Dancing in Lake Mistletoe (Lake Mistletoe #4)

Chapter One

Mindi

I ’m standing at baggage claim at Friedman Memorial Airport in Hailey, Idaho.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I’m a third-year corps de ballet dancer with a company out of New York, who was given the opportunity to take on the principal role of the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker . Which is virtually unheard of. But this production was thrown together at the last minute, so when the opportunity presented itself, I jumped on it.

Usually, when you are cast in a travel ballet, you spend a week in one city before moving on to the next; however, a fancy ski resort in Sun Valley, Idaho, opened a theater, and they want to offer tickets to their guests this year. They hired us for a six-week run. We’ll be performing three nights a week, starting mid-November and running through Christmas Eve.

Today is October 25, and we start rehearsals next week, so that gives us two weeks of six-hours-a-day rehearsal time to prepare for our November 15 opening night.

I need this to go well. If it does, I’ll have a chance at landing a coveted soloist contract with my company. It’s a long shot for a third-year, but it can be done.

I spot a cream-colored suitcase with lavender luggage straps coming down the chute and flopping onto the conveyor belt just as a deep voice calls my name. I turn to see a handsome man in a blue-and-green flannel shirt and jeans, his eyes glancing from his phone screen to around the baggage area.

“I’m Mindi,” I say as I raise my hand and wave in his direction.

He makes his way over to me and smiles. “Hi, I’m Keller Harris.”

“Are you with the car company?” I ask.

“No. I’m with the inn you’re staying at in Lake Mistletoe. My wife, Willa, is the owner. Someone from New York called this morning, asking if we had an airport shuttle,” he explains as I shuffle over to grab my belongings on the next rotation.

He helps me lift the heavy bag from the carousel and deposits it on the floor.

“And the inn sent you? An owner? I’m so sorry. I could have taken a taxi or something,” I say as I stack my carry-on on top of my suitcase.

“I don’t mind at all. I was making a delivery up this way today.”

“A delivery?”

“Yes. I make custom furniture, and I made a conference table for the Mountain View Lodge a couple of miles from the airport,” he clarifies.

“In that case, thank you very much for the ride.”

He escorts me through the glass doors and to the parking garage, where his truck is parked. I help him heft my overweight luggage into the back before settling into the passenger seat.

“You’re from New York, right?” he asks.

I nod as I fasten my seat belt.

“Have you been to Sun Valley before?” he asks once we are on the road.

I shake my head. “Nope, this is my first time in Idaho.”

“Ah, well, you’re in for a treat. Nothing beats the Rocky Mountains in fall and winter. Especially the Smoky and Pioneer Mountains we’re nestled between.”

I glance out the window. The road stretches ahead, and the mountains rise like old giants in the distance, their peaks dusted with what’s probably the first snow of the season. To the west, the Smoky Mountains stand, their ridges softened by the morning haze. A breeze pulls at the lingering smoke that Keller explains is from fall burn-offs, and the scent of pine sneaks through the truck’s air vents. The Pioneer Mountains loom taller to the east, their jagged granite faces glowing under the late October sun. Gold-leafed aspens cling to their sides while bare cottonwoods sway along the river below. It’s a far cry from the skyscrapers that usually make up my view.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I say as I gaze at the natural beauty. “Don’t get me wrong; New York is beautiful during the holidays, but I think I needed to get away from the crowds and the hustle for a bit.”

His eyes slide to me, and he grins. “In that case, Lake Mistletoe at Christmastime is just what the doctor ordered,” he says.

And I think he might be right.

The drive is short and scenic. My eyes feast on all the natural beauty when we come to a gate with a large wooden bear standing to the right, holding a sign that reads Welcome to Lake Mistletoe .

A pristine lake sits before us. Its waters are still and silent, like a mirror reflecting the silvery-blue sky and rich autumn colors from the trees lining its shores.

Keller takes a left onto a small two-lane road that winds around a lake and leads us to a hillside that is dotted with an array of inns and bed-and-breakfast homes that look out onto the water.

The tires crunch over the gravel as we pull up to the Gingerbread Inn. The building looks exactly how I imagined it, like something out of a storybook. A Colonial-style house with dark green shutters and intricate white trim curling along the eaves. Large planters, filled with yellow and orange mums, and pumpkins in all shapes and sizes line the front steps.

Keller pulls up to the side of the inn and stops in front of a massive garage.

“Welcome to your home away from home,” he says as we exit the truck, and he grabs my large bag.

He ushers us to the inn’s rear entrance.

The air smells clean, tinged with pine and wood smoke from a nearby chimney. The porch creaks softly underfoot as I drag my carry-on up the steps, and a little brass bell chimes when Keller pushes open the door. The entryway is filled with soft light. There is a long bench beside the door with boots lined beneath it. A series of hooks above the bench holds coats and scarves of varied styles and colors.

“This way,” Keller says as he starts down the hallway.

I follow him as the aroma of cinnamon, butter, and the faintest hint of coffee envelops me.

When we make it to the front of the inn, we are greeted by a woman seated behind a desk.

“Welcome!” she bellows as she looks up from the computer screen with a wide smile, setting down a teacup.

She’s probably in her early thirties with dark hair cut in a neat bob and warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners.

“Annette, this is Mindi, our guest from New York,” Keller says, introducing me.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mindi.” Her voice is bright and warm. “I hope you had a nice flight and drive in from the airport,” she says as she taps on the keyboard.

“Not too bad, and Keller here was an excellent escort. The drive was beautiful,” I say, returning her smile.

“That’s what we like to hear! The leaves are showing off this year, aren’t they?” She beams as she glances out the windows that overlook the front of the inn, where the trees seem to glow under the late afternoon sun.

“They sure are,” I agree.

She says over her shoulder to Keller, “I have her in room 203.”

He nods and reaches over to relieve me of my carry-on. “I’ll take this and your suitcase up for you while you get checked in,” he says before heading to a staircase that sits to the left.

“Willa will be so pleased you’re here. Let me call her. She’s been looking forward to meeting you,” Annette says.

Before I can respond, she steps around the counter and disappears down a short hallway, leaving me in the quiet, cozy lobby. The place feels like someone’s home, not a hotel. There’s a room just behind the desk with a large brick fireplace, already lit and flickering. It has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the water. The walls are papered with a rose pattern, and the furniture is old English chic with a sofa and several mismatched armchairs, arranged around a low coffee table, stacked with magazines and a vase full of fresh flowers. A baby grand piano sits in the far corner. A three-tier crystal chandelier is the main focal point of the magnificent space. A faint jazz melody hums through the air, blending with the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.

When she returns a moment later, she’s followed by a stunning woman with long, dark hair. A chubby baby boy with a tuft of dark hair is perched on her hip.

“Mindi! Welcome, welcome!” She pulls me into a light, unexpected hug before stepping back to study me. “I’m Willa, the owner. We’re so glad you made it.”

“Thank you,” I say, a little overwhelmed but charmed by her warmth. “It’s such a beautiful place. I can’t wait to settle in.”

“Oh, you’ll love it here. We’ll make sure of that. You’ve already met Annette and my husband, Keller. This is our son, Beckham; he’s six months old.” She looks down at the cutie pie, who offers me a wide smile, and then gestures toward the hallway. “And here comes my mother-in-law, Trixie. She’s the real boss around here. She’ll be looking after you during your stay.”

Trixie strides into the room, her presence impossible to miss. She’s much older than both Annette and Willa with sleek silver hair, and she’s wearing a fitted white sweater over gray slacks.

“Hi there, Mindi,” Trixie says, offering a warm smile. “It’s great to meet you. I manage things around here, so if you need anything at all, just ask.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I say, feeling a little like I’ve stumbled into a holiday movie.

“Well,” Annette says, clapping her hands together, “shall we show you to your suite? You’ve got The Nutcracker room, of course. It’s one of our favorites.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say.

Willa grins. “Oh, it is,” she says. “We decorated it just for you. Once you’re settled in, please come back down and have some coffee, and we’ll chat.”

“I’ll do that,” I agree.

Annette winks as she grabs a key from a row of hooks behind the desk. “Follow me,” she says.

The staircase leading to the suites is lined with old photos—black-and-white images of the inn throughout the years, framed in gold and wood. Annette points out a few as we pass, telling me little stories about the inn’s history.

“This one was from the big snowstorm in ’78,” she says, pointing to a photo of the inn under what looks like four feet of snow. “And here’s Willa’s grandmother, Wilhemina. She’s the one who turned the house into an inn.”

We make it to the second floor and down to the end of the hall, and Annette stops in front of a door with a hand-painted sign that reads The Nutcracker Suite . She turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open.

“Here we are,” she says, stepping aside to let me enter.

The room is whimsical and even cozier than I imagined, elegantly inspired by The Nutcracker ballet. A queen-size bed sits against one wall, piled high with soft quilts and plump pillows in shades of cream, burgundy, and gold. My suitcase and carry-on are already perched on top of it. The windows overlook a garden area, encased by glass panels. A fireplace flickers in the corner, casting a warm glow over the room. Its gleaming white mantelpiece holds delicate figurines of Clara, the Nutcracker Prince, and the Mouse King, arranged beneath a garland of twinkling lights and glitter-dusted pine cones.

In the corner by the window, an ornate miniature Christmas tree glimmers with glass ornaments, shaped like candies and tiny ballet slippers. Tucked beside it is a little reading nook, complete with a luxurious velvet armchair in a deep cranberry hue and a bookshelf.

“Wow, this is gorgeous,” I say as I take it all in.

“Your private bathroom is through that door,” she says, nodding toward a door to the right of the bed. “There’s coffee, tea, and hot cocoa pods in the drawer under the coffee machine. And if you need anything else, just pick up the phone—it connects directly to the front desk.”

“Thank you,” I say, dropping my purse by the bed and sinking into the armchair. The fabric is soft and welcoming, and I can already tell I’ll be spending time curled up here with a book.

She smiles, clearly pleased by my reaction. “We thought you’d like it. Willa wanted to make it special for you. We’re all excited for the new theater to open and a little starstruck to have a professional ballerina staying with us.” She glances around the room, as if making sure everything is just right. “Dinner is at seven if you’re hungry. We do a rotating menu, and tonight’s special is Trixie’s beef stew with herb dumplings.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say, already feeling my stomach rumble at the thought.

Annette gives me a quick nod. “I’ll leave you to settle in then. Just come down whenever you’re ready.”

She steps out, leaving me alone in the quiet comfort. For a moment, I sit still, letting the peace of the space sink in. The fire crackles softly.

This place already feels like a home away from home. I stand and cross to the window, watching as the evening light fades, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. A small bird flits past, settling on a branch outside, and I smile to myself.

The Gingerbread Inn is everything I hoped it would be—and maybe a little more.