I’m grateful for my success and, while I wouldn’t trade it for anything, I’m hoping several weeks in Honeywell Hollow will allow me to be Just Joss. And maybe in that time I’ll figure out who Just Joss truly is, because when it comes right down to it, I don’t actually have a clue.

  The minute I enter Honeywell Hollow, with its old-fashioned welcome sign boasting a population of a whopping five thousand, unease settles in my gut. This place looks like something directly out of a From the Heart movie. We typically film in small towns just like this, but it’s usually the middle of summer and everything from the snow to the decorations to the happy people milling around in stylish winter wear, carrying shopping bags and beautifully-wrapped gifts, are all part of the production. I’m sure the towns are perfectly charming all year round, but I’ve never purposely visited one to know if that’s the case.

  It’s not the middle of summer now, though. And the giant, fluffy flakes of snow that are fluttering from the sky and hitting my windshield aren’t from a snow machine. And…I lean forward over the steering wheel, squinting out the window as I enter the downtown area…are the shops and restaurants already decorated for Christmas? In November?

  This is exactly what I hoped to escape. I wasn’t naive enough to think I could completely avoid Christmas and all its trappings, but I didn’t expect to be confronted with it the moment I drove into town. It’s not that I hate Christmas. I really don’t. I don’t walk around muttering “bah humbug” to passersby, and my heart doesn’t need to grow three sizes to understand that many people think of the holidays as a time of magic, hope, and love. It’s simply never been that way for me. The movies I star in encapsulate those things perfectly, but the feel-good plots are far from my reality.

  My eyes are drawn to a pair of six-foot-tall nutcrackers flanking the door of a café called Sweet Escapes. The sight almost makes me laugh. I’ve seen countless nutcrackers of every size imaginable over the years, but only ever in stores or on the sets of my Christmas movies. Seeing them now feels surreal; they’re like some strange embodiment of everything I was trying to outrun by coming to Honeywell Hollow.

  “I see you over there mocking me,” I mutter as I drive past. My eyes return to the road, where the car ahead of me is slowing to a stop to let a woman and two children cross the street. The kids are in no hurry, shuffling along as they turn their faces to the sky, catching snowflakes on their tongues.

  A flash of blue draws my attention to the opposite side of the road where an old pickup truck is parallel parking. Thinking back to my conversation with Natalie last night about hot, truck-driving men, my gaze lingers on the driver, whose head is turned the other way. Broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and—

  A horn honks behind me, startling my gaze back to the road. The vehicle ahead of me is long gone, and I realize the car behind me was giving a friendly little toot toot of their horn rather than the long, angry-sounding blasts I’m used to hearing in Toronto. I glance in the rearview mirror to see the woman behind me smiling broadly and waving. Yep. Surreal.

  It takes less than five minutes to reach Cherry Lane, where my rental house is located. Turning into a driveway when the GPS indicates I’ve arrived at my destination, I park my car and take in the two-story house with its bright red trim and matching front door. A door that happens to be holding the biggest, most elaborate Christmas wreath I’ve ever seen. I groan, just barely resisting the urge to drop my head to the steering wheel and thunk it a few times. So much for escaping Christmas.

  I sit in the silence of the car, looking up at the house and giving myself a mental pep talk. This will be okay. The town may be decked out for Christmas and there may be the mother of all wreaths on the door of my temporary abode, but I’m not planning to venture out much. I’m not here to take in the sights or join the local festivities—of which I’m sure there are many—I’m here for some much-needed solitude.

  With that in mind, I grab my bags from the back of the car and head for the house. On the front porch, I find the key exactly where the owner, Mrs. Murphy, said it would be: under the ceramic hippo to the right of the front door. Inside, I abandon my bags along with my shoes and coat, and venture past the front hall to check out the house. I only make it as far as the doorway to the living room before freezing in place.

  “You have got to be kidding me.” The room itself is small and cozy. A beautiful stone fireplace is set into the far wall with a basket of wood in front of it. The furniture looks comfortable, especially the big squashy armchair near the fireplace. But it’s the six-foot Christmas tree in front of the window that my gaze is drawn to. I inch forward, narrowing my eyes at the full branches, which I quickly realize are fake. Makes sense since a real tree would be a pile of dried-up needles by the time Christmas arrived. The tree is strung with lights, but it’s otherwise undecorated.

  My chest tightens. I whirl away from the tree, not wanting to examine the cause of the pang in my heart. It’s too late, though. I know this feeling well. It’s like nostalgia mixed with grief, and this time it’s accompanied by an underlying current of irritation. All I wanted was to get away from this very feeling. I knew spending all this time alone would lead to at least some introspection; I figured it would be good in a weird way to finally have the time and space to confront the emotions I’ve stuffed down for so long. But I didn’t expect to have those emotions rise to the surface only minutes after arriving, threatening to cut off my air supply by tightening my chest and throat.

  I stride away from the tree while pulling my phone from my pocket. This was a mistake. A stupid idea. I could just as easily hide out in my condo in Toronto until the new year arrives. At least there I’d be able to order anything and everything I could possibly need and have it delivered to my door. I wonder if I’d even be able to get a pizza delivered in Honeywell Hollow.

  I pull up Mrs. Murphy’s number on my phone. My finger hovers over the call button. It took a lot of convincing, along with a non-refundable deposit, to convince the woman to let me rent the house for over a month. She said her properties were in high demand, especially for families around the holidays, and most people didn’t stay more than a week or two. I could absorb the loss easily, but having grown up in a single-parent family with a frugal mother—one who wanted me to save and invest my income from acting—there’s still a big part of me that hates wasting money.

  With thoughts of that frugal, single mother contributing to the growing ache in my chest, I imagine what she’d say if she were here: “We Hazelwood girls are no quitters. You can face anything, Joss. Never forget that.” And so, with a sigh, I swipe back to my list of contacts and hit Natalie’s number instead.

  “Hey, girl!” Her loud, breathless voice tells me I’ve caught her on the treadmill. I switch to speakerphone so I don’t have to listen to her panting in my ear. “Did you make it to Honeybunch Corners?”

  I don’t even bother correcting her this time. “Yep, just got here. This place is a trip, Nat. Looks like something straight out of a From the Heart movie.”

  “In which case you should be meeting your hot hero any moment. Spot any pickup trucks on your way into town?”

  I’m half tempted to tell her about the guy I saw parking downtown, but I don’t want to encourage her. “How long have you been on the treadmill?” I ask, venturing further into the house. I don’t come across any more Christmas decorations, but I do find a plate of cookies waiting for me on the kitchen counter with a note of welcome from Mrs. Murphy.

  “Going on half an hour,” Natalie says. “I’m auditioning soon for that new movie the Pascal sisters are doing.”

  “That’s fantastic, Nat.”

  The Pascal sisters are an up-and-coming writing/directing duo in the Toronto indie film scene. My agent sent me one of their scripts a few months ago. Despite the role sounding like something I’d love to try, I turned down the chance to audition because I was worried my fans would have trouble seeing me in an edgier role after years of being type-casted as the sweet, sunny romantic lead in feel-good movies.

  I eye the plate of snowflake-shaped cookies on the counter as Natalie huffs and puffs from my phone. They’re decorated in intricate swirls with white and pale blue icing, and dusted with clear, sparkly sprinkles that catch the light and shimmer like ice. I reach for one, hesitant, then give in and snatch it from the plate. I nearly moan in pleasure as the almost-foreign flavors of butter and sugar hit my taste buds. I’d normally be with Nat at the gym doing anything from cardio to weight training to Pilates. Staying fit is part of the job, but I’m not on the job right now and I won’t be for another couple of months. With that thought in mind, I grab another cookie and leave the kitchen.

  “What’s on the agenda for after the gym?” I ask Natalie. As she tells me about the wardrobe fitting she has this afternoon, followed by an evening event at the Royal Ontario Museum, I meander back toward the front of the house and peer through the living room window.

  The second cookie freezes halfway to my mouth. The blue pickup truck I saw downtown is now parked in my driveway.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Are you listening to me?” Natalie asks.

  “Uh, yeah, sorry. There’s a random guy in my driveway.”

  “Is he hot?”

  I roll my eyes. Trust Natalie to ask that first thing. I squint, but all I can see is that the driver is still sitting behind the wheel. “Thanks for your concern about my safety,” I say as I make my way to the front of the house and open the door. From here, I can see the driver has his head bent, and his thumbs are flying over the keyboard of his phone.

  Natalie makes a ‘pff’ sound. “Little towns like Honeysuckle Creek are pretty much the safest place on earth, Joss. There’s probably a neighborhood watch and, if not, I’m sure the neighbors are nosy enough that they stop anything bad from happening.”

  This makes me chuckle. Unlike me, Nat actually has real-life experience with small towns. She was born and raised in a village east of Toronto that she’s often referred to as ‘the Stars Hollow of Ontario, complete with the weird Kirk guy and the hot, grumpy diner owner’. She left at sixteen to pursue a career in acting, and has never looked back.

  “You’re probably right. The guy is still sitting there, so I can’t see him well enough yet. You will, however, be pleased to know he’s driving a pickup truck.”

  Natalie snorts. “I love it! Go see if he’s hot and then invite him inside.”

  “You and your one-track mind,” I mutter as I slip my feet into my boots. I’m halfway down the driveway when he glances up, his eyes settling on me for the briefest moment before returning to his phone. His head snaps up in that double-take way I’ve seen a million times over the years, making me wonder if he recognizes me or if I’ve simply startled him.

  He raises the phone to his ear as he opens the truck door, shooting me a small smile that looks…rueful? He holds up a finger in a ‘just a minute’ gesture as he hops out of the truck and closes the door.

  “Mae? We were just texting two seconds ago so I know you still have your phone in your hand and you know it’s me calling. Call me back, I’m at the rental.”

  As he speaks into the phone, I take a moment to check him out. I’m used to good-looking guys; I’ve worked with dozens of them over the years and I was married to a man who was named Canada’s Hottest Actor two years in a row. I learned a long time ago not to get too excited about a pretty face or a nice body for a variety of reasons, chief among them the fact the personality often didn’t match the exterior. But wow. The exterior on this guy makes me pause.

  He’s not overly tall, maybe five-feet-ten or so, with a sturdy build. His hair is thick and dark, nearly black, and it curls around his ears and over his forehead in a way that just begs to be touched. A puffy black jacket is open over a blue Henley and dark jeans that have faded—and not the ‘I bought these like this for several hundred dollars’ kind of faded, but rather the ‘I’ve had these jeans forever and they’ve faded naturally from wear and washing’. His gaze lifts to meet mine as he disconnects the call, and I’m met with rich brown eyes that smile just a second before his mouth does.

  I hear someone calling my name as if from a distance. It takes a beat to realize my phone-holding hand has dropped to my side as I stand here staring at the stranger whose smile is growing from friendly to amused. I lift the phone in time to hear, “Joss? Joss? Hellooooo, are you still there? Have you been murdered?”

  “Hey, I’m here, sorry,” I say quickly. “I have to go, okay? I’ll call you later.”

  “Ooh, he’s hot isn’t he?” She screeches it so loud, I’m worried the guy has heard her. Now it’s my turn to smile apologetically and hold up a finger for him to wait as Nat adds, “So hot you forgot you were even on the phone with me.”

  “Yes and yes. Gotta go.”

  “No hurry to call me back. In fact, take your time. And enjoy.”

  I hang up as she starts cackling in my ear. “Sorry about that,” I say to the guy. His eyes rise to meet mine again. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he was just checking me out, which makes me go hot and prickly all over. Good thing too since it only now occurs to me I didn’t grab my coat on the way out the door. At least it’s not snowing anymore.

  “No worries,” he says with an easy smile. “Are you Josslyn Hazelwood?”

  “That’s me. It’s just Joss, though.”

  “Joss.” He says it slowly, paired with a small nod. I don’t think my name has ever sounded better. He steps forward and holds out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Liam Doherty. I’m one of the people who look after Mae Murphy’s rentals, including this house. She said the fridge was making a funny noise when she was over earlier today and she wanted me to take a look at it. I told her she should call you to let you know I was coming so it wouldn’t seem like some strange man was showing up at your door and asking to come in.”

  Only as he slips his hand from mine to answer his ringing phone do I realize we’ve been shaking hands this whole time.

  “Hey, Mae,” he says into his phone. “No, no need to call her now, she’s standing right in front of me. One sec.” He holds out the phone, and I take it. Mrs. Murphy tells me Liam is going to have a look at the fridge, and I don’t need to worry about being alone in the house with him because he’s a ‘good boy’. Judging by the funny noise Liam makes in the back of his throat and the way he laughs under his breath, he must have overheard that last part.

  When I hand the phone back to him, something possesses me to ask, “Are you? A good boy, I mean.”

  He ducks his head, scratching at the stubble sprouting on his cheeks and chin. It’s nearly black, like his hair; paired with his tanned skin and wavy hair, it makes for an incredibly sexy picture. He shoves his phone in the pocket of his jeans and motions toward the house. “Well,” he says as we start walking, “I’d say that’s true now, although it wasn’t always the case.”

  Consider my curiosity piqued. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t volunteer anything else. We reach the front door and he leans past me to push it open before ushering me inside with a warm hand on the small of my back.

  “And I don’t know about the ‘boy’ part,” he says. “Although I suppose whether I’m thirty-seven or sixty-seven, I’ll always be a boy to Mae and probably half the other people in Honeywell too. Hazards of small-town living.” He gives me another of those easy smiles. His teeth are straight and white, with a tiny space between the two front ones.

  I’m about to say he looks all man to me, but I manage to clamp my lips down on the words in time. Instead I say, “I take it you’ve lived here your whole life, then?”

  “I left for a few years in my twenties. Growing up, I couldn’t wait to see the back of this place. I wanted to leave and never come back.”

  I kick off my shoes, surprised when he bends to undo the laces of his work boots and take them off. He hangs his jacket on the hook next to mine and then, as if in sync, we move at the same time, heading slowly for the kitchen.

  “Honeywell has this…pull,” he says. “I couldn’t stay away. It seems like most of the people who leave end up back here. A lot of newcomers, even those just passing through, end up returning or even staying.” He stops inside the kitchen doorway and looks back at me. “Consider yourself warned.”

  I laugh lightly. “Thanks, but I doubt I’d survive small-town living for long. No offense, of course. I’m sure Honeywell is great.”

  “No offense taken. This town grows on you. You’ll discover its charms soon enough, I’m sure.” He says this with such confidence I almost believe him, despite the fact I have no intention of allowing this town to grow on me. “I see Mae left her welcome special.” He indicates the cookies on the counter. “She owns Sweet Escapes downtown—you probably passed it on your way in. Best cookies and cakes around.”

  “Help yourself.” I wave a hand toward the plate as I slide onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter and take a third cookie for myself. I can’t remember the last time I had more than one cookie. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I had a proper cookie, period. The bland ‘all natural and organic’ ones I sometimes buy in a moment of weakness don’t count.

  Liam chooses a cookie and raises it in salute before taking a bite. Turning to the fridge, he opens the door and peers inside. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t hear any weird noises coming from this thing.”

  “Sounds like normal fridge hum to me,” I agree. I look past him and see a carton of orange juice, what looks like a casserole in a covered glass dish, a few bottles of water, and two bottles of wine. “More welcome gifts from Mae?”