From Hope Lake, With Love: A Novella (Hopeless Romantics Book 4) Read online

  I plucked the spoon from his hand, not wanting to turn anything into a sexually charged event. We didn’t seem to need more kindling in that fireplace.

  “It’s good,” I said, setting the spoon on the trivet beside the stove. “The spice level is good. I’m a fan.”

  “It gives it a little kick while being a good partner with the chocolate,” he said as he turned off the flame and reached into a top cabinet for two mugs and took two peppermint sticks from a small jar near the refrigerator.

  He stepped over to the tall pantry cabinets. Opening the doors, he reached in and pulled out a bag. “Marshmallows?”

  I gave him my best duh expression.

  “I figured as much,” he said, opening the bag and dropping two large ones in.

  “Counter or breakfast table?” I asked, taking some napkins with me.

  “Follow me,” he said, leading me out of the kitchen and into the main area of the house. We walked past the reception desk and to the barely lit fireplace in the main room.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll throw another on this to keep you warm.”

  I looked down at my bare legs. Was I sending signals here? Max followed my gaze, and as if reading my mind, raised an eyebrow.

  “Cami. I’m not looking for anything here except someone to drink spicy, minty cocoa with and have a conversation. I have sweats that you can borrow if that makes you feel better,” he said, turning to walk away from the door.

  “No, it’s fine. I just didn’t expect to run into anyone. I should have –”

  He laughed. “You should have prepared yourself for the possibility of running into the only other person in the house at midnight?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, okay I know I sound ridiculous, but I’m a fan of managing expectations from the get-go. This felt like a peculiar will-she-or-won’t-she moment.”

  “I didn’t think of anything other than cocoa,” he said, and while I believed him, I wasn’t sure if I believed myself.

  Marjorie’s words about breakfast rang in my head again. It’s never just breakfast.

  It’s never just cocoa with Max.

  Chapter Seven

  I wrote all morning. Then I spent an hour trying to remember the last time that happened. The last time I felt so inspired that I was convinced I got carpal tunnel from the marathon typing.

  There was a level of eagerness for tonight. To see the town fully celebrate the holidays,

  Or maybe it was the midnight cocoa and conversation with Max that helped. Perhaps it was the eerily peaceful and still snow drifts outside my window. Whatever it was, I got back up to my room at two and wrote until the laptop died a couple hours later. Thankfully, I remembered to save it and plug the laptop in.

  It wasn’t an article on Hope Lake, either. Though I had some notes on that, I didn’t start writing it.

  It was the book. In my head I had been referring to it as this sentient being for years. The albatross. My ball and chain. Whatever I could do to convey that I was trapped by this story that was in my head, and not on paper. I kept thinking of the first line while I made coffee instead of having a decent lunch downstairs.

  The town collects people. Not in a macabre way but in that people often search for a belonging. To be a puzzle piece, or to find the puzzle that they fit into.

  I didn’t intend to base the book on or in Hope Lake, but I was finding that the more I thought about the story arc, the characters, and the ever-changing plot that it fit being set in a place like this.

  There were plenty of notes, words of wisdom and anecdotes from the various conversations that I had with people. Even though she was a transplant, as she called herself, Marjorie was full of information.

  The more I spoke to Max, the more I thought about what the ladies said the other night about visitors who end up staying having interesting stories. It’s been at the back of my head and I keep coming back to it.

  One thing was clear, I hadn’t yet scratched the surface, on the wonders of Hope Lake and I wasn’t sure if I would have the time to get it all in before the story was due.

  The locals who had found out about my stay, and the article, had their own fair share of stories they wanted to share, but thanks to the weather, it was proving impossible to visit or have them come to the B&B for a chat.

  The options of course were to delay the article and focus on the book, or just run with it with the caveat that I would update and add in another edition.

  Which meant, delaying leaving, both Hope Lake and American Advenure.

  There was a lot for me to chew on but first. Max.

  He had left a note under my door. Admittedly, seeing his doctor scrawl across the B&B stationary had made me smile.

  It had said that he got called back to Mount Hazel to check up on a patient and that he wasn’t going to be able to make breakfast, but that we would have some visitors for tea. It was disappointing, but writing all morning made the time pass quickly enough that by the time I was on ten-percent battery on the laptop, it was time to get ready to head downstairs.

  I dressed casually since it was all I really had with me, but I felt better than just plugging down into the sunroom with sweats on. My fingers were sore from typing, and if I was going to be taking notes for the next however long, I wouldn’t be able to move them tomorrow. Recording on my iPhone was the next best thing. Listening back to the words in their own voices had a way of transporting you back to the exact time and the feelings you had listening to them.

  As soon as I got into the hallway, I heard them well before I saw any of them.

  Which is saying something because I was on another floor, at the furthest end of the hallway, clear across the building from a bunch of elderly women. My steps quickened. I clutched the phone and notebook in my hand, and thanks to habit, a pen was wedged in my swinging ponytail. The railing looked as though someone had just polished it and that it would be slippery. The urge to slide down it as I had when I was a kid was strong but ending up on an exam table with Max checking out a broken bone wasn’t high on the list.

  By the time I reached the last stair, they had all turned and smiled in my direction. Mancini stood by the fire in a way that made her look like she was holding court. I supposed in a way she was. They all seemed to follow either her lead, or Gigi’s, according to what I sussed out. Gigi was on the end of the couch near the end table with a deck of cards in her hand. That would be interesting.

  A few others that I didn’t recognize were scattered throughout the various chairs, and Marjorie was at the head of the room, beside Mancini, and laughing about something.

  “There she is. We’ve heard a lot about your writing. If you include me, and I know you will, I’m sixty—”

  “Eighty-eight—” Gigi chimed in, snickering when Mancini glared at her.

  “As I was saying. I’m sixty-five, very slender, naturally black hair, no gray, and resemble Elizabeth Taylor in the eighties. Not the nineties because her hair was too big then.”

  I looked side to side at the group. Waiting for one of them to crack up laughing or to tell me she was joking. When no one did, I swallowed the laugh that was almost out and clapped my hands. “Great, I’ll make that note. Tea, anyone?”

  I turned and made a beeline for the sunroom praying that it was all set up and ready to go. Plus, I moved quickly so I could laugh the entire walk there.

  “Hey, hey, where are you in a hurry to? The ladies came to see you,” Max said, coming out of a door marked Office.

  I kept laughing. “I saw them. They’re a lot.”

  He chuckled and when he saw them coming, he pulled me into the office. “I know. They’re the best, though. I’m sure you’ll see that. They’re good people.”

  I stepped in further to check out his office. “Is this yours or Marjorie’s?”

  He looked around. “All me. It’s too boring for my mother. She has a room off of reception that she uses for business,” he explained using air quotes.

  It wasn’t borin
g in the least, at least not in my opinion. Dark wood molding rose up to the halfway point up the walls. Hunter green wallpaper went the rest of the way to the crown trim at the ceiling. A single photo sat on the desk, and I was desperately curious to peek, but I didn’t want to pry.

  “It’s not typical, I’ll give you that. I expected trophies, plaques, and certificates hanging up heralding your achievements.”

  He smiled. “They’re all in the closet. My mother wouldn’t let me box everything up. My medical school diploma is at the practice with some other documents. Everything else is right back there,” he said pointing to a closet that blended in with the wall. Had he not pointed, I would have probably missed it.

  “May I?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Be my guest. Am I being researched?” he said, leaning against the wide oak desk and crossing his legs at the ankles. His arms were on either side of his hips, and again I was struck by how broadly built he was.

  “Football?” I asked, stepping toward the closet. Opening it, I shook my head in disbelief. The closet had shelves along the wall filled with photos, diplomas, certificates and trophies.

  “Wow! I can see why she wanted you to display them somewhere. There’s a lot.”

  “To answer your question, no to football. Yes, I’m built for it, but I excelled in other areas of high school and college.”

  “Such as?” I asked, peering at some of the certificates. “Mock trial? Student leadership, band? You were in the band?”

  He picked up the photo that I was curious about on his desk and held it out to me. I practically tripped to get out of the closet to grab it.

  The photo was of perhaps a college-aged Max with Marjorie on one side and a Max look-a-like on the other. “You look exactly like your father,” I said, admiring the man in the photo. He had the same deep brown eyes and strong jawline, but Max’s was covered with a large white hat and a chin strap.

  “Is that a tuba?”

  He nodded and peered over at the picture. “Yep. Sixteen years of tuba lessons. It takes a big guy to carry it in parades and on the field. I had the build for it. My dad was in a jazz band back in the day. I guess I wanted to continue the love of music.”

  “I’m impressed. You must have been quite the student judging by the closet o’ Max back there.”

  “I had my moments. The ones that, as my mother said, made her gray before her time, but I like to think I snapped out of it. I did make it through medical school after all.”

  “Max, according to that plaque in there, you did more than make it through.”

  He shrugged, suddenly bashful. “Like I said, I did okay.”

  A knock sounded before the door swung open and Mancini sailed through it, Marjorie hot on her heels looking eagerly between her son and I.

  “Oh, you two look cozy. Are we interrupting anything?” Mancini asked before resting her hands on her hips.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, you did. Max was about to throw me up on his desk and make wild, passionate love to me while you guys were down the hall sipping tea and having cucumber sandwiches.”

  Max choked. Someone in the hallway laughed, and Mancini clapped her hands.

  But, Marjorie’s reaction was what gave me the giggles. She looked wildly disappointed, with furrowed brows, and her lower lip jutted out.

  “We’re having sandwiches!” Gigi called as she zipped down the hall, ignoring the rest of my statement.

  “I told you there was nothing going on,” Marjorie insisted, still sounding disappointed. She pinched Mancini’s arm. “Come on.”

  But when she turned to close the door, she gave Max a curious look.

  And then winked.

  “Let’s go before they start rumors that will have the entire town talking,” Max said, waving his arm for me to go first.

  “Rumors don’t get traction until someone denies them. That’s when I find that everyone starts talking.”

  “Well, then, if someone asks, I’ll just smile,” he said, smiling, and the twinkle was back in his eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  Tea with the senior circuit of Hope Lake was a trip highlight, for sure. It was also something that could easily have been included in their YouTube shows. A weekly event I found out that they operated from their bakery, The Baked Nanas. The spot I stumbled into the first night I was in town.

  It wasn’t just the group of ladies; we ended up being joined by Emma Peroni, Sophia’s daughter and the brains behind a good portion of the amazing things—Sophia’s words—that happened in town. Her husband and Hope Lake Mayor, Cooper Endicott, had dropped her off before taking their son, Sebastian, to visit his other grandmother, Clare. The Governor. There was a story there that I was interested in getting another day. Apparently, Clare and Cooper were Hope Lake royalty of sorts as her great-great-something-or-other founded the town back in the day.

  From Emma I had heard about Charlotte Bishop, Gigi’s granddaughter, and her best friend, Parker, who Emma called the money-lady, who I recognized from the Food Network. Sitting at this table of pretty bad-ass women of all ages, I was taken aback thinking about the words I wrote earlier.

  The town collects people.

  The more I thought about it, the more things clicked into place. I was starting to think that the place was built with magic. As if it conjured up the people that it needed for that exact moment in time and then it hoodwinked them into staying by making them fall in love.

  Huh.

  Charlotte, who looked tremendously like a younger version of Gigi, was stuck at her shop and over FaceTime was talking Marjorie through rearranging the tablescapes as she called them, on each of the tables in the sunroom making sure they were angled just so to get the most out of the budding blooms. “I will change those out over the weekend, Marjorie. They’re looking like a little sad sack.”

  “Whatever you think, Charlotte,” Marjorie answered, before hanging up.

  The others sat, sipped their tea, and chatted.

  Emma was petite and stunning, with long chestnut hair and big brown eyes. She looked almost like a doll with model-like features..

  “I’ve read your stuff before. I like the magazine,” Emma said, sitting beside me and casually glancing at the scribbled text in my notebook. “Solid writing, eye for detail. What are you going to say about this place?”

  Mancini chimed in before I could. “That it’s gorgeous, turn of the century chic with all the modern amenities and a super attractive, and deliciously single owner who also happens to be the town doctor.”

  I held up my hand. “Hold on a second while I write all of that down exactly as you said it,” I mimed writing it down in the air.

  “You should leave out the part about Max being single. We don’t want to get people’s hopes up only to find out he’s attached,” Emma said before slyly high-fiving Mancini.

  It took every ounce of control I posessed to school my features. It was bait, lobbed out by well-meaning, yet nosy, ladies trying to get a rise out of me. I wouldn’t react.

  I carried on as if they hadn’t said a thing.

  “As I understand it, you’re the reason that Max has this place? How did you manage that? He must be busy enough being a young, hot doctor in town without needing anything else on his plate.”

  “Interesting choice of words there, Camille,” Gigi said, tapping Emma on the shoulder.

  Mancini inched forward. “What’s the story?”

  I thought back to what I said. “Super attractive, and deliciously single owner who also happens to be the town doctor. I don’t get it, what’s the problem? I’m using your words.”

  Mancini ginned. “Yes, but we said it without turning a shade of tomato.”

  I chuckled. “Oh, big deal. We all know the man is attractive, and I’ve heard the rumblings of what people say. He has a fan club—did you know that? Mancini,you even told me he’s on the registry as the number one eligible bachelor in town.”

  “Well, that’s not saying all that much. My so
n is on that list too,” Gigi quipped, rolling her eyes.

  “Seriously, though, Camille, have you given any thought to taking a ride around the block with Max? He’s very swoony,” Mancini suggested.

  I fought back the blush, to no avail judging by the looks they were giving me. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about, it but I’m here to focus on writing this feature, and hopefully a book if all goes well.”

  “I think it’ll go well. All of it, too, not just the writing,” Emma said, and I couldn’t help but say a little wish that she was right.

  When Max got back to the house after his last patient visit, he found me wandering around the library. It wasn’t anything overly grand or massively fancy as most of the books had wandered off over the years, but they did have a decent collection thanks to visitors leaving things behind as regifts.

  “Did you know Charlotte’s grandfather was a writer?” he asked from the doorway.

  I turned to see him leaning against the thick doorframe with a smile and a cup of something in his hand. “I made more cocoa. Travel cups so we can take it to see the lights.”

  “Oh, I was hoping that was what you had. I’ve been itching for it since the other night.” I crossed the length of the room to greet him at the door. “Thanks, and, no, I didn’t know that about her grandfather. I’m finding that this place is full of surprises and fun facts.”

  “I’m still learning them myself, so I’m sure you could teach me a thing or two,” he said and took a seat in one of the reading chairs near the fireplace.

  “Long day?” I asked when I saw him lean his head back against the chair. Beneath his eyes were shadows, a few age lines, and more growth to his already thick beard.

  He nodded, forcing a smile. Exahustion was all over his face.

  “We don’t have to do the tree lighting tonight. Or, I can hitch a ride with someone else. You’re so tired,” I offered, and he immediately sat up, as if the twenty seconds between sitting and my offer somehow rejuvenated him.

  “I promised lights, caroling and I already made this cocoa. It would be terrible if it got wasted.”