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

by Kellie Hailes

  ‘Looks like we have guests.’ She clapped her hands and half-skipped, half-ran past Reuben, whose colour was beginning to return to normal. ‘We’re running behind, but I’m sure between the two of us we can make out like everything is in order. I’ll get the kettle on, and whip up some biscuits or scones, or whatever I can with what’s on hand. You greet them. Bring them into the kitchen. Get them to leave their bags in the cloakroom and I’ll collect them later. Which rooms will they be staying in?’

  ‘The ones farthest from mine. Whichever ones they like the look of most. First come, first served. That’s how I did the last lot that came through.’

  ‘Of course you did, and of course they are. God forbid anyone interrupts your writing or sleeping by, I don’t know, breathing or something.’ The grin she’d tried to repress earlier cracked through.

  ‘By breathing. Or snoring. Snoring is a face-smothering offence, and I’ve noticed the pillows are exceptionally stuffed. They’d muffle screams rather well.’

  She turned to face him. His arms were crossed once more. His face unreadable. Was he teasing her like she’d told him to? Or was he really that concerned with silence that he’d commit murder to ensure it?

  ‘I’m not a snorer, I’ll have you know. Or a grunter. Or a sleep talker. Or a sleepwalker, for that matter. And I can promise you that even if I were, the very last place I’d sleepwalk into is your bed. So you won’t have to worry about where to hide my body until the ground’s soft enough in the woods that you can bury me.’

  Sam bit her tongue. Sank her teeth in, good and proper. Stopped herself from digging a hole carved from insults that would see her never invited back to work at Snowflake B&B again. A shiver crept over her at the mere thought.

  The pretty manor had never been her home, but when she was younger it had been her haven. A place she’d come when her father’s temper had seen she and her brothers scarpering. Her poor mother left behind to take the brunt of whatever had piqued his anger.

  The toilet not clean enough. A crumb on the kitchen bench. The sofa not facing the television at the right angle. The kids not playing at the right noise level. His perfectionist streak a dark cloud hovering over their small cottage at all times.

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and prepared to apologise.

  ‘Good. One less thing to have to worry about.’

  Brusque footsteps followed by the squeak of the front door being opened told Sam she was alone. And still had a job.

  For the time being anyway.

  She opened her eyes and made her way back down into the grand foyer. As tempted as she was to make a beeline for the kitchen and get a post-travelling snack started, she had a feeling she was better off helping Reuben greet the guests.

  ‘And you are?’

  Reuben’s back was to her, the door opened just enough for his head to poke through, nowhere near enough for the guests to enter.

  Her instinct was right.

  She cleared her throat, letting Reuben know she was there. Swatted his hand away from the doorknob, then took it in hand and swung the door wide open.

  ‘Welcome. Welcome. Get in out of the cold. Sorry about old Reuben here. He just woke up from a nap and he’s a bit groggy. Forgotten his manners.’ She shook her head and gave a disapproving tsk tsk. ‘I’m Sam. I’ll be cooking your meals for the next couple of days – all of them, as I don’t see the weather being appropriate for visiting neighbouring villages and towns.’ She twisted around, widened her eyes at Reuben and sent him a silent message to pull himself together and get his game face on.

  His glower morphed into a smile. ‘And I’m old Reuben, though I’m not sure about the old part. Could do without that.’ He tugged at his slightly too long grey hair. ‘Don’t let the hair confuse you. Premature greying runs in the family.’ He chuckled – a deep, rumbling sound that sent an unexpectedly enjoyable tingle of goose bumps skittering over Sam’s skin – then he moved to the side and swept his arm out.

  ‘Welcome to Snowflake B&B. I do apologise for the weather. While it’s living up to the manor’s name, it’s not usually so bad.’

  Sam stifled a snort. Not usually this bad? It was the manor’s consistent cutting off from civilisation due to snowfall that led to its name. Though Reuben being new to the area wouldn’t know that, and he didn’t seem the type to investigate the ins and outs of a region’s weather. Not that he appeared bumbling, he just seemed so… insular. So in his own head.

  At least he was making an attempt to make their guests feel welcome. With a bit of humour, no less.

  ‘I’m Harold, but call me Harry.’ An older gentleman – who Sam judged to be around sixty – with a head of hair so white it matched nature’s current décor, thrust his hand out, caught Reuben’s hand in his and shook it heartily. ‘This is Matilda, my beautiful bride of nearly thirty-five years.’

  Matilda’s smile was warm and hit her hazel eyes as she shook their hands with the same vigour as her husband. ‘We’re celebrating our wedding anniversary this weekend, even though it’s technically five days away. We honeymooned here, so it felt like a good place to reconnect.’

  ‘That sounds brilliant.’ Sam returned Matilda’s smile, then focused on the couple behind them who were shifting from foot to foot with the impatient air of city people who rarely took time to slow down, breathe and enjoy just being.

  As if sensing the second couple’s impatience Matilda and Harry shuffled over.

  ‘Stefan.’ The young man, who Sam picked to be around her age, nodded. ‘This is my girlfriend, Florence.’

  Florence half-smiled but didn’t add anything further to the conversation, and Sam wasn’t about to push her.

  Guests came to Snowflake B&B for their own reasons. Sometimes it was to reconnect, like with Matilda and Harry. Other times it was to take a break from the rat race and do as little as possible. Some came to strengthen the bonds of young love, or to take the next big step in a relationship. The odd couple had been known to stamp out the dying embers of their coupledom and leave separately. Sam wasn’t sure which of those categories the young couple with their standoffish – bordering on peevish – vibe fell into, but if the weather had them stuck here for the foreseeable future there was every chance she’d find out.

  The quartet moved further into the entranceway and set their bags to the side at Reuben’s instruction. Their gazes darted about as they took in the décor, the art, the Edwardian side table on which sat a brass vase filled with fake flowers, flanked by bronze horse statues.

  Sam hoped they didn’t see the layer of dust that had settled over the ornaments and furniture, and made a mental note to go over the place with a duster the moment everyone was settled in and busy doing…

  Doing what, she had no idea.

  This wasn’t out-and-about weather. They’d catch their death if they went rambling. The road to the village was surely blocked by now. That left indoor entertainment only. Something she had a feeling Reuben would’ve set to one side of his mind, like he had the cleaning and cooking.

  She’d had some idea what she was getting into based off village chatter, but it had no way prepared her for just how bad the situation was here. She hated to admit it, but the terrible reviews she’d read online were warranted.

  There was one thing for it: she had to take charge and ensure this weekend was a success, get the good reviews flowing in again, and make sure her beloved Snowflake B&B didn’t fall to wrack and ruin. Or plain old bad management. Easy.

  Or it would be if she could whip the owner – who was currently staring at the guests with a befuddled expression on his face – into shape.

  ‘Reuben will take your suitcases up to your room. Why don’t you give me your coats to pop in the cloakroom, and then we’ll go through to the kitchen and I’ll pop the kettle on.’

  ‘Wonderful. I’m parched.’ Matilda turned to Reuben. ‘Reuben, do you need Harry to give you a hand?’

  ‘No, thank you. Harry can stay with you. I’m fine.’
Reuben took Matilda’s suitcase in one hand, grabbed Harry’s in the other and began an awkward thump-thump shuffle of a walk up the stairs.

  Sam hung their coats next to hers, then clapped her hands together and put on her brightest smile. ‘Well, now that that’s sorted, follow me.’

  She led the group down the wood-panelled hallway and into the kitchen, then ushered them onto the row of stools that lined one side of the kitchen island.

  ‘I’m amazed you made it up here.’ She put the kettle on the boil and began pulling out mugs, tea and sugar – noting that they were running low on sugar and hoping Reuben had some more in the pantry. ‘And thanks for braving the weather.’

  ‘Is it usually this… challenging? I don’t remember it being this bad the last time we were here.’ Harry glanced out the window at the snow, which was falling in a thick sheet. ‘And I take no sugar and a dash of milk.’

  ‘Got it.’ Sam twisted round, pulled milk from the fridge and set it down beside the sugar. ‘And yes, it does tend to get this challenging a few times every winter. You must’ve enjoyed some newlyweds’ luck the last time.’

  ‘Challenging? Really?’ Matilda shook her head. ‘I think it’s cosy. And I love that there’s still no television or internet offered. Being so cut off from everything means we can actually talk. Bond.’

  Stefan’s nostrils flared as he sat up straighter and wrinkled his nose. ‘I still can’t believe I agreed to stay at a place where I won’t be able to check the news regularly.’

  Florence matched his despair with a snort. ‘News, my arse. Don’t you mean gaming with your online mates?’

  ‘And you think you’ll be able to survive a few days without updating your social media? Checking in on all your pouting “look at me” friends?’

  ‘At least they’re real friends, who I’ve met in real life.’ Florence inched away from Stefan.

  Sam sensed trouble in, er, paradise. Sensed it? Her body had knotted up as it always did when an argument between couples was afoot. Defuse, defuse, defuse. The word buzzed through her mind, urging her to make things better before things could be made worse.

  She said a silent thank you as the kettle clicked off. ‘How about I pour, and you add in sugar and milk as required. I was thinking I’d whip us up some biscuits, too. I have this marvellous choc-chunk recipe that is crispy on the outside, soft in the middle, and beautifully gooey if eaten fresh from the oven.’ Sam swivelled around and began pulling out the ingredients. Thankful that Reuben – not that she could imagine him being handy in the kitchen – had kept food in roughly the same places that the previous owners had. Her gratefulness grew when she noticed the honey was untouched. She could use that instead of sugar in order to stretch out what little appeared to be left. ‘Honey. Flour. Chocolate.’ She pulled each ingredient out and placed it on the counter without turning around, the habit of preparing to make people happy with her food soothing the pitter-patter of her stressed-out heart.

  ‘Never let this one go. She’s a keeper. I like her already.’

  Sam grinned at Harry giving Stefan a talking-to. Probably trying to smooth the turbulent waters between the young couple. She wondered if he and Matilda had kids of their own. Harry seemed like a good man. Family oriented. Doting. A harbour in a storm. The opposite of her own father, who had brought the storm.

  ‘I didn’t know I had her, to be honest. She just turned up on my doorstep this morning.’

  Ah, so not Harry talking to Stefan. Harry talking to Reuben. Who had managed to make it seem like she was some random who’d turned up out of nowhere.

  Sam grabbed a bowl from the cupboard below and pushed herself up. ‘He makes me sound like a stray.’ She grinned as she took the butter out of the fridge. ‘I’ve been working here for the past seven or so years. Not full-time. Just when needed. Usually during busy periods.’

  Matilda’s gaze meandered around the large room. ‘But it’s not what you’d call busy.’

  ‘It was meant to be.’ Sam cut the butter into cubes, placed it in a bowl and popped it in the microwave just long enough for it to soften, then scraped it into the mixer. ‘I suspect you’ll be the only ones to get through.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re going to be bored? I mean, what can you do when you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere?’ Stefan’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Does that mean we’ll be stuck here longer than just the weekend? With no internet?’

  Harry slapped him on the back. ‘You might actually have to talk to strangers. Make friends even.’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of making friends with strangers,’ Stefan shot back.

  ‘Do you follow the football, son?’ Harry asked, doggedly refusing to give up on befriending the rude little beggar, who Sam had half a mind to flick biscuit dough at.

  Florence shook her head. ‘Follow it? He lives and breathes it. It was all he yarned on about for the three hours up here. I’m amazed my brain’s not gone to liquid. It really ought to be seeping out my ears.’

  Sam grimaced at the visuals.

  ‘Too much?’ Florence held her hands up, palms facing the ceiling. ‘Sorry, I hear there’s a line and that I’ve a talent for crossing it.’

  ‘You’re fine, Florence. I’ve heard worse.’ Reuben slid onto a stool beside Harry. ‘I’ve written worse.’

  ‘You’re a writer?’ Florence dropped her hands. ‘Are you famous? And call me Flo. Florence is what my parents, and my boyfriend when he’s in a mood, call me.’

  Reuben shook his head. ‘Nice to know, Flo. And if you have to ask if I’m famous then you’ve got your answer. I’m not. Not in the grand scheme of things, at least.’

  ‘So what are you working on at the moment?’ Matilda clapped her hands together. ‘Can we hear about it? Maybe read a little of what you’ve written? Give you our thoughts?’

  Violent pink peaked above Reuben’s jumper and raced up his face.

  Was he really that shy? Did he not enjoy talking about his work? Or was it something more than that? Sam shook her head at how ridiculously curious she was being, overthinking not just his situation but him, too. Reuben’s life outside of the B&B was none of her business. She went to focus on breaking up the cake of dark chocolate, but caught the way Reuben tugged at the collar of his top out of the corner of her eye.

  Definitely more than shyness. He was flustered. Nervous. Like a man caught out in a lie.

  Despite her decision to keep out of his business, Sam couldn’t let him wallow in awkwardness. He clearly didn’t want to be rude and say no or he would’ve already, but he equally clearly didn’t want to say yes and have his work out there before he was ready.

  ‘I’ve heard it’s bad luck for an author to share snippets or talk about their book before it’s done, and we can’t have old Reuben here being dogged by the bad luck fairy, can we?’ Sam shrugged her shoulders and grinned in her best ‘I don’t make the rules, I just follow them’ manner. ‘Am I right, Reuben?’

  ‘Er, yes. Quite right, Sam. Can’t have that. I’d never be able to write another book.’ His gaze shifted over the crowd, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes.

  Suspicion squirmed low in Sam’s stomach. Something was up with Reuben. Something of the ‘not good’ variety. And while self-preservation usually kept her out of men’s affairs, kept her away from men full stop – especially the ones she couldn’t get an easy read on – she found herself wanting to know the who, what and whys of Reuben.

  More than she should.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A smoothing out of the duvet, a fluff of pillow and he was done. Beds made. Chocolates on pillows. Jugs of water and glasses on side tables should the guests get thirsty in the night.

  Reuben Richards, housemaid.

  Who’d have thought this was where he’d end up?

  As he walked to his study, Reuben mentally slapped himself about the head – not for the first time, or the hundredth – for giving in to his ex’s demands and selling their place in London in order to give her more than half
the proceeds. At the time he’d told himself he didn’t want their house anyway, that while it may have been his place of work – his sanctuary – after her affair had come to light it had become four walls filled with lies and deception, of pain and hurt. Then, while deep in the doldrums, and under the influence of five too many whiskeys, he’d opened his laptop and come across the B&B in the middle of nowhere, where no one would bother him, where he could hide and write and maybe even heal.

  Now here he was. Stuck. Worse than before. Unable to write, forced to play the role of convivial host to a bunch of strangers, and in danger of losing everything.

  He’d never intended on actually running the B&B, of opening it up to others, but desperate times had called for desperate measures, and when the words had refused to come, he had no choice but to reopen bookings and attempt to run a business in the hopes he could make enough to return the advance his publishers had given him for a book that refused to be written.

  ‘Attempt’ being the laughable part of that sentence. ‘Desperate’ the honest part.

  In the few weeks he’d been open the feedback had been… bloody horrible.

  ‘One star. The meals are a dog’s breakfast… that I wouldn’t even feed to my dog.’

  ‘Two stars. The only thing worse than the food is the owner. What a grump. The bed is comfortable though and the grounds pleasant.’

  ‘If I could give it less than one star I would. There is nothing good here. The birds chirp too loudly. The food’s disgusting. The owner looks like he’d kill you in your sleep.’

  That review had particularly hurt, mainly because he wouldn’t kill a paying customer, not when he needed their money. The rest of their feedback? Accurate. His cooking was horrendous. His manner less than enthusiastic despite best efforts. And the birds did chirp too loudly.

  If he had to hazard a guess, he suspected Millicent had seen the reviews and that was why she’d sent Sam to give him a helping hand.