that was mine, something I'd worked for. Something that nobody else could take away or claim they gave to me.

  I walk across the small car park to the main building where the reception desk is located. Already feeling the chill from the cold air, I push against the main door, but it doesn't budge. Damn it!

  I look more closely at the door and notice a sign. Closed till the New Year. They can't be serious? Where am I meant to go? I look around, trying to see if there's any life in any of the three buildings that make up the little cottage B&B, but no such luck. The place really looks completely deserted.

  I stomp back to my car, more frustrated at myself than anything. Maybe my mother is right, maybe this is a stupid idea. I try to bat away the negative thought, but it just hovers around in my head as it always does. The niggling self-doubt can be crushing at times. I remind myself how much I'd gotten done on my little retreat. I've almost finished my novel. I've read several books that I've been dying to read, and best of all, I'd drunk my body weight in hot chocolate. The lady who owned the place even put the little marshmallows in; it’s heaven in a mug.

  I jump back into my car and pull my phone back out. Maybe I’m wrong and there is another hotel somewhere? I bring up google, thankful that my phone seems to still be connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi.

  I search through several sites, and even bring up a map of the island to try and spot hotels of any kind, but have no luck. I’m about to tuck my phone away when I notice a sofa-surfing website on the search results. I'm not thrilled at the idea of staying with strangers, but what option do I really have?

  Clicking open the site, I see there is only one option to stay with on the island. I click to open it up. Reasonably priced, and the room they offer looks great and tidy. The only issue is there's only the option to call. No online availability for bookings. I sigh and click to phone the number, tapping my fingers absently on the steering wheel.

  “This is Blake. I can't c
ome to the phone right now, please leave a message.”

  Great, I got the stupid answering machine.

  Sighing, I hang up without leaving a message. I click back onto the website and notice the property’s address is listed. After a moment of silently debating it, I drop my phone onto the passenger seat and clip my seat belt back on. I can always knock and ask. What's the harm? It's not like I have much choice, I reason with myself.

  I take off down the rough road for the other side of the island. Despite being on the other side, it’s less than a half an hour drive from where I am now. How do the locals not feel like they’re living on top of each other?

  Shoving my questions and reservations aside, I steel my nerves and head for the address on my phone. I’m relieved as I begin the drive that I'd taken the time to familiarise myself with the island, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about getting lost on my way.

  Chapter 2

  I pull up outside of the house listed on the SofaSurfz’s website and stare at the beautiful work of architecture in front of me. My real dad would have loved this.

  I step out from the car and lean against it, just appreciating the unique design that I'm faced with. He loved anything that dared to be different, dared to standout against everything else. This building certainly does that. Most of the island is a mix of farmhouses and cottages, and this modern structure is anything but.

  Sleek lines, tinted-glass windows, and a mix of white and black for colour. The house is in an L shape, with a perfectly curved roof over the portion of the house that juts out, making the kick on the L. The roof on the main part of the house is completely flat. I can see what looks like a rooftop garden up there, but it's mostly covered in snow at present.

  I make my way to the large front door, and rap my ice-cold knuckles against the door. I shiver from the gust of wind that tumbles my long hair around me in disarray.

  I really hope that the room is available and that I didn’t just waste time driving all the way here. Maybe I should have tried calling again?

  The door opens, abruptly cutting off my thoughts of panic. I'm greeted by a man wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, and a glistening light sheen of sweat across the rest of his body—His extremely toned, hot as hell body. This was a pleasant change from most of the inhabitants I'd met on the island, who all seemed to be old enough to be my father, or my father’s father even.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, running a hand through his short, thick, brown hair.

  “I hope so,” I reply, smiling, but it’s a little forced. Fuck it’s cold out here. He looks out at the crap weather, and me shivering on the spot for a moment, and then gestures for me to come inside out of the harsh wind. “Thanks,” I mumble as I step into the entry way of the house. I rub my hands together, trying to warm them up.

  “So, what can I do for you?” he asks, as his warm, dark eyes set on me.

  “Well, I was staying at the bed and breakfast in Whitehall, but they've closed for the year, and now the ferry isn't running,” I begin.

  “I'm not sure what about that has brought you here,” he says, looking me up and down. “But, I can't say that you're not welcome,” he adds, jokingly.

  At least, I think he’s joking…

  “Well, I actually found you registered on SofaSurfz?” I say hesitantly, the inflection of a question hitting the end of my sentence. He frowns, and then walks over to the stairs and shouts up them.

  “Oi, Blake?” He calls. When he doesn’t immediately get an answer he adds, “OI! Did you register us on Sofasurfz?” A few moments of silence, loud footsteps can be heard coming from above us. Seconds later, another attractive guy comes practically jogging down the stairs, pausing halfway.

  “Maybe? It sounds familiar, why?” he asks absently from his position on the stairs. The guy who'd opened the door steps aside and gestures at me. Blake’s gaze moves toward mine. He looks across me with mild interest for just a moment, before turning his attention back to his friend to give him a questioning look.

  “This one showed up. She says she needs a place to stay,” he explains.

  “Did she book?” Blake demands.

  “Did you?” The first guy asks me.

  “Err… not exactly,” I answer, biting my lip nervously. Hopefully they don’t think I’m some kind of crazy stalker showing up at their place like this.

  “That would be a no,” he comments to his friend on the stairs.

  “Can't she stay in the hotel?”

  “It's closed, apparently,” he answers.

  “The ferry?” Blake asks without hesitation, sounding like he’s running through a checklist in his brain.

  “Not running,” door guy answers, turning to look at me again.

  “Damn,” Blake mutters, as he finally decides to come down the rest of the stairs. I get a better look at him as he comes closer. Dark hair, light eyes, and far too attractive to be stuck out on a small island in the middle of nowhere. He holds out a large hand for me to shake, and I hesitantly take it. His hand is warm, but he grips tight. “I guess you'll be staying with us then,” he says with a smile.

  “Really? Thank you. I was so worried I'd have to crash in my car,” I ramble.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it in this weather. I’m Blake, what’s your name, darling?” he asks, cutting off my rambling.

  “Tamara, Tamara James,” I answer him, beginning to feel a little more at ease.

  “Well, Tamara, that’s Noah, and our friend Spencer will be back later on. But we’ll worry about introducing you later. You’re shaking like a leaf, how about some hot chocolate? You can tell us what brought you out to Stronsay, I know it wasn’t the nightlife,” he jokes.

  Hot chocolate?

  I instantly perk up. He looks like a god and is offering me hot chocolate—I could almost kiss him.

  “I’d love a hot chocolate,” I answer, smiling brightly.

  Maybe being stuck on Stronsay wouldn’t be so bad after all?

  Chapter 3

  Taking a sip of my hot chocolate, I try to ignore my phone buzzing on the table in front of me.

  “Are you not going to get that?” Blake asks me curiously.

  “Not a chance,” I reply. I inhale the deep aroma of the hot chocolate, very happy in my decision to ignore the call. I only wish that she would stop calling. What could she want now? Doesn't she have someone else to pester? My brother, perhaps?

  It stops ringing finally, and after a minute, I breathe a sigh of relief. She's given up, for now. The phone starts ringing again and I groan. Wishful thinking. I pick up the phone and debate answering it, before switching it off and putting it back on the table.

  “Avoiding someone?” Noah questions, as he walks into the room with a plate. He still hasn’t put a shirt on, and the smell of cookies isn’t the only thing making me drool.

  “Yes, my mother. But more importantly, are those cookies?” I ask, staring at the warm, gooey-looking chunks of goodness on his plate. He smiles and holds the plate out to me. I quickly grab a cookie before he can pull it away.

  “Woah, try not to take my hand off, too, next time,” he teases, grabbing one for himself and taking a huge bite.

  “Sorry, I guess I'm hungry,” I reply sheepishly, and then take a bite myself. I almost moan from the taste. Hell, maybe I did moan a little from the bemused looks on Noah and Blake's faces. It's warm, but not hot. The chocolate chips are all melting in my mouth. It's delicious, and a hundred percent homemade. “Did you make these?” I ask, needing to know if it’s possible for him to make more of these before I leave in a few days.

  “Yup, they’re my grandma's recipe,” Noah answers.

  “Your grandmother is a genius,” I mumble around another bite of deliciousness.

  “Thank you. I'll have to tell her that her recipes are being appreciated,” he says with a smile. We munch on the cookies in a peaceful quiet for a moment.

  “So, not to sound rude or anything, but what are you guys doing living out on this isl
and? It's not exactly a buzzing spot, and you two don't sound very local?” I ask, having noticed their accents are lacking the local tone.

  “We're not local,” Blake answers for them both.

  “Yeah, this is just Spencer's place. We're just staying here for the month to take some time out of our busy lives. Sometimes you've just got to take some time out and kick it back with friends, you know?” Noah says, taking a seat next to me.

  “Spencer just finished the place a few months ago, he'll probably sell up in another six months and be off designing a new home somewhere else. He's not local either, he just likes to find peaceful places. He’s never been one for the city,” Blake adds.

  “So, what are you doing here anyway, Tamara?” Noah asks, looking intently at me.

  “Well, I came out here for a week to work in peace, and then I got stuck here. Not really much more to tell,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders slightly.

  “What do you do for work?” Blake inquires.

  “Erm…” I trail off, blushing. I hate telling people my job. They always have something to say about it.

  “Come on, you can tell us. It can't be that bad, unless you're like a phone sex operator or something? Wait… you're not a phone sex operator, right? Because there's nothing wrong with that,” Noah rambles, making me laugh.

  “No, nothing like that. I'm a writer,” I answer, unable to stop the stupid smile that quirks my lips as I say it. It never stops feeling unreal.

  “What do you write?” Blake asks, seeming genuinely curious.

  “It’s… ahhh… romance?” I supply, cringing a little.

  Nobody ever thinks romance writing is a career. Especially not my mother.