Page 7 of It's the Worst Time of the Year

Back in the bedroom, I faced the eternal dilemma: what to wear? My usual courtroom attire felt too formal for a meetingat an abandoned, run-down mansion, yet I wanted to project confidence and professionalism, especially in front of Jacob and Theodore Snowcroft.

Flipping through hangers, I settled on a deep burgundy sweater dress that hugged my figure just enough to be flattering but remained tasteful. I paired it with black leggings and ankle boots—practical for trudging around a decaying property but stylish enough to make a statement. A silver necklace and matching earrings added a touch of polish.

As I applied a light layer of makeup—just enough mascara to make my eyes pop and a hint of color on my lips—I couldn't help but wonder what Jacob would think when he saw me. Not that it mattered, of course. Still, a tiny part of me hoped he'd be caught off guard.

My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday—a bad habit when cases got intense. Deciding to treat myself to the buffet, I headed to the hotel's restaurant with my laptop in hand, determined to do more genealogical research into Edna’s possible familial tie with Cyrus Barrington. The dining area was bustling with morning activity. The soft clinking of cutlery and murmur of conversations created a comforting backdrop as I entered the room.

The breakfast buffet was an impressive spread. Fluffy pancakes stacked high, waiting to be drenched in maple syrup. Crispy bacon and sausages sizzled under heat lamps. A colorful array of fresh fruits glistened invitingly, alongside an assortment of pastries that would make any French bakery proud.

After being seated, I filled my plate with a little bit of everything, rationalizing that I needed energy for the day ahead. Settling at a table by the window, I savored the first bite of a warm blueberry muffin, the burst of sweetness lifting my spirits.

Outside, snowflakes began to drift lazily from the gray sky, dusting the streets of Wintervale in a thin white layer, and the village looked even more charming that it had when I’d first arrived.

As I sipped my coffee, my gaze wandered around the room. Families chatted animatedly, and I overheard a group of children excitedly discussing their Christmas lists with eager anticipation. A young couple nearby shared a quiet moment, their hands intertwined over the table, smiles playing on their lips.

A pang of something—Loneliness, perhaps—pricked at me. It had been a while since I'd felt that kind of connection. Ever since…well, Jacob, really. My last relationship had been a disaster practically from the beginning and had ended months ago, neither of us ever feeling we had something worth fighting for. The life of a lawyer wasn't exactly conducive to romance and especially not mine. Not since my mother’s cancer diagnosis and the medical bills that had piled up, drowning my parents in debt until she died a little over a year ago. If I could just make partner, I might finally be able to make enough to pay off the bills and take care of my dad for the time he had left. He deserved it after losing the love of his life.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I pushed the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. I pulled out my tablet, scrolling through notes and documents related to Edna's case. Lost in thought, I didn't notice someone approaching until a familiar voice cut through the background noise.

"Well, if it isn't Bailey Pace."

I looked up sharply, nearly knocking over my coffee.

Jacob stood across the table, a bemused expression on his annoyingly handsome face. He was dressed casually in darkjeans and a navy sweater that matched the color of his eyes. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd just rolled out of bed looking effortlessly perfect.

"Jacob," I said coolly, recovering quickly. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I could say the same," he replied, eyeing the spread on my plate. "Stocking up for winter?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Preparing for a long day dealing with stubborn opposition."

He chuckled. "Touché."

An awkward silence stretched between us. I refused to be the one to break it.

He gestured to the empty chair across from me. "Mind if I join you?"

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to say no, to avoid any unnecessary interaction before the meeting with our clients. But another part—the competitive part—didn't want to appear rattled.

"Suit yourself," I said nonchalantly.

He sat down, placing his own cup of coffee on the table. For a moment, we simply sipped our drinks in silence, the air thick with unspoken history.

"So," he began finally, "how have you been?"

"Busy," I replied shortly. "And you?"

"Can't complain," he said, undeterred by my curt response. "Business has been good. The firm in Chicago keeps me on my toes."

"Glad to hear it."

Another pause. He studied me thoughtfully, as if trying to read my thoughts.

"You know," he said slowly, "it's been a long time since we've had a proper conversation."

I met his gaze evenly. "Has it? It feels like just yesterday we were butting heads over moot court."

He smiled wryly. "Some things never change."

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