Snowed In At Snowflake B&B

by Kellie Hailes

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Preorder now: the perfect festive romance to warm your heart this Christmas. Perfect for fans of Victoria Walters and Phillipa Ashley All I want for Christmas... Samantha Heatherington always loved Christmas at Snowflake B&B. Her cooking job over the festive season was always her favourite time of year. Until, thriller writer Reuben Richards buys the beautiful inn she always thought would one day be hers. Grumpy and too-good-looking-for-his-own-good, Reuben has no experience running a B&B, let alone cooking and spends most of his time in his study hiding from the guests. Thankfully Sam isn't interested in love right now, let alone the one man who might lead to her losing the one place that has ever felt like home. It looks like it's going to be up to Sam to mix up a little bit of Christmas magic! Can Sam save Snowflake B&B in time for Christmas and maybe even find love under the mistletoe? Readers love Kellie Hailes's gorgeous romances: 'Great characters, easy read, uplifting, funny, romantic and charming' Beanie, NetGalley reviewer 'Kellie Hailes knocked it out of the park.' Carrie, NetGalley reviewer 'Such a sweet love story, that your heart just melts!' Debbie, NetGalley reviewer 'A fun and charming read that I couldn't put down. ... I need to find more books by Kellie Hailes.' Vikkie, NetGalley reviewer 'One of my favourite Christmas books for 2019... this one was pure magic!' Rachel's Random Reads

Release date: November 9, 2020

Publisher: Orion Dash

Print pages: 288

Sample

A snow-laden bough crashed to the ground, sending Sam as high into the air as her wellie-booted feet could leap. She clutched her chest, shot an irritated glance at the fir trees that lined the long drive leading to the manor, and silently growled at herself for being so jittery, so nervous when there was no need to be.

At least, that was what she was going to keep telling herself.

Snowflake B&B, as the Georgian manor house was so charmingly called, was as familiar to her as the back of her hand. She’d played in its grounds for more hours than she could count as a child, and had worked there as the on-call cook for years as an adult.

But that was before. When the old owners had been in residence. A lovely couple who’d moved to the outskirts of the small northern village of Clawston after discovering they couldn’t have children and turned their nurturing natures to tending to the needs of holidaymakers, those needing rest and relaxation, and those who were running away from their lives in order to remember who they were again.

This new owner – Reuben Something-or-Other – though?

Sam shuddered as much from the cold that was seeping into her bones despite her many layers, as from the rumours that had been flying thick and furious in the hamlet since he’d taken residence.

Mrs Johns, who ran the shop, said he was famous, but reclusive.

Old Man Bunty, the landlord at the pub, said he was on the run from some sort of scandal.

Her mum said he was probably just a man looking to live the quiet life in the middle of nowhere – or as quiet a life as a person who owned a B&B could live.

Sam Heatherington – sometime B&B cook, mostly meals-on-wheels creator and deliverer to the local elderly – wasn’t sure any of the villagers were right, but she was intrigued to find out what was fact and what was fiction. Although currently, according to her freezing hands and trembling lips, she was more interested in hovering next to the Aga in the B&B’s kitchen, before getting some scones on in time for the guests’ arrival.

Assuming they got through before the roads were closed, which couldn’t be that far off if the heavy blanket of snow that was giving the grounds an eerie, magical quality was anything to go by.

She tightened her grip on her suitcase’s handle and began the awkward shuffle, roll, tromp-tromp through the snow up towards the manor, the whole way wishing she’d set off half an hour earlier before the storm had worsened, back when her small car might have had a chance of getting through, rather than giving up the ghost a good twenty-minute walk away.

Glancing up, her heart soared as the manor came into view. Sam adored the manor all year round, but especially so in the lead-up to Christmas, when an elaborate wreath decorated the front door, fairy lights graced mantelpieces and beautifully decorated trees were erected in the living areas.

Her earlier nerves returned as she noticed the lack of wreath. Christmas was a week out, which meant it really ought to be on there and it was remiss of Reuben Something-or-Other not to have hung it by now.

Perhaps the other rumour she’d heard from many local mouths was true? That the B&B was in trouble. That the new owner had no idea what he was doing and the place would soon be run into the ground.

Not on her watch.

She trudged up the steps, adding ‘find wreath and hang it’ to her mental list of things to do, then lifted the heavy bronze knocker and banged it three times, the sound echoing through the grand foyer.

Sam stamped her booted feet and clapped her gloved hands as she waited for the door to be opened. And waited.

Waited some more.

For Pete’s sake? Where was the owner? Was he wanting a corpse for a cook? Because if he didn’t open up soon that’s exactly what he’d be getting.

She lifted the knocker again and banged it down with all her might, only to half-fall, half-stumble over the door’s lip into the hall. She pinwheeled her arms to get her balance and managed to straighten up with the help of a woolly forearm.

‘Took you long enough,’ she muttered. A hot flush rushed through her and hit her cheeks as she realised she’d just been rude to her new employer.

The one person who had the power to eject her from the place she’d come to think of as her true home over the years. A place she’d long dreamed of owning, even though in her heart of hearts she knew that would only ever be a pipe dream. Her little business did well enough, but it didn’t bring anywhere near the kind of money needed to buy and then maintain Snowflake B&B.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she waited to be given her marching orders.

‘Welcome to Snowflake B&B. Come in, come in. Get out of the cold. Well, actually, you’re already in, but it’s not exactly warm in here, is it?’

Sam opened one eye, suspicion flooding her veins. He wasn’t angry? Wasn’t firing her before she had a chance to prove herself?

‘There’s a cloakroom just through there for your coat. You can put your wellies there too. I’m amazed you got through. I’ve just now heard the roads are on the verge of having to be closed.’

Understanding bloomed. He thought she was a guest. Unsurprising since the old owners had organised for her to be there. It seemed they had gone over and above and taken it upon themselves to help with the transition any way they could – including hiring her to help out, and saying they’d pay for her time too.

‘Just in case things don’t work out and he decides he doesn’t need your help. Wouldn’t want you out of pocket, pet.’ Millicent had said, in her kindly manner, over the phone.

Well if, once he found out who she was, he was going to fire her for having a muttering moan about his lack of door-opening timeliness, then there was no time like the present. If she turned heel right now she was sure she could walk home before the snow further thickened. The two-hour walk back to her little cottage would do her no harm. Surely? Maybe? Hopefully?

She straightened her back and squared her shoulders, opened her other eye and tipped her head back – well, quite a lot back as he was ridiculously tall compared to her just over five feet – and prepared to take the worst with a smile.

‘I’m Sam. Your staff. Well, your cook. And general helper, should you get busy or stuck.’ She held out her hand and waited for him to take it and shake it, or wave it away and send her on her way.

‘Staff?’ Reuben peered at her like she were something smelly he’d found unexpectedly on the bottom of his shoe.

Sam nodded, then remembered she was still wearing her bright red knitted bobble hat, and pulled it off in a delayed sign of respect.

Reuben’s eyes were still glued to her face, a wrinkle between his brow deepening with every passing second. Click.

‘It’s called heterochromia iridum.’

Deciding to assume she was safe from what was a moment ago a certain firing, Sam made her way to the cloakroom and shrugged off her knee-length camel-coloured coat, then pulled off her boots and smiled down at her bright pink socks dotted with rainbows. Maybe at twenty-five she was too old for patterned socks but they never failed to make her happy, and she was all about finding the little moments of happiness in life. Had convinced herself that enough little happinesses could help you get over the greatest of sadnesses or the biggest of disappointments.

She leaned back and looked out into the hall to see Reuben Something-or-Other still standing there, still looking confused.

‘One of my eyes is green, the other blue. Heterochromia iridum is the fancy word for it. And don’t feel awkward, I get that look all the time. The “oh my, something’s strange about her. Quick, look like you didn’t notice” look. When you’ve lived with two different-coloured eyes your whole life you get used to being stared at.’ She shot him a smile, then bent over to arrange her wellies next to the orderly line of boots the previous owners had kept on hand for guests who might’ve not thought to bring theirs and needed a pair to go rambling in.

She straightened up and went back into the foyer. The look was still on his face, despite her explaining her eyes. Click… click… Was it the ‘staff’ part of their conversation that had thrown him? Was he not expecting her?

‘Er, did Millicent and Bob not tell you that they’d hired me on your behalf? They called me last week saying I was to come this weekend as you had five bookings and would need a hand?’

Reuben ran his hand through his hair. A soft grey that was at odds with his relatively unlined face. Kind of sexy. Or, truthfully, totally sexy… If he wasn’t her boss and if she wasn’t so off the market she was all but wrapped in tape that said ‘caution, do not cross’.

‘Ah, I’m taking your silence as a no. Well, in that case…’ She stuck her hand out. ‘I’m Sam. Samantha Heatherington, but everyone calls me Sam. You’re Reuben, right? Sorry I don’t know your last name. The village gossips haven’t bothered with that finer detail.’

He stared at her hand with that same bug under the microscope expression, then a beat later he took her hand in his and… held it. No enthusiastic pumping. No quick squeeze and release. Just a manly hand, albeit smoother than others she’d held before, less calloused, his fingers wrapped around hers. Holding.

Awkward.

His cheeks flushed a little as she forced the handshake she’d been waiting to happen into her own hands. Quick, efficient. Done.

He ripped his hand from hers and held it behind his back. ‘I’m Reuben. Just Reuben. No, er, Rube, or any shortening for that matter.’

‘Last name?’ Sam pressed. Could an introduction be any more odd? Her feet shuffled side to side as impatience reared its head. This was all far too weird, too strange, too disconcerting. The sooner she was in the kitchen the better. At least once she was in the kitchen she’d be alone in her safe, happy space.

‘Richards. Reuben Richards. I guess my parents were fond of alliteration. Perhaps that’s where I got the love of words from? If there is such a gene for that. A words-loving gene, I mean.’ Reuben’s shoulders rose and fell, his cheeks further deepening in colour.

At this rate he’d start looking like a grey-haired tomato.

‘Right. Reuben Richards…’

Something about his name tugged at the back of Sam’s mind. Famous. That’s what they’d said back in the village. Reuben Richards…

‘You’re the famous thriller writer!’ She clapped her hands together, happy to have put two and two together. ‘I’ve not read your books, but my grandad does. Likes them. Says they get a bit flowery with the prose, or something like that, every now and then. But he never sees your twists coming, and that’s a big compliment. I prefer horror, myself. Thrillers are good and all, but a little lightweight. Not scary enough.’ Sam closed her eyes as her hand went to her forehead. The slap of palm meeting skin bounced off the walls. ‘Ugh, good one. Insult my new boss. Again. Twice in one meeting. I’m sorry. Forgive me? Shall we start fresh?’

For the second time in their short conversation she prised her eyes open and hoped Reuben noticed the contrition in them.

His lips quirked to the side. Straightened. Quirked to the other side.

Sam felt her shoulders inch higher and higher, second by second as she waited for his response.

Was it too late to run? To escape?

She glanced out the window at the snow falling in a heavy sheet. A few minutes ago she’d have said escape was an option, but by the looks of things she was now officially stuck.

‘I would go. I’m sure you’d prefer that, but…’ She indicated the winter wonderland. ‘I think I’m here for the long haul. Although what you’ll have me do, I don’t know. The way it’s coming down I don’t know that your guests will be able to get through. The last time it snowed like this we were cut off for days and days.’

‘Does that mean if they do get through they’ll be here for more than just the weekend?’ His rich, brown eyes widened.

In worry, horror or in general enquiry? Sam wasn’t sure.

She paused, and tried to figure out the best answer, the one that would make him happy. An impossible ask being that she’d only just met him and, based on her initial impression, she wasn’t sure if guests being stuck at the manor would be a good thing, a bad thing, or just an inconvenient thing for Reuben.

‘Are you worried you’ll run out of food if they get through and can’t leave for ages? Because there’s nothing to worry about in that regard.’ She waved her hand airily, emphasising the lack-of-big-deal. ‘So long as the chest freezer, fridge and pantry have been replenished with the basics? Flour, sugar, oats, meat, milk, butter and the like? Millicent and I went on a preserving mission over summer, so there’s plenty stored away there that I can work with if things get desperate. Assuming she and Bob didn’t take those with them, but I can’t imagine she would’ve had room in their new place to store all that. She mentioned she’d left the majority of furniture here as part of the deal, so I assume that includes the food, but just to be safe shall I go through to the kitchen and see what’s what? Worst comes to worst you can ski into the village for supplies…’

Before Reuben had a chance to stop her Sam started down towards the kitchen. She crossed its threshold and stopped. Halted. Her feet glued to the floor as she took in the space she knew so well she could’ve navigated it with her eyes closed.

‘What is going on in here?’ She pressed her lips together as she realised how plaintive her question had sounded.

Reuben’s arrival cast a shadow over her and she moved to the side so he could stand beside her and see exactly what she was seeing.

Piles of bowls and plates towered and teetered on the bench above the dishwasher. Cups and mugs were stacked upon each other. Crumbs from who knew how many breakfasts, lunches and dinners were scattered over the kitchen’s island, alongside a selection of spreads and a half-eaten bag of bread.

Perhaps even worse than that, but only slightly so, there wasn’t a single Christmas decoration to be seen. No dancing lights. No glittering stars. No Nutcracker standing guard at the back door. Nothing.

Were the rumours true? Did Reuben have no idea what he was doing at all? And why was she starting to suspect Millicent knew this would be the case, and that was why she’d sent Sam to work. Or, to the rescue.

‘Millicent said I’d be busy, but I thought she was exaggerating. I mean, I didn’t expect the place to be pristine but I did think it’d be like, you know, how people clean up a little before their cleaner arrives? So maybe the odd plate and crumb on the bench, but this?’ She swept a hand over the mess. ‘It’ll take an hour to get it ready.’ Sam planted her hand on her hip and shook her head. ‘I mean, really. Who lives like this?’

Sam didn’t wait for an answer. It was very clear who lived like this – the man standing next to her. She considered asking about the Christmas decorations, but chose to leave that well alone for the moment. There was no point putting up festive pretties when the house was a pig sty.

The whole house? Boulders of worry settled in her stomach.

‘Please tell me the rest of the house isn’t this bad?’ Sam turned to Reuben. ‘Because I don’t mind cleaning kitchens, bringing in firewood and doing a bit of dusting here and there, but that’s it. My mother used to say she’d have to hoover after I hoovered, because my eyes apparently turned off the moment I turned the hoover on. Further to that, I can’t deal with other people’s bathrooms or toilets. Cleaning my own is enough. The state my brothers would leave our bathroom in when we were kids traumatised me. For life.’

Sam’s ski-jump nose wrinkled once more in a way that Reuben-pre-being-put-through-the-wringer-by-a-woman would’ve found irresistible. Now? These days he was happy to call it cute and move on without thinking too much more of it. What he was concerned about was the guests getting through. Not so much because he wanted to spend his time waiting hand and foot on other people, making inane chatter and remembering to put fresh chocolates on pillows every night, but because he needed their money. Simple as that.

No guests meant no money… and no money meant…

A shudder rattled down his spine as the unthinkable crossed his mind.

No. He would not consider the worst-case scenario. There was no way that he would have to pay back his publishers the advance they’d given him to write his next bestseller. The bestseller that he’d not yet started writing, because his heart wasn’t in it.

Heart?

What heart?

It had been stilettoed to death by his ex after she’d taken off with the landscaper.

His world shattered by a short note and an empty space in their custom-built walk-in wardrobe where her clothing used to be.

Reuben glanced down to see his hands gripping the island’s bench, turning his knuckles purply round the outside and blooming white at their centre.

The last few months he’d felt like he’d been thrust into a tumble dryer and spun over and over. His conversation with Sam had only served to speed up that feeling. She talked fast, she walked fast, she thought fast. He could barely keep up.

Did she have an off button? Or was the only way to get her to stop to start talking himself? A horrid idea, as babbling on for the sake of it made him uncomfortable, but needs must and all that…

‘Er, so you’ve worked here often?’

She began piling dishes into the dishwasher. ‘Sure have. Whenever Millicent and Bob needed an extra pair of hands they got me in. When I’m not cooking here I’m cooking and delivering heat-and-eat meals for some of the elderly folk in the area. It’s a business I run with my mum. I’ll also run the odd errand for them too if they’re stuck. Get their shopping. Wrap and send presents to their family…’

‘But not cleaning toilets and floors and the like.’

Sam’s copper curls bounced around her shoulders as she shook her head vehemently. ‘Absolutely not. Does your wife/girlfriend/partner clean? Are they about? Any chance they could give me a hand if you’re too busy?’

Reuben cringed as part of him went to laugh, to say his wife’s forte was instructing cleaners, not doing the actual work.

He’d indulged Elise in so many ways. Given her everything. And for what? A sixty/forty split of their estate and the opportunity to run off with a younger, more muscly model?

He was a fool to think a quiet, keep-to-himself soul like him could contain such a brilliant butterfly. ‘Er, no. El—’ He bit his tongue. He didn’t want to say her name out loud. Hated even thinking it. More than anything, he wanted to forget everything about her in the hopes forgetting would heal the pain and bring back his missing words. ‘We parted ways some months ago.’

‘Did you talk her to death?’ Sam shot him a grin over her shoulder, then went back to putting the knives, forks and a million and one teaspoons in the dis. . .