1

LIAM

The road curls into Wildwood Ridge like a loving embrace, and I'm hit with the kind of view that makes you believe in something greater. Snow-capped peaks rise over the small town, their jagged tips cutting through the sky's soft blue canvas.

My pulse quickens; this is why I do what I do. The lens cap off my camera feels like shedding a layer of skin—this is where I am most myself.

"Nature's Lens is gonna love this," I mutter to myself, already framing shots in my mind's eye. There's an untamed dance of light and shadow playing across the mountainside, a chaos of beauty waiting to be tamed by my camera.

Stepping out of my car at Cedar Lodge, the air is sharp with the scent of pines and winter—clean and bracing. It's as if the mountain breeze sweeps through me, taking with it the clutter of city life, leaving only the artist, ready to capture the wild spirit of this place.

"Look at that sunlight," I say to no one in particular, watching how the sun flirts with the wooden beams of the lodge.

I heave my bag over my shoulder, feeling its familiar weight. I've always believed that fate has a funny way of throwing you exactly where you need to be. This job, this town—this is exactly where I need to be right now.

"Let's see what adventures you've got in store for me, Wildwood Ridge," I whisper with a grin, pushing the doors open.

The pine-scented lobby wraps around me like a warm scarf as I step inside Cedar Lodge, the aroma mingling with the sweet tang of apple cider that simmers somewhere out of sight. The rustic charm of this place is tangible.

"Welcome to Cedar Lodge," a woman with the nametag 'Iris' greets me at the front desk. Her voice a soft chime in the spacious hall.

"Thank you," I reply, inhaling deeply, allowing the homely scents to ground me after the long drive. "I'm Liam Thompson. I have a reservation for the next three days."

"Ah, Mr. Thompson," she says, tapping away at the keyboard. "Nature's Lens, right? We're so excited to have you with us." Her fingers dance across the keys before abruptly stopping. "Oh my," she chuckles uneasily, "there seems to have been a mistake."

A clench of worry tightens my stomach, though I try to keep my tone light. "A mistake?"

"Um, yes," Iris stammers, biting her lip as she double-checks the documents. "It appears your room has been... double-booked."

"Double-booked?" The word hangs between us like an unwelcome guest. My mind races, thoughts of trudging back into the cold evening to find another place to stay creeping in like frost.

"Unfortunately, yes," she confirms, her apologetic gaze meeting mine. "We're fully booked this weekend because of the Valentine's Day festival. It's a mix-up with the online system, I suppose. These machines," she sighs, tapping the computer with a forced smile, "they're supposed to make life easier."

"Is there anything we can do?" I ask, the weight of my camera bag suddenly more pronounced on my shoulder. "I'm not sure where else I could go on such short notice."

"Let me think..." Iris ponders, her brows knitting together. She looks up, eyes widening with revelation. "Actually, there is one option. It's not ideal, and we would have to have approval from the other guest booked with you. You could share the room—it's one of our best suites, actually—with the guest."

"Share?" I echo, the concept alien yet somehow not entirely unappealing given the alternative of a night without shelter.

"Yes, it's quite spacious, and it has a very nice couch if you didn't want to, you know, share the bed," she adds quickly, as if to cushion the blow.

My heart skips at the prospect of an unexpected roommate. Fate always did enjoy playing games with me, tossing me into the unknown with a mischievous grin.

"Okay," I relent, curiosity edging over my hesitation. "I'll take it."

"Marvelous!" Iris exclaims, relief blooming on her face. "I'm sure Ms. Anderson will agree as well. She's a teacher here on the mountain, but she's coming down for the festival. Everyone loves her and she's very easy to get along with."

I should have asked more questions before agreeing to share the room. Is Ms. Anderson 60 years old? Is she the kind of person who wants to go to bed at 8 pm? I might have made a mistake, but it's too late now.

"I'll show you to your room, and you can settle in. Ms. Anderson should be here soon."

"Thank you, Iris," I say as she hands me a key with a brass number dangling from it. "This trip is already turning out to be more interesting than I thought it would."

"Wildwood Ridge has a way of making things memorable," she replies with a knowing smile.

2

MIA