Page 2 of It's the Worst Time of the Year

As the scenery shifted, so did the air. It became sharper, fresher, carrying the faintest scent of pine and woodsmoke. I rolled down my window to let it wash over me, the icy breeze biting at my cheeks. For the first time in weeks, I let myself breathe deeply.

The mountains appeared on the horizon about halfway through the drive, their jagged peaks shrouded in mist. I couldn’t help but marvel at the way the sun glinted off the snow-capped summits, turning them into something almost otherworldly.

I’d programmed a holiday playlist to keep me company, but even Mariah Carey couldn’t drown out the swirl of thoughts in my head. Marjorie’s words replayed like a broken record: This case is messy, but if you resolve it favorably, the partners will notice.

The partners.

It was the goal I’d worked toward for years, sacrificing sleep, weekends, and a social life to prove I belonged in their exclusive circle. But spending my holidays working on a ridiculous case like this one definitely wasn’t how I envisioned making a name for myself in the legal field.

Still, the opportunity wasn’t something I could afford to pass up. If this case was my ticket, I’d take it, no matter how absurd it seemed.

By the time I reached Wintervale, the late afternoon sun was dipping low on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the village.

The sight of it took my breath away.

Wintervale looked like a scene plucked straight from a Christmas card. Main Street was lined with charming shops in the traditional Bavarian style of architecture, resembling full-size gingerbread houses with their windows frosted over and framed with evergreen garlands and colorful wreaths. Twinkling lights stretched overhead, crisscrossing the street like a canopy of stars.

In the town square, a massive Christmas tree stood proudly, its thick branches dripping with ornaments and golden ribbons. Rosy-cheeked children bundled up in outerwear in a rainbow of colors darted around it like gum drops, their laughter ringing out as they dragged sleds through the snow. Couples strolled hand-in-hand through the park around the perimeter, and the streetlamps had even been adorned with bright red bows.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to be one of the people who lived here—where home was actually a community of friends and people took time to honor traditions.

But I wasn’t here for joy. I was here to work, and that was exactly what I was going to do. Setting my teeth, I vowed that by New Year, Miss Twinkleberry would be the proud owner of Winterhaven’s first cat sanctuary.

The Wintervale Ski Resort came into view as I followed the winding road out of the village. It was perched at the edge of town, nestled snugly against the backdrop of the mountains.

The building was stunning—constructed from stone and wood that blended seamlessly with the snowy landscape. Twinkling lights outlined the roofline, and massive wreaths adorned the double doors at the entrance. It exuded an air of rustic elegance, as though it had been designed to charm even the most hardened city-dweller.

I pulled into the circular driveway, parking my car behind a sleek black SUV that practically screamed “wealthy vacationer.”

Inside, the lobby was even more impressive. Polished wooden beams stretched high above, framing a massive stone fireplace that crackled with warmth. A towering Christmas tree stood in the center of the room, its golden ornaments gleaming in the firelight.

The scent of pine, cinnamon, and something sweet—cookies, maybe? —filled the air, making it impossible not to feel a pang of holiday nostalgia.

The receptionist, whose nametag pin read Claire, greeted me with a smile that seemed too genuine to be real. “Welcome to the Wintervale Resort, Ms. Pace,” she said, sliding a keycard across the desk. “Your room has a stunning view of the slopes. If there’s anything you need, please let us know.”

Her cheerful demeanor almost made me feel guilty for not sharing her enthusiasm. Almost.

“Thanks,” I said, forcing a polite smile as I took the key.

When I reached my room, I paused in front of the window, which offered an unobstructed view of the mountains. Their peaks were dusted with fresh snow, and the ski slopes below were alive with activity as late-night skiers carved graceful paths through the pristine powder.

The room itself was cozy but luxurious. The bed, draped with a soft plaid blanket, looked impossibly inviting. A small seating area by the window featured a gas fireplace, its flames dancing gently behind the glass.

I took a deep breath before turning my back to pull out my laptop.

The next morning, I stood outsideMistletoe & Mochas, a small café on Main Street, sipping a steaming coffee that smelled like Christmas in a cup. The snow glistened under the pale sunlight, and the air carried the sharp, crisp scent of pine. My turtleneck sweater and wool scarf did little to fight off the chill, but I found myself smiling in spite of it. Wintervale was charming, no doubt about it.

But the charm promptly evaporated the moment I reached Barrington Manor.

The mansion loomed ahead, its deteriorating state a glaring eyesore in a town that otherwise looked like a Snow Globe come to life. A wrought iron gate stood at the edge of the property, and even from the car I could see its black paint flaking off in patches. Beyond it, a snow-covered driveway wound through overgrown hedges and leafless trees. The house itself was massive, with a turret rising above the roofline like the crown of a forgotten kingdom.

I parked my car at the gate and hesitated, taking in the scene.

The grandeur of the house was evident however, even beneath its years of neglect. Intricate woodwork, sagging with age and lack of upkeep, adorned the porch. The original white paint was cracked and peeling, revealing the gray wood beneath, and several windows were either broken or missing entirely. Dark green tendrils of ivy climbed the walls, twisting like veins across the faded exterior.

I frowned. This was either a project for an ambitious dreamer—or a lunatic.

“Miss Pace!”

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