Page 1 of Snowed Inn

Chapter 1

Christmas Eve (morning)

I should be in Los Angeles right now, surrounded by my loud, wonderful, borderline chaotic family, stuffing my face with my nonna’s cornetti, preparing for the Feast of the Seven Fishes, and dodging my nieces’ attempts to turn me into a human jungle gym.

Instead, I’m here.

In a blizzard.

“Welcome to Christmas at the Honeycrisp Orchard Inn!” Donny, my rideshare driver, practically sings as he pulls up in front of the sprawling farmhouse. His enthusiasm is so over the top it makes me smile . . . and look up from my never-ending social media feed.

And . . . wow.

It really is amazing. Snow is flying but I can still see the four-story white house, its wraparound front porch draped in dark-green garland, with red velvet bows securing it in place. Twinkling lights dangle from the eaves like frozen raindrops, and the fresh snowfall softens the world around it, blanketing everything in pure, sparkling white. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark movie, the kind where a high-powered career woman gets stranded in a small town, meets a rugged local, and rediscovers the meaning of life.

I am not that woman.

And this is not my life.

I sigh, shifting the weight of my tote bag on my shoulder and adjusting the tiny black kitten nestled in my other arm. She lets out a sleepy meow, curling against me for warmth. The poor little thing was abandoned in an alley, shivering and alone when Donny and I spotted her ten minutes ago. And no, I do not do pets. I barely have time to take care of myself, let alone some helpless creature. But I couldn’t just leave her. So here we are.

My phone buzzes. Again.

I don’t need to check to know who it is. Monica Moss, the actress who is about 73 percent of my problems right now.

MONICA: what color should I paint my nails for my Tonight Show spot?

I groan, barely resisting the urge to chuck my phone into the snow. Who cares? is what I want to reply. Instead, I type: Something neutral?

Please note. Monica doesn’t even have a Tonight Show spot. Not yet. Her movie, the one that she’s counting on to make her into a huge star, doesn’t come out until June. It’s set to be a summer blockbuster, but Monica doesn’t believe in waiting. For anything. She’s decided she’s manifesting stardom immediately. And, I, as her PR rep, am required to play along. Of course, with my help, she probably will be a huge star by June, but that is six months away. And so is this hypothetical nail polish.

MONICA: neutral? boring!

She fires back immediately.

This is my life. Babysitting an entitled, up-and-coming movie star instead of doing what I actually love: PR strategy, branding, creating buzz. Monica doesn’t want a publicist—she wants a personal stylist/therapist/life coach. I am none of those things.

And my boss? She told me to “tread lightly” with her, because if Monica’s movie blows up next summer like everyone predicts, she’ll be Hollywood’s new It Girl. So here I am, texting about nail polish while I’m supposed to be on vacation. My job used to be a lot more fun. Now it mostly feels like high-gloss damage control for people who think a chipped manicure qualifies as a reason for a meltdown. And the worst part? I’m not even sure I care anymore.

I toss my phone into my oversize purse and turn to Donny, who is vibrating with excitement as he lugs my massive suitcases out of his hatchback.

“You love this place, don’t you?” I ask, watching as he practically bounces. In addition to being 50 percent of the rideshare drivers in Harvest Hollow, New York, Donny is also a bellhop at the inn.

“Of course! It’s magical,” he says, flashing me a huge grin. “You’re gonna love it here for Christmas.”

I glance up at the farmhouse again, its welcoming lights glowing against the gray sky, the warmth radiating from inside. For the first time all day, my shoulders relax.

Why am I here? My best friend, Ellie, convinced me to come after this blizzard shut down all flights out of New York. She and her family own this inn, while her fantastic new boyfriend, Aiden, and his parents, own the orchard and surrounding property. And while I’m grateful for the last-minute invite, I already miss the city. My tiny, overpriced Manhattan studio. The constant hum of traffic. The fact that I can order takeout day or night. This place is all the way out on eastern Long Island.

But it’s Christmas, and I’m determined to at least try to enjoy it.

I take another look around. In addition to the flying snow and the garland, there are softly lit Christmas trees visible in both big windows, and balsam wreaths with large red velvet bows on the wooden front doors. A tall vertical rustic sign that says “Happy Holidays” is propped up in the corner of the porch, and there’s even a life-size snowman made out of what appears to be cotton near the front door. Okay. Even I have to admit it’s more Christmassy out here than it would be in LA. And it was nice of El to invite me. I intend to make the best of the situation while I’m here. I want to be more Santa Claus, less Grinch.

“Come on, Christmas,” I murmur to the kitten as I adjust my grip on her. “Let’s go find you some food.”

She looks up at me with wide, trusting eyes. It’s unsettling. I don’t do the whole “emotional attachment” thing, and this tiny furball is already testing my limits.

I didn’t plan on acquiring a cat today. Or ever, honestly. But fate had other ideas, because I’d spotted her on the way from the train station, a tiny black smudge against the endless white snow, and made Donny pull over so I could scoop her up. Obvious name choice: Christmas. And now, apparently, I’m responsible for a cat.