Bailey (Angel Institute #3)

Chapter 1

One

BAILEY

T he scent of freshly cut pine wafts through the air as I carefully place the last ornament on my small Christmas tree. Each time I brush the branches, the needles soft to the touch, I’m glad I made an effort to go to The Christmas Tree Farm and pick out a live tree.

The twinkling lights cast a warm glow across my sparsely furnished apartment, reflecting off the large windows that overlook the bustling street below. I’m just renting, and I’m not even sure how long I’ll stay in town. I needed to get out of a bad relationship and be in a new space. Benton Falls feels like the kind of place where I could hide out and be unnoticed for a while.

I step back, admiring how the tree transforms the simple space into something magical. This is what I love about decorating, creating a feeling through my surroundings. I was building quite the clientele in the city before … well, I don’t want to think about that lying, manipulating, horrible man I’d given my heart to. I glance down at my chest and look hard, as if I could see through to my actual heart. In my mind, it looks dried up and cracked, like parched clay in the desert. I have no idea how to fix it or if I’m even fixable.

A gentle knock at the door startles me from my reverie. I open it to find Mrs. Pennington, the owner of The Pampered Pooch Pantry downstairs, holding an envelope. She’s a petite woman in her early sixties, standing at about 5’ 2" with a slightly plump, grandmotherly figure. Her face is round and kind, with rosy cheeks and laugh lines that speak to a lifetime of smiles. Her eyes are a gentle blue, twinkling with warmth and often crinkling at the corners when she smiles, which is frequent.

Biscuit, Mrs. Pennington’s constant companion, sits next to her leg. An elderly golden retriever with a graying muzzle, soulful eyes, and a penchant for taste-testing new treats, he never barks at people. Everyone who comes into the store, be it human or a four-legged customer, is welcome and loved on site.

“Bailey, dear,” she says, her eyes crinkling with a smile, “this just came for you. Looks important!”

Biscuit wags his tail slowly.

“Thank you,” I say as I take the envelope. The thick, rich paper weighs heavily in my hand. I try not to think about what it could mean for me. I pray it’s the beacon of hope I’ve been searching for; life seems so small lately. A part of me knows I’m not meant to hide in an apartment and give virtual decorating advice. It’s just hard to put myself out there with clients after the way I was personally and professionally destroyed.

I tuck the envelope behind me and use my other hand to give Biscuit a quick pat. “How are the new cranberry spice biscuits coming along?”

She chuckles, the sound warm and comforting. “They’re a hit. Biscuit here can’t get enough of them. I think we have a new bestseller on our hands.”

“That’s fantastic,” I tell them. I’m really happy for her. Mrs. Pennington is one of those people who seeks kindness. I don’t think she can help herself.

Biscuit scoots forward half an inch, begging for more attention with his soulful eyes. I give in immediately. Mrs. Pennington shakes her head at him. “He is so emotionally needy sometimes.” She tsks her tongue, and I laugh.

“Aren’t we all?” I quip. Once the words are out, I realize I may be more emotionally needy than others lately, and I’m embarrassed that I let that slip. I used to wear my feelings on my face, allowing the whole world in. Now I guard myself, and I’m not sure I like that. I feel tougher, but it also feels like a suit of armor that doesn’t fit right. I hate that I no longer know who I am.

“Touche.” She winks. “I’d better get back to the store. The Scotties are coming in this afternoon. Merry Christmas.” She waves over her shoulder as she makes her way down the stairs. Biscuit is right behind her, careful not to push past her and knock her over. His large size is something he’s actually aware of, and I love that he’s a big ol’ teddy bear.

The Scotties are two Scottish terriers who adore Biscuit and whose owner is intent on spoiling them. I swear he keeps The Pampered Pooch in business. Although, I have wondered if Mr. Watson isn’t so much in love with his dogs as he is with Mrs. Pennington. I’ve only seen them together once, and I caught him looking at her like she was hanging the sun, the moon, and stars. The old me would hint around, maybe tease her a bit about Mr. Watson’s affections, but the new me doesn’t want to mess up a good friendship that feels precarious. Everything feels precarious lately.

Ugh! I came to Benton Falls to get my act together—to find myself. Why is it so hard to reconnect with me ? I’m right here!

I close the door and bring the envelope out from behind my back. I turn it over in my hands. The elegant script on the front catches my eye. Calligraphy is a lost art. If I had any talent in that area, I’d write everything with swoops and swirls.

My heart skips a beat as I recognize the logo of the Historic Holly Inn embossed in the corner. Oh my gosh! I hold my breath. I applied for the holiday decorating contest months ago, long before I decided to move here. In fact, it was the pictures on the website that came to mind when I was looking for somewhere to lie low. I hadn’t heard from them, and I thought I didn’t make it.

I stare at the envelope. They wouldn’t use such wonderful stationery to tell me I didn’t make it, would they?

With trembling fingers, I slide it open. “Please. Please,” I plead with my Maker. I really need a win. Being invited to participate would be huge for me. The very boost I need to get my feet back under me and find my way back to the career I love.

I scan the lines as fast as my brain can soak up the words.

I made it. I hug the paper to my chest and fall against the door.

I made it!

This is the chance I’ve been waiting for, an opportunity to showcase my talents and prove to everyone—including myself and that half-whit ex-boyfriend who told the whole world I was a fluke—that I have what it takes to succeed in the world of design.

Excitement courses through me as I grab my notebook and rush down the back stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste. As I pass through the shop, because the front door is closer to the Inn located on the Town Square, I’m hit with the scent of cranberries and white chocolate.

Mrs. Pennington looks up from where she’s arranging treats in the glass display case. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“The Holly Inn,” I call back, already halfway out the door. “I’ve been invited to participate in their Christmas decorating competition.” I stop and just grin. It is not just anyone who makes it to this stage; I feel special.

“Oh, how wonderful,” she exclaims, her face lighting up. “You’ll do brilliantly, I’m sure of it.”

Her words warm my heart, but I quickly put the lid on that feeling as I push through the door. It’s one thing to share the news with a trusted friend and another to leave myself open as I walk out the door. I can’t afford to let my guard down, not when there’s so much at stake.

The crisp air nips at my cheeks as I cross the town square, and the sound of carols drifting from nearby shops adds to the festive atmosphere. Casa Rameriz and Hank’s Department Store windows are expertly designed. I’ve stopped to admire the view each time they’re changed out. Someone inside is a genius.

I cut diagonally across the square, passing the clock tower that rings on the hour. It’s old-fashioned, but I love it. There are grassy areas, now covered in snow, where children of different sizes have made snow angels. Inside, I’m smiling at the whimsy of the moment that brought about those snow angels. On the outside, I keep my face set.

The Historic Holly Inn looms before me, its red brick exterior and white columns exuding an air of timeless elegance. I pause for a moment, taking in the towering oak trees surrounding the property, their bare branches dusted with a light coating of snow. Christmas lights wrap around the trunk and up the branches. It’s a beautiful sight once the sun goes down—which shouldn’t be long.

The sidewalk in front of the grand entry is ice-free, and the door handles are polished to a shine. No one touches them because they open automatically—therefore, no fingerprints. The owners love this place; it’s evident in the care they take to keep it orderly and presentable. Parking is in the rear, but I don’t know why anyone would enter that direction when they could come through the doors like visiting royalty.

I take off my stocking hat before I enter, tucking it into my coat and running my hands through my hair to make sure it’s presentable.

As I enter the grand foyer, the plush crimson carpet muffles my footsteps. The scent of spiced cider fills the air, and I can hear the faint crackling of a fire from one of the nearby sitting rooms. My eyes are drawn to the antique paintings and gilded mirrors adorning the walls, each one telling the story of the Inn’s rich history.

I make my way to the ballroom, where the contest is held. I’ll have my own station in here and, if I win, get to decorate the whole room for Christmas. The high school hosts their Winter Formal Dance here, and the owners use the space to celebrate with their families. I’ve heard rumors that several wealthy families and famous people, including one football player-girlfriend-pop-star, also booked it this year for their Christmas party, although it’s all very hush-hush.

Can you imagine the exposure if my designs were seen—dare I say appreciated—by someone of that caliber? Her taste is known the world over. If she likes what I do, the whole world will like what I do.

I think I’m going to hyperventilate.

The instinct to run away and decline the opportunity is strong.

No. This is something I wanted when I believed in myself. Just because I’m struggling now doesn’t mean it was a bad idea. I trust the old me more than I trust the current me. I’m staying.

I push open the heavy wooden doors. The space is even more magnificent than I imagined from the pictures. Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, their light dancing across the polished oak floors. Velvet drapes frame tall windows that offer glimpses of the snow-covered gardens outside.

For just a moment, I’m overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. It’s spectacular, but also a blank canvas. I turn slowly, taking it all in. Then I breathe. Just breathe.

And … finally … I feel it—that spark of creativity igniting within me. I can see it so clearly: garlands of silver and gold draped along the walls, twinkling lights woven through elaborate centerpieces, and a majestic Christmas tree as the focal point, adorned with ornaments that catch and reflect the light in a dazzling display of hot pink, sky blue, red, lime green and plum. The more color, the better. This room is like vanilla ice cream, which everyone knows is the foundation for other flavors to layer on top to make something delicious.

I settle myself in the middle of the floor with my notebook open on my lap as I begin to sketch. The world around me fades away as I lose myself in the act of creation, my pencil flying across the page as I capture the vision in my mind.

I’m so engrossed in my work that I’m startled when a cheerful voice breaks through my concentration. “Oh my, that looks simply wonderful.”

I look up from the page to see a woman sitting next to me, our legs almost touching. She smells like honey. Her golden curls swing across her cheek, blocking her face from my view as she leaned in to get a better look at my sketch.

I’m taken aback by her proximity and apparent lack of personal boundaries. I lean away from her. “Thank you,” I reply a bit hesitantly. I’m not used to sharing my work, especially not in its early stages. It feels rude to yank my book to my chest and scoot across the floor. Instead, I tip the book and say purposefully, “I’m Bailey. Are you here for the competition too?” I don’t need my competition stealing my ideas. Been there and done that; I should make and sell the T-shirts.

The woman’s smile grows even brighter. “Oh no, I’m Gladys. I’m your guardian angel, and I’m here to help you.”

I blink, unsure how to respond to such an unexpected statement. “My... what now?”

Gladys nods enthusiastically. “Your guardian angel. Well, let me pause there for a moment and clarify. I’m a guardian angel in training, and I’m here to help you out this Christmas.” She pulled my hand down so she could see the sketch again. “Although I can’t see that you’ll need my help—you’re clearly talented.” She looks at me and squints, as if trying to see me more clearly. “Perhaps it’s not about winning this thing. Hmm . How’s your relationship with the Lord?”

Wow. That’s getting right to the point. “That’s... very kind of you to say about my work,” I say carefully. I fold the book closed and put my pencils back in their protective case. “And as for the other thing, Jesus has my heart, so I feel like we’re good there.”

Gladys beams at me. “That’s good to hear. He loves you so much.” She’s about to say something else when the ballroom doors open with a whoosh that I feel all the way through my being. Wait, did Gladys come in? How come I didn’t hear the doors open then?

Logan Brown, with his chiseled jawline and perfectly styled chestnut hair, exudes confidence with every step into the ballroom. My mind flashes back to the past three years of winners posted on the Inn’s webpage. Logan has won every year.

He’s my biggest competition.

He’s a local favorite.

He’s too good-looking for his own good.

My ex was handsome, too.

And he knew it.

I stiffen as Logan continues toward us.

“What’s wrong?” Gladys asks, noticing my sudden change in demeanor.

I quickly gather my things; my earlier peace shattered. “That’s Logan Brown,” I whisper. “He’s won this contest three years running.”

“Why are we leaving?” Gladys looks confused as I start to stand.

“Because he’s insufferable, and I don’t want to talk to him,” I hiss, trying to make a quick exit.

“You know him then?” Gladys holds out her hand for me to help her up. I take her hand, and my whole body warms in the most pleasant way. It’s like a hug is in her grip.

“We’ve never met. But I know his type.” I almost married his type , I silently add. Ugh, there is no point in sharing my stupidity with this stranger.

Logan stands near his station. Of course, he got one of the three fireplaces in the room. I—the newcomer—was given a corner, which isn’t bad. I can do a lot to create a scene in a corner. I think a fireplace is a distinct advantage, though.

As we approach, I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the door ahead. Gladys, who has attached herself to me, looks him over as we pass by. “Goodness, he’s very good-looking. Have you seen him up close?” she whispers loudly enough that my cheeks burn.

I’ve seen enough of him. His six-foot-two, broad-shouldered frame is a lot to take in. His jawline is so sharp you could use it to slice chocolate, and his green eyes are like jewels.

Logan smirks to himself because, of course, he heard Gladys.

“Bailey,” he says as he turns toward me, his tone infuriatingly smooth. “Right?”

I stop in my tracks. “How did you know my name?”

“Your picture’s on the website. Congratulations on making it into the contest.”

“Thanks,” I reply through gritted teeth, willing this moment to be over. I don’t want to make nice with my competition, and I don’t want to stand here for a moment longer. The way he looks at me, like he’s interested in getting to know me better, makes me want to pull my claws out and warn him off.

But Gladys, to my horror, extends her hand to him. “I’m Gladys,” she says, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. “Congratulations on your past wins.”

Logan gives a self-assured nod. “Thank you.”

I can’t take it anymore. “He should enjoy them,” I say with a smirk of my own. “They’ll be his last.” Without waiting for a response, I push past him and out the door, leaving Gladys behind if she wants to stay and fawn over the pretty-boy decorator with the really great sweater. Where did he find the perfect shade of green to make his eyes sparkle like that? Who am I kidding? Some woman probably made it for him, each knit and pearl an act of devotion.

As I step out into the crisp winter air, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. That whole experience was weird. Like, really weird. What did Gladys say… something about being a guardian angel? If she was really my guardian angel, she would have known I don’t want anything to do with men right now. Why did she have to draw attention to Logan like that?

I shake my head. I don’t have time to worry about some strange woman or Logan Brown. I need to focus on this contest and creating the best display I can. This is my foot back in the door and a chance to step right over all the horrible press my ex spewed about me.

As I make my way back across the town square, I take in the garlands and twinkling lights that adorn every lamppost. But instead of feeling inspired, I feel a familiar defensiveness creeping in.

I’ve been hurt before, dismissed, and underestimated. It’s possible my insecurities started long before the ex-situation, though it’s really convenient to lay them all at his feet. I don’t want to think back to my childhood and dig up bones. What I need to do is win this contest on my own terms.

Alone.

No boyfriends to take credit for my work.

No, pretend best friends to seduce my boyfriend while I’m busy working.

And no guardian angels who turn their heads at a pretty face.

I have work to do, and nothing—not even a self-proclaimed guardian angel or an insufferably handsome competitor—is going to stand in my way.

As I approach The Pampered Pooch Pantry, the cheerful exterior momentarily lifts my spirits. The whimsical hand-painted sign featuring a grinning golden retriever in a chef’s hat always makes me smile despite myself.

The bell chimes as I enter. Biscuit, who had been dozing in one of the cozy armchairs in the corner, lifts his head and offers a slow, friendly wag of his tail.

“Back so soon?” Mrs. Pennington asks, looking up from her work. Her keen eyes seem to read the tension in my posture. “Is everything alright, dear?”

For a moment, I’m tempted to pour out everything, my excitement about the competition, my encounter with the strange Gladys, and my frustration with Logan. But the walls I’ve built around me hold firm.

“Everything’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just got a lot of work to do for this competition.”

Mrs. Pennington nods, though I can see the concern in her eyes. “Well, you know where to find me if you need anything. A cup of tea, a sympathetic ear, or even just some quiet company.”

Her kindness threatens to crack my defenses, but I hold firm. “Thank you, Mrs. Pennington. I appreciate it.”

As I climb the stairs to my apartment, I hear her speaking softly to Biscuit. “I do hope she’ll be alright, old boy. Christmas is no time for anyone to be alone.”

Her words follow me into my apartment, echoing in my mind as I close the door behind me. Alone. A five-letter word that sometimes feels like a four-letter curse.

As I settle at my small desk, my sketchbook open before me, I stare at my little tree. I decorated this one just for me, with things that I like.

It looks good.

Not just good, but great.

I did that. I let the knowledge settle in. I can do this. I am a creature who was made to create. My fingers twitch, and I pick up a pencil to let the ideas flow. The warmth of the Christmas lights and the distant sounds of carols from the street below fade into the background as I lose myself in my work.

I’m doing this on my own—in my own way—and I’m not going to let anyone take it from me.