Snowed In At Snowflake B&B: The perfect heartwarming Christmas romance to curl up with in 2020!

by Kellie Hailes

  His suspicions returned as Sam continued on…

  ‘I mean, I’m not giving up my business when I move in here – I’ll do both. What if all the old folk in the village moved out and I was no longer needed? Or if you decided owning Snowflake B&B wasn’t for you and you tossed me out?’ She bit her lip and pushed herself off the desk. ‘Anyway, it’s just a thought. The last one I have for today. Promise.’ She tapped her watch-less wrist. ‘Have you looked at the time? The fun is about to begin.’

  He set his reservations to the side and checked the screen, amazed to see it was nearly time for dinner. ‘Where did the day go?’

  ‘Away in a whoosh of cooking and cleaning up after myself, oh, and working on a little something for Secret Santa.’ She tapped the side of her nose and raised her brows. ‘I think it’s going to be a hit and that’s all I’m going to say about that. Now, leave that laptop alone and come with me.’

  Sam took his hand and dragged him out of the room, down the stairs and stopped in front of the dining room. ‘Are you ready to go silent with awe?’

  Reuben nodded, and with a dramatic flourish she pushed open the door and pulled him in, then let him go and gave him space to admire her work.

  And a work of art it was. Some would say a masterpiece.

  Candles, placed the length of the dining room table, and on every available surface, flickered pretty patterns on the wall, enhancing the strings of intricate paper snowflakes that hung along the walls. Ornate Christmas decorations hunched together around the candlesticks helped create a festive table runner. Under the tree, sparkly paper-wrapped gifts nestled, ready to be opened after the meal.

  ‘I’ve only ever seen one thing more beautiful, more wondrous.’ Reuben turned to Sam and tugged her closer, brought his hands to her cheeks.

  ‘If you say this building or some fancy award you won I might have to give you a bloody nose.’ Sam smirked.

  ‘We’ve already ascertained that you’re no brawler.’ Reuben grinned, recalling their first conversation. ‘And let’s leave a tender moment alone, shall we?’

  ‘Royal we?’

  Sam’s nose crinkled and Reuben kissed it, loving that he could, loving that she let him.

  ‘Royal we, indeed.’

  ‘Typical,’ she sighed dramatically. ‘So, we were thinking dinner then presents an hour from now? Does that suit you?’

  Reuben accepted her arrangement the best way he knew how, with another savoury-and-sweet-scented kiss, that didn’t quite erase the nagging thought in the back of his head that Sam knew something she wasn’t meant to.

  Sam glanced at the happy faces, took in the platters of roast meats and vegetables, the bowl of peas upon which melted butter glistened, the jugs of bread sauce, and glossy brown gravy, and felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

  She did this. She was about to fill people’s stomachs with hearty, tasty food that made their taste buds tingle and their souls happy. This was why she belonged at Snowflake B&B. This was her place in the world.

  And now, it would seem, all her dreams had come true.

  This would be her place of work. Her home. And she knew without a doubt that she had done everything she could to ensure the security of Snowflake B&B: Matilda and Flo had both promised to post glowing reviews. The website was all set and just needed Reuben’s go-ahead, and a social media campaign just needed his budget approval and they’d be off and running.

  Better than running… flying.

  She hugged herself happily as she walked to the drawing room and ushered the laughing, smiling group down the hall and into the dining room, then seated them and filled their glasses.

  Three bright tings of knife upon crystal silenced the happy, buoyant chatter filling the dining room, and drew all eyes to the head of the table where Reuben sat wearing a Santa hat that he’d found amongst the boxes of decorations, along with a swathe of tinsel around his neck.

  A fresh bout of giddiness spiralled in her stomach as she took in the old grump who’d dealt with his shyness to become a generous host. Reuben had come into his own as the owner and host of Snowflake B&B, and for that she was glad. The manor deserved to be loved, to be allowed to breathe, to bring joy, relaxation or respite to those who visited it, and she was confident that under Reuben’s watch – with her help – it would continue to do so.

  ‘Who’d have thought a few short days ago we’d be sitting around this dining room table not as strangers but as friends?’ Reuben set the knife down, his gaze moving from guest to guest. Friend to friend. ‘Who’d have thought that barriers in personality and interests and…’

  ‘If you say age I’m going to throw a roast potato at you.’ Matilda widened her eyes in faux-menace, causing the table to chortle.

  ‘Well now I’m going to have to rewrite my whole speech.’ Reuben face-palmed himself. His hand slid down to reveal a wide smile. ‘Not age, but life perspective, could melt away the barriers that, along with the snow, bound us together.’

  ‘Nice save.’ Harry raised his glass of beer in silent cheers.

  ‘Thank you for bringing laughter to Snowflake B&B.’ He tipped his head to Matilda and Harry. ‘And thank you for bringing love.’ He turned his attention to Flo and Stefan who were too busy staring into each other’s eyes to notice his appreciation. ‘To you all.’ Reuben raised his glass of red wine, waited for the table to follow suit, then took a sip and sat down. ‘Now, let’s eat before this delicious meal gets any colder.’

  ‘Gets any colder?’

  The three words sliced into Sam’s heart. What was Reuben saying? That she’d not served the food up quickly enough? That she’d dawdled on the way to bringing the guests to the dining room? That she wasn’t doing her job well enough?

  Was this the beginning of the end, already? Had Reuben come to believe that she was so invested in him that he could now be himself?

  No, surely not. Reuben wasn’t that type of man. He wasn’t her father. Not her ex. He was just wanting his guests to enjoy a warm meal, not meaning it as a silent rebuke, a simple way of reminding her she needed to dish up faster, get the platters and bowls to the table quicker, to not spend as much time faffing over arrangement and garnishes.

  This was a host wanting the best for his guests.

  Even if for her it felt like she was being hurtled back to the past.

  The scene blurred before her, and for a split second she felt like she’d shrunk – not only in demeanour but in size. The long, oak dining table morphing to a small, circular table, set to the side of a poky kitchen, with five bodies squeezed around it. While there was no dedicated head of the table, her father sat in such a way that left no confusion over who ruled the roost. Ruled? Terrorised.

  Every meal too hot, too cold, too small, too much so it was deemed wasteful. Not tasty enough. Overly seasoned. Too boring. Too different.

  Snide remarks. Outright disgust. And always, always the fear of a man-sized tantrum that would see the kids scrambling, while Sam’s mother stayed and took the verbal battering while she promised to do better. Promised to not do what she’d just done ever again. Promised anything and everything to soothe a man who refused to be happy.

  Who couldn’t be made happy no matter what you said or did, or didn’t say and didn’t do.

  An elbow nudged hers, slamming Sam back into the here and now.

  She wasn’t a young girl. She wasn’t in a small kitchen. The food was fine. More than fine. And the man sitting opposite her at the head of the table was not her father.

  But did that make him any better? Or any less worse?

  ‘Sam? Can you pass the bread sauce?’ Matilda’s brows were arrowed together, her eyes questioning, worried.

  ‘Oh, yes. Sure. Sorry, it’s been a long day. Bring on bedtime,’ Sam joked as she passed the jug to Matilda.

  Sam concentrated on loading up her plate, knowing that eating was going to be nigh on impossible if she didn’t figure out a way to dissolve the lump in her throat and move the boulder that sat hea
vy in her gut.

  Taking a deep breath in, she forced a smile to her face.

  Fake it ’til you make it.

  It was time to put on the armour she’d employed as a child when the teachers asked on seeing the dark shadows under Sam’s eyes if she was tired. Or the kindly ‘is everything okay at home?’ queries by various neighbours over the years.

  All people who could see something wasn’t quite right, but were too polite to enquire further after being offered a cheery ‘I’m fine’ or ‘it’s fine’.

  ‘Does anyone need a top-up?’ She stood and grabbed a bottle of wine from the buffet before anyone answered. Using the brief moment her back was turned to the table to take a deep breath and further compose herself.

  This was meant to be a celebration. A fun last night for their guests. They didn’t need to see her being miserable, gnarling over small slights that might only exist in her paranoid mind.

  ‘Red wine.’ She brushed Reuben’s shoulder as she leaned over and filled his glass. His clean, fresh scent surrounded her, threatened to see her lean in further, breathe deeper. Damn, why did he have to smell good? Why did he have to make that stupid comment about the temperature of her food? Why did he have to confuse her so, just when everything was beginning to feel so clear?

  She filled his glass and moved around the table, accepting the thanks and promising to come back with white wine for Matilda and another beer for Harry.

  Job done, she settled back down, picked up her knife and fork and began to work her way through her meal. She was determined to finish it, to make everything look okay to anyone on the outside, not privy to the maelstrom of emotions swirling furiously within her that were making eating, chewing and swallowing a chore.

  She looked up from her plate to see the table looking at her expectantly. Their cutlery set on an angle on their plates, indicating they were done. The food she’d lovingly prepared all but gone from the plates, just dribs and drabs of vegetables and meat left over.

  Not even enough to make a pie with. At least Reuben would be happy about the lack of wastage.

  The bitter voice surprised her, sending what small amount of appetite she’d conjured up scarpering.

  ‘You’re done? You’re done.’ Sam answered her own question, realising stating the obvious while having a plateful of food in front of her would lead to more of Matilda’s concerned-face looks, or Flo’s narrowed-eyes, furrowed-brow gaze that she’d seen directed at her more than once over the course of Flo’s stay. ‘Right, well, I’ll gather this all up, deposit it in the kitchen and get dessert ready.’

  She efficiently gathered up the dinner plates, adding her barely eaten meal to the few roast vegetables left over, deposited the cutlery on top, then rushed it down to the kitchen, intent on rinsing everything and putting it in the dishwasher before serving dessert. The more she did now, the earlier she’d get to bed – and at this point she needed a good sleep. Or at least more time to toss and turn and try to figure out the goings-on in her head.

  Footfalls along the corridor that grew louder then stilled in about the time it took to reach the kitchen alerted her to a visitor. She kept her attention on loading the dishwasher, and prayed it wasn’t Reuben coming to see what was taking her so long, why the dessert wasn’t served, or simply popping in to send her a well-aimed look of ‘what’s wrong with you?’. One that would see her barely held together professional persona spiral out of control.

  Though if that was the case, it wasn’t like she ought to be surprised, because that’s what men did. That was the game they played. Sucked you in by being charming, sweet and kind, and then, once you were hooked, start the asides, the minor complaints, that eventually became blatant complaints, which by then you felt you deserved because everything you did was wrong no matter how much you tried to get things right.

  ‘Need a hand?’ Flo’s soft, even voice sent Sam’s hitched shoulders sliding down a touch.

  Flo was okay. Flo wasn’t Reuben. Flo didn’t leave her delirious with happiness one second and horribly confused the next.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Sam flashed her a quick smile then went back to stacking the dinner plates. ‘Just getting this sorted before our next course. Do it now, won’t have to do it later and all that.’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay.’ Flo hovered at the kitchen door, like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or go. ‘Reuben was just wondering where you were and I offered to come check on you. He’s looking forward to dessert. I bet it’ll be delicious.’

  The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stood to attention. She wasn’t going mad. Wasn’t imagining anything. Reuben was nit-picking. Was finding fault in anything and everything she did – or didn’t do fast enough, in this case.

  ‘Kind of you to say.’ Sam forced the words through gritted teeth. ‘This is nearly done. Tell Reuben I’ll be down in a quick minute with the trifle.’

  She shut the dishwasher’s door with more force than intended, causing Flo to jump as she picked up the bowls.

  ‘Sorry about that. Don’t know my own strength.’

  Forced cheeriness. Cheek-aching smile. Nothing to see here. Everything is fine.

  Flo’s gaze lingered on Sam longer than she was comfortable with, then with a small shake of her head she headed back to the dining room, grabbing the dessert bowls and spoons unasked on the way out.

  Sam shut her eyes, took a deep breath in and slowly released it. She had to pull herself together. Had to get a handle on her emotions. She was beginning to feel like she was losing the plot. Her grip on reality was loosening. Had she really spent too long in the kitchen? Had Reuben meant to make it sound like she was slacking? Or had he been genuinely concerned?

  And in thinking the best of him was she giving him too much credit, when history – her story – suggested giving credit to any man was a worse than terrible idea?

  A heart-aching idea. A gut-wrenching idea. A soul-stealing idea.

  She opened the fridge and took out the trifle she’d prepared earlier. She’d gone a slightly less traditional route and created a chocolate orange trifle. A show-stopping dessert if ever there was one, with its light-as-a-feather chocolate sponge cake that she’d dunked in Cointreau and orange juice, then mixed through with a delectable combination of orange zest and cream, layered with chocolate custard, and finished with candied orange slices and shaved chocolate. It was the kind of dessert that would satisfy a sweet tooth, while warming a person’s heart.

  Sam hefted the glass bowl up and held it close to her chest. There was no way she was dropping this work of culinary art. Not when tonight was their last evening together before reality pulled the group back to the regular beats and movements of their existence.

  Tonight was for celebration, for fun, for joy. Maybe even for love. If not for her then definitely for the two wonderful couples she’d grown to like immensely.

  A bubble of excitement rose from the doom and gloom that had set up camp in her gut, in her heart, in her mind.

  First dessert and then presents.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  The phone began to ring and Sam raced to answer it before Reuben felt obliged to abandon his guests and pick it up himself.

  ‘Welcome to Snowflake B&B. Reuben Richards speaking.’

  Too late. Sam cursed herself for not being fast enough.

  ‘Hello, yes, this is Gerrard Bevel from Bevel & Son Estate Agents. I’m calling you back about a buyer for the manor? I have an interested party…’

  Sam’s heart seized in her chest, and hot tears filled her eyes as she registered what she was hearing.

  Reuben was selling Snowflake B&B.

  The one place she’d considered home, felt safe in, was being ripped away from her.

  She slowly, carefully, set the phone down, not wanting Reuben to know she’d overheard his conversation. That she’d discovered his lies.

  He no more wanted to stay here than he wanted to be with her.

  He was toying with her emotions, with her h
eart.

  Worse, and what Sam most hated of all, was that despite knowing better, she had let herself be strung along, played with, then hurt by a man… again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Reuben kept a close eye on Sam as she inched her way into the dining room, a huge, heavy-looking glass bowl pressed up against her chest. Her top teeth gnawed her lower lip as she walked to the table.

  She had the look of a woman who was terrified she’d make a misstep, that she’d drop the dessert, and that in doing so all hell would break loose.

  Worst-case scenario? She dropped it, they cleaned it up, and he’d help her pull a different dessert together, like ice cream with melted chocolate on top and a sprinkle of nuts for dessert. Nowhere near as delicious or accomplished-looking as the dessert Sam had created, but it would do the trick at a moment’s notice.

  ‘You right, pet? Do you need a hand?’

  Harry went to stand and Reuben jumped up. If Sam needed help it was his job to take care of her, not Harry’s.

  ‘I’ve got it, Harry. Sit, relax.’ Reuben went to Sam, his arms reaching for the bowl. ‘Here, let me take that off your hands. It looks heavy.’

  Reuben jerked back involuntarily as Sam met his gaze, her eyes dark with anger, her face pale, her demeanour ‘get away from me’.

  He dropped his hands and took a step back. ‘I can see you’ve got it all under control.’ He kept his tone easy, not wanting to inadvertently further offend her or alert the guests to whatever issues were brewing inside of Sam.

  He made his way back to the seat, briefly catching the eye of Matilda who was looking every bit as concerned as he felt.

  Knowing he wasn’t the only one seeing Sam’s off-ness should have given him some sense of relief, but it only exacerbated the uneasiness that swirled in his stomach, which made it feel like a nest of ants was skittering over his heart.