TAKE A PEEK AT CHAPTER 1!

Chapter 1

Elin

Monday, December 16

Even though snowy days are supposed to feel magical, it seems Jack Frost decided to make my day worse by placing ice in my path at every turn. The metal railings are freezing to the touch, even through my wool mittens. I desperately want to grab onto the wrought-iron rails and use them as leverage to get to the top of this never-end­ing stairway, which sadly won’t end in heaven. Trudging up the stairs to my tiny apartment, my thighs burn from the long day at the veteri­nary clinic. I’m loath to admit my age is showing.

Climbing these stairs in winter gear wouldn’t have fazed me at twenty-two, but at thirty-six, I’m waiting for my heart rate monitor to scream at me that a heart attack is imminent. My breath fogs around me as I huff and puff like the little engine that couldn’t. This narrow staircase is like the Stairmaster from hell. It reminds me of an exercise machine I don’t want to be on but need to finish if I ever want to col­lapse on my couch. I think tonight calls for either a Baileys S’mores hot cocoa or a bottle of wine.

As my key slides into the lock, I wiggle it a few times to get it to disengage. Even my door thinks it’s too cold out here. I don’t blame it because if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t want some superflu­ous lady to let out all my heat, either.

When the door swings in, I push myself across the threshold with one last burst of energy and rush inside, slamming the door shut. With the thick wood between me and the freezing elements, I take a second to unloop my scarf, allowing my face to breathe unobstructed. Glancing down, I notice the small stack of mail. I want to know how my mailman, who must be pushing sixty, tromps up my stairs each day without issue. Bending over, the unforgiving button of my wool-blend pants digs into the soft pooch of my lower stomach.

It’s yoga pant time.

I drop the mail on my kitchen table and head to my small bed­room. This place isn’t anything like the beautiful home I grew up in. I will forever miss the house where I had my best memories. It’s been two years since Dad passed and the sale went through. When my dad had a heart attack on a hunting trip, I could no longer afford to pay the bills and care for Mom. Since her diagnosis when I was eighteen, my mom’s health has been my family’s priority.

I miss the view the most. The gorgeous lake looked like glass at sunrise. Our property was shrouded in old-growth trees, making it feel like we were the only ones for miles. Growing up, I always thought my wedding would take place on the lawn, which gradually slopes to the water’s edge. Unfortunately, I’m thirty-six years old and have had exactly zero marriage proposals or prospects. The only ones I’ve entertained have been imaginary or literary.

Shuffling into my tiny closet, I pull out an oversized sweater and a pair of yoga pants. It’s hard to believe it’s only Monday. We were so busy with people trying to fit in appointments before we closed for the holidays, it felt like three days were stuffed into one. My eyes struggle to stay open as a heaviness threatens to overtake my body. I heat a glass of milk and grab the s’more-flavored Baileys from my cupboard. I think tonight calls for more than a small splash. I plan to channel my inner Axel and get a little heavy-handed. My best friend’s older brother might be younger than me, but he knows how to pour a drink.

With my spiked hot cocoa in one hand, I grab the mail and shuffle to my little loveseat. A full-sized couch wouldn’t fit in here. Luckily, I was able to find an oversized footstool to make this piece of furniture comfortable. Tucking my feet up underneath me, I open the first letter. It’s in a beautiful cream envelope. My thumb slides beneath a burgundy wax seal to reveal a red and gold invitation. Looks like another friend from high school is getting married. With all the weddings I’ve attended in the last fifteen years, I could probably open an evening gown boutique. How sweet—a Valentine’s Day wedding. Explains the red and gold heart theme.

The next envelope is peach. Odd color for this time of year. Flipping it over, I see a stork sticker sealing the envelope and wince. Awesome. Another friend from high school is having a baby. I will laugh or barf if the next one is an engagement party invitation. Tossing the baby shower invitation on the wedding invitation, I turn to the next piece of mail. This is a thick linen envelope. Looking at the return address, I groan when I see Tollefson Property Management printed in the left-hand corner.

In my haste to tear open the envelope, I give myself a paper cut. Hissing in pain, I shove my finger into my mouth. Damn. Stupid Anders envelope. This better be an invitation to the exclusive holiday party, which only the select are invited to, at the Tollefson residence. Scoffing, I know there’s no way in hell Anders Tollefson would ever invite me to his fancy-ass party where they probably eat snails and refer to mustard as Grey Poupon.

Pulling out the letter, I extend my legs and frown. This looks very official. Picking up my mug, I take a large swig of liquid courage. Without thinking, I start reading out loud. “Dear Ms. Olson. This is an official notice to remind you of the rent increase taking effect on the first of January. The original notification was sent on the twentieth of October. According to our records, your tenant agreement is valid until the thirty-first of December. We look forward to renewing your annual lease. We hope you have a happy holidays. Please call the of­fice should you have any questions or concerns. Sincerely, Tollefson Property Management.”

I throw the letter as hard as I can, but the flat paper goes all of two feet before gliding to a stop on the rug beside my outstretched leg. I’ve been trying to find a roommate to occupy the other bedroom. It’s technically considered an office since it doesn’t have a closet. The room is barely eight feet by eight feet. I don’t think much more than a twin bed with a dresser and nightstand will fit in there.

Scrubbing my hand over my face, a tiny grumble escapes my lips. When the notice came in October, I was on my way to the Am­barsan Apple Harvest Festival. I knew there was no way I could afford an additional two hundred dollars a month on my already tight budget. One of my best friends in town owns the bakery, and her bread baker is a guy named River. He doesn’t live in town, and when he needs to arrive at work before sunrise, I thought it would be a win-win for him to live with me. He would have only a one-block commute. Anders denied him without giving me a reason why. Because he’s my land­lord, he must approve any additional tenants in my apartment. I left handwritten posters all over town, but no one else seemed to need cheap rent. One high school senior asked if he could use it as a crash pad when his parents were annoying him. I didn’t even need Anders to tell him no.

I have less than two weeks to figure out how I will afford this increase. Between my mom’s medical bills and my own cost of living, I don’t make enough to support our separate lifestyles on my single income. I’m beyond frustrated. When I first moved in, this building was owned by a sweet older couple. They’d owned the building for decades and offered me this apartment at a very affordable price.

Banging my head against the back of my fluffy couch doesn’t have the desired effect of a hissy-fit. My phone rings with an incoming call, and I loll my head to the side, debating the pros and cons of an­swering it. I inch my fingers toward the device, swiping my finger across the screen to a number I don’t recognize.

“Hello?” I ask, wincing. My voice is an octave higher than usual. I’d make the perfect character in a horror film calling out to see if anyone’s in the basement. Discretely, I try to clear my throat. “Hello?” I make another attempt. Great, now I sound like I have lar­yngitis.

“Is this Elin Olson?” A spine-tingling baritone filters across the line. Wait, he sounds familiar. At least I don’t have any cousins in this town.

“Yes. This is she.” This better not be a reminder of a dentist appointment or something.

“Hey, Elin. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was here in October during the Harvest Festival. My name is Tristan. My uncle owns Bubba’s Auto Shop,” he says, and his warm timbre sends a thrill across my skin. It’s hard to forget a guy who looks like Kevin Creekman and wears mechanic overalls, which leave very little to the imagination. If he was on a dating app, I’d swipe whatever direction gets me a date with him.

“Of course, Kev—Tristan. It’s great to hear from you. How did you get my number?” I ask, suddenly wondering where this conversation is going.

“Well, I saw the flyer you put in Hop Along Bakery about needing a roommate. I’m in town for a few days looking for a place to rent for the first few months of the year. The moving van leaves my place in Seattle in a few weeks, but my uncle is in the process of relocating to Arizona. I won’t be able to move into his place until March, but he said I could store most of my things in his garage. Since his house is only a one-bedroom, I can’t live there until he’s gone. Is the room at your place still available?” He talks so fast I’m struggling to keep up. I admit his deep, growly voice is also highly distracting.

“Yup.” It’s all I’m able to squeak out as my mind swirls. Sharing an apartment with this manly god-like beast. Sign me up. Britt is going to flip, and she might be my best friend, but once she finds out Tristan is living here, I think she’ll move in too. When he was here in October, I thought she was going to swallow her tongue when he asked her to dance at Glaciers Bar and Grill. “Let me give you the number of my landlord. He needs to approve you, but as far as I’m concerned, the room is yours.”

“Who’s the landlord?” he asks. “Is it anyone I know?”

“I’m not sure. Did you meet Anders Tollefson when you were here? He owns Sleepy Mountain Roasters.” In my head, I add stuffy prick.

Tristan scoffs, then chuckles. His laugh rumbles over the line. “Yeah. I know Anders. We played poker the last time I was in town at Axel’s clubhouse.”

I grin because this is in the bag. I quickly give Tristan the phone number I have for Anders, and we say goodbye. My money problems are over, and I won’t need to stress about the increase for a few months. Splitting the rent will take my monthly payment down for the two to three months he’s here and give me a few extra months of breathing room until I can find a permanent fix.