Snow had been falling since dawn—slow, almost hypnotic flakes that looked enchanting until you remembered you were driving up a mountain road with tires long overdue for replacement. Ivy Hartley leaned closer over the steering wheel, gripping it as if she could stop the storm with her hands alone. Her dark curls bounced with every pothole, and she muttered to herself under her breath:
“Romantic Christmas getaway, she said. We’ll spark something, she said. Well, Carla… I hope you’re sparking happily somewhere—without me.”
The breakup was so fresh that Ivy hadn’t deleted a single unread message. But she refused to let one unreliable woman ruin her holiday. She had booked this cabin months ago. The wine was ready. The playlist, Festive & Slightly Naughty, was queued. She would enjoy her holiday. Alone, if necessary. Even if it meant a marathon of cheesy movies and overindulgence in wine.
The last bend of the road appeared—and there it was. The cabin, smoke curling from the chimney, warm light glowing through frosted windows. A perfect Christmas postcard. Ivy grinned triumphantly.
“Mine,” she declared, hoisting her bag and trudging up the steps.
But as she reached for the door—it swung open.