The Christmas Inn. Stella MacLean

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      LONG HOURS LATER AND NEARLY out of gas, Marnie crested a hill, following the road as it trailed along a stream that wound through the countryside like a velvet scarf. To the right, in the middle of a sweep of land framed by pine trees, she spotted a sign in navy blue edged with gold announcing The Mirabel Inn. Beyond the sign, a long driveway led up a gentle slope to the inn.

      Marnie had never seen anything quite so beautiful and majestic in her whole life. She pulled to a stop on the side of the road, captivated by the sight. Two large wings extended back from either side of the inn’s front entranceway and peaked roofs accented the elegant structure sparkling in the afternoon sun. The Mirabel Inn looked like something out of a fairy tale. Its generous expanse of windows glittered in the light and the wide verandas wrapped around two sides. The eaves adorned with intricately carved wood emphasized the inn’s Victorian feel.

      Her research revealed that The Mirabel Inn had once been the private residence of a lumber baron who owned most of the land in this part of the valley. It stood as a magnificent testimonial to his wealth and position in the community during the early years of development in this area of the state.

      When Marnie was a child, she’d dreamed of living in just such a place, a dream that was immediately tempered by the reality that only the very rich could afford a house like this. But she could still dream, and she now had days to experience what living in a house like this would be like.

      She started along the winding drive leading to the entrance with its tall white columns framing a beautiful front door, festooned with the largest Christmas wreath she’d ever seen, and set off by inlaid glass panes on either side of the door. She passed a towering fir tree, whose brightly colored Christmas lights added to the ambience, before entering a section of the driveway flanked by sprawling rock gardens. She could only imagine the types of flowering plants and shrubs that the gardens would hold in the summer. At the moment they were mulched and ready for winter, the bark chips peeking through a light blanket of snow.

      Why would Scott’s client want a mystery guest to assess this inn? There wasn’t a shingle missing off the roof, or a bit of peeling paint anywhere to be seen.

      But Marnie’s only concern was getting a few questionnaires filled out while she relaxed by the fireplace in her room with a hot toddy. Add to that a soaker tub where she could soothe her sore muscles after a nice hike along some of the trails she’d read about in the brochure. Absolute heaven.

      She parked in front of the door and got out. Clutching Scott’s emailed directions along with her confirmation number, she slung her purse over her shoulder, and crossed the stone driveway toward the entrance. Her hand was on the huge brass doorknob when a little boy raced around the corner of the inn toward her, screaming in excitement as he grabbed the back of her jacket. A small dog that resembled a barrel with legs circled her, its fervent bark adding to the pandemonium.

      “Ethan, come back here!” a man, following in pursuit of the child, yelled.

      Marnie looked down into the bluest, roundest eyes she’d ever seen, and couldn’t help smiling. The child had what looked like tomato sauce on his cheeks and a grin that made him impossible to resist. “Well, hello there,” she said, kneeling down.

      “Sorry,” the man said, coming to a stop in front of her. “My son believes this inn is his private play area, and he’s a little too young to get the message that not everyone who arrives here wants to play with him.” He gathered the boy in his arms.

      “And I take it the dog has the same idea,” she said, still kneeling as she patted the animal, which immediately lay down, rolled over and offered his belly for a rub. “What’s his name?”

      “Henry. He adopted us a year ago.” The man’s smile reached into an untapped part of her heart, creating a sense of longing so unfamiliar it stole her breath, followed by the sensation that they’d met before. But they hadn’t. She would have remembered a man who looked this good.

      Trying to regain her composure, she focused her attention on the little boy. “He’s so cute,” she said, groaning inwardly at her use of such a cliché, but surely she could be forgiven for being so predictable. The man was beyond handsome. Sure, there were lots of movie stars who looked good—thanks to special lighting and camera work—but this man was every woman’s dream personified. He was tall, taller than any of her brothers, and he appeared very at ease with himself. His jet-black hair and sea-green eyes—haunted eyes—completed the package.

      Get a grip! He’s got a son. And he’s probably married.

      But Marnie couldn’t help marveling at her luck. First, the most beautiful place she’d ever seen was to be her home for the next few days, and now this…

      “Can I help you?” the man asked, giving her the full benefit of his sexy smile as he hoisted his son onto his shoulders, much to the delight of the child, who promptly clutched his father’s forehead and grinned down at Marnie.

      “I’m expected. I have a reservation.”

      His eyes darkened, and the smile faded from his face as he glanced at her car and back at her. “You have a reservation here?”

      “Yes.” She held out her brother’s email, with her confirmation number scribbled along the bottom. “I have a reservation for The Mirabel Inn, starting tonight and checking out on the twenty-fourth.”

      “Is your…husband, I mean your spouse…partner…here?” Consternation knit his brows together.

      Marnie didn’t know how to respond to such an outrageous question. All she wanted was to check in and relax before dinner. “Do you have to have a husband to stay here?” she asked in her you’ve-got-to-be-kidding tone.

      Hesitating, he gently tugged on his son’s legs. “No. No, of course not. At least most of the time you don’t. But as of tomorrow night, the inn will be filled with couples. It’s our Christmas Getaway event and it’s meant for couples wanting to enjoy the romantic holiday away from all the stress of Christmas preparations. I’m sure the person doing the reservation would’ve told you that.”

      She couldn’t stay here because she was single? Was this covered in the Constitution? It had to be. She had a valid reservation because her brother wouldn’t make that kind of mistake. But why was she wasting time talking to someone who was clearly a lot more handsome than he was gracious?

      “Look, I drove all the way up here. I have a reservation and I’m going to check in.” With that, she opened the door and strode into the lobby. Immediately, Henry jumped up and ambled in behind her, his nails clicking on the hardwood flooring.

      Under different circumstances she would’ve stopped to admire the fabulous Christmas tree filling the main hall with the scent of balsam and outdoors, but she had to determine if her brother had made a mistake. If there’d been some mistake with the reservation, she’d be forced to return to Boston. If that was the case, surely they could help her find a place to stay somewhere in the vicinity as she was too tired to drive any farther. She walked to the desk off along one wall and rang the antique bell resting on the gleaming mahogany.

      A woman appeared, dressed in a classy black dress, a smile warming her angular features. “How may I help you?” she asked.

      “I’m here to check in. My name is Marnie McLaughlan, and I have a reservation.”

      A frown knitted the woman’s perfectly tweezed eyebrows as she scanned a printout. “Could you wait just a minute?” СКАЧАТЬ