Chapter Text
This had been the year of Penelope Featherington. The year things finally clicked.
She had never imagined herself in the corporate world, but the hefty paycheck and bonuses afforded her a place in town with a balcony and a view, a walk-in closet dedicated entirely to shoes, and a cascading kitchen island with an apron sink she almost never cleaned thanks to being able to order her favorite foods.
Having a doorman and adding avocado to her restaurant-bought meals without thinking twice was the kind of financial peace she had always craved growing up.
She had a career she was good at, a title people respected, and a sense that she was finally moving forward.
It hadn’t always felt this way. Before Bridgerton Development Group, there had been rejection after rejection of her novels, until she finally accepted what she’d spent years resisting: her childhood dream of becoming a bestselling author was no longer hers to chase.
What followed were several restless years spent trying to find where she belonged once that dream was gone—and now, at last, she felt she had arrived.
You’ve arrived. Your destination will be on your left.
Julie Andrews’ GPS voice cut through her thoughts. Penelope looked around and saw nothing resembling the inn the company had booked for her.
She also couldn’t remember how long she had been driving. Since arriving at the airport and renting the car, it felt like the open, snow-dusted fields had gone on forever.
She tried checking the address again, but there was no signal. Of course there wasn’t.
She cursed Anthony Bridgerton under her breath—this was all his doing in the first place. A week before Christmas, he dropped this assignment squarely in her lap, claiming he was suddenly needed in Tokyo and couldn’t take it on. Being here now, she was almost sure that he backed out the moment he learned there were no five-star accommodations in this part of the world.
And so here she was, stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to contact anyone
Penelope took a steadying breath as she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. She decided to keep driving until she reached a gas station or something. Anything.
A few miles later, a large sign appeared on the side of the road: WELCOME TO MAYFAIR MEADOWS.
At least she was in the right town, she thought. But pulling into it did nothing to solve the problem—there was still no signal on her phone, no map, and no clue where the inn was supposed to be.
She parked along the street in front of a corner shop, planning to ask for directions.
The moment she opened her door and stepped onto the pavement, she nearly got run over by a small delivery truck.
“Bloody hell!” the driver shouted as he swerved to avoid her.
The truck skidded on the slushy ice, fishtailing wildly before tipping just enough to send a few crates of eggnog tumbling into the street. Penelope stumbled back as the vehicle finally lurched to a stop, the engine still growling beneath the hood.
Inside the cab, the man cut the ignition and leaned back against the seat, dragging in a deep, steadying breath.
—
Reginald Fife was having one hell of a year. Not in a good way, unfortunately. More like what he imagined farmer hell might feel like.
Still, he knew he shouldn’t complain. His grandma’s health had improved significantly, his mother was finally able to step back from being a full-time caretaker, and his sister Angie was thriving in school—mathlete champion, of all things. Maybe one day she’d even grow up to help with the farm’s finances.
Fraser Farms had been passed down for generations on his mother’s side of the family. What had started as strawberry fields and beekeeping slowly evolved into a specialized dairy operation after his great-great-grandfather about five generations back brought the first Highland cow to the United States. Reginald wasn’t entirely sure how that had worked back then, but he was endlessly grateful the old man had figured it out.
The Scottish cows produced rich milk with an exceptionally high butterfat content, giving their products a quality that stood out from the rest. But these days, competition was tough. Bigger, more modernized operations could afford lower prices, and in this economy, price often came before quality. He couldn’t really blame anyone for that.
Which was why, when he had to think fast to avoid hitting someone in the road while driving the dairy delivery truck and watched several crates of eggnog go flying in his rearview mirror, he knew he was done for the day.
It was the third disaster that morning, and it wasn’t even noon.
He was still leaning back in his seat, eyes closed, cursing under his breath, when her voice cut through the cab.
“What in the world was that?! Do you not look at the road while you’re driving?!”
He let out a dry laugh. That was… not what he’d been expecting.
“Me?” he shot back. “Do you not look for incoming traffic before flinging a car door open?”
He rubbed a hand over his face, frustration clinging to him, then finally opened his eyes and looked at the woman now barking at him.
He had to blink.
She was… not what he’d been expecting either.
Light blonde hair. A tailored black suit that almost certainly cost more than the delivery truck he was driving. Pointy high heels that belong to some designer name he definitely did not know, but instinctively understood was expensive.
And then there were her eyes.
Bright blue. Striking. Mesmerizing.
For a split second, they made him forget his own name—beautiful and terrifying all at once, like those ice zombies from the dragon TV show his grandmother loved.
She was gorgeous and mean. Just his type.
“You came out of nowhere!” she shot back. “I was the only car on the road all the way here.”
“And I’m doing fine, thanks for asking,” he said dryly, scoffing as he chuckled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to park this thing and clean up the road before half the town sends me the bill for their blown tires.”
He reached out and tapped the bobblehead cat on the dashboard, then eased his foot onto the brake and turned the key. Just as he was about to let go, he glanced to the side.
She was still there.
Arms crossed under her chest, and he couldn’t help noticing how generously blessed she was in that department.
“You splashed slushy ice all over my shoes and my pants,” she said flatly.
He shook his head, incredulous. “You know what? I’d much rather pay for your dry cleaning than your medical bills. Take them off and I’ll get that sorted for you, doll.”
Her mouth fell open just enough before she scoffed. “Wow. Charming.”
Reginald smirked, then pulled the truck forward to park—unfortunately splashing even more slushy snow in her direction.
“Are you for real?!” she exclaimed, uncrossing her arms as she looked down at herself. “My shoes—”
“—are not fit for snow, are they?” Reginald cut in, hopping out of the truck in one smooth motion.
“I was not planning on walking in the snow,” she replied, her smile tight and forced.
He stepped closer, eyes dragging over her from head to toe. The faint flush rising on her cheeks told him everything he needed to know.
This was going to be fun.
—
Penelope could not believe this man. That was probably the fastest a stranger had ever tried to convince her to take her pants off.
He was nothing like what she expected from a small town dairy delivery driver—far too confident, flirtatious, and ruggedly handsome for her own good. She was mad at him for almost running her over and ruining her outfit, and even more annoyed that she wanted to stay mad but he was making it difficult.
Now he was standing far too close, his eyes sweeping over her, and she hated that she was blushing. Absolutely hated it.
Before she could protest—because she was definitely about to—someone came jogging toward them.
“Fife! Are you alright?!” the man called out, concern all over his face.
“I’m fine, Will,” Fife replied smoothly. “I was just… helping the lady with directions.”
He turned back to Penelope, lifting his eyebrows ever so slightly, a silent request for her to play along.
“I—yes,” she said quickly. “I’m looking for Layla’s Inn.”
“That’s an easy one. It’s right above Remi’s Bar, down the street to the right.” He gestured casually.
Penelope blinked. “Layla’s Inn is on top of Remi’s Bar?”
“Remi and Layla are married, and they thought it would be funny if—”
“—Yeah. Got it.” She cut in dryly. “I’m familiar with the… concept.”
Fife hummed, eyeing her. “Huh. I would not have pegged you for a cowgirl.”
“Excuse me?!”
Will cleared his throat, gentle but pointed. “He means—you don’t look like you’re from around here. Pardon him. I’m Will Mondrich. I own the corner shop.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Penelope.” She offered her hand along with a practiced smile, then turned to Fife, waiting for him to formally introduce himself.
“Do pardon my manners, ma’am. I’m Reginald Fife.” He extended his hand, and when Penelope took it, he turned it lightly and lifted it to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to her knuckles.
She was too stunned by the gesture to react in any way. Instead, she swallowed and accepted it as normal behavior in Mayfair Meadows.
“And I should start cleaning this mess up before the knitting club walks by,” Fife said, lifting his arms to clasp his hands behind his head, as if considering where to begin.
Penelope’s eyes betrayed her, drawn to the glimpse of his abs that movement revealed. Not that she had a thing for abs, but she found herself suddenly curious about what was hiding under the sweater.
“I’ll help you,” Will added easily. “Bingo at the community center should wrap up in about half an hour, and after that, no one’s safe from them.”
Penelope laughed softly. “Knitting club. Sounds terrifying.”
“You have no idea,” Will replied with a mock grimace. “And Fife here is not on their good side as of late.”
FIfe chuckled and Penelope grinned. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“So how did this happen, anyway?” Will asked, glancing at the mess in the road.
Penelope and Fife exchanged a look, and before she could answer, he jumped in.
“I got distracted,” Fife said apologetically, casting a subtle wink at Penelope behind Will’s back. “Sorry I’ve only got five crates for your shop today. I’ll bring more by tomorrow.”
“No worries, man,” Will said easily. “Just glad everyone’s okay.”
Fife and Will began moving the fallen crates out of the way, leaving Penelope standing there for a moment longer than necessary. She watched him, intrigued. When Will had asked, Fife hadn’t blamed her—not even a little.
She’d thought she had him all figured out.
Apparently, she was wrong.
—
After Fife pointed out once again that she was not dressed for snow, Penelope left the eggnog crime scene behind and headed for the inn to check in.
When she arrived, a woman not much older than her stood behind the counter.
“Good morning. You must be Miss Penelope,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m Mrs. Layla Remington, but please call me Layla. Welcome to our little piece of paradise.”
Penelope pressed her lips together before smiling. “Thank you. This is… quite charming.”
She took in the reception area as she spoke. Dark wood-paneled walls were lit by vintage sconces, Christmas garlands draped between them. The furniture was mismatched but inviting, softened by holiday throw pillows. In the corner stood a Christmas tree decorated with pinecones and hand-stitched ornaments, and the air carried the comforting aroma of apple and cinnamon from burning candles.
“Thank you, honeypot.” Layla slid a key across the counter. “Your room is just down the hall. The bar and restaurant are downstairs.”
“Perfect.”
“Are you in town for the Christmas Parade?” Layla asked. “You’ll want to save your spot by six in the morning, or you won’t get a good view. I have folding chairs to rent, in case you did not bring your own.”
Penelope chuckled softly. “I did not bring one, but it won’t be necessary. I’m here on business.”
Layla’s smile turned knowing. “I figured as much when I saw the regal company name on the credit card. The fact that you did not try to hide it makes me think you can’t be that bad, big city girl.”
Penelope laughed lightly and made a mental note to not underestimate small-town investigative skills.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Depending on the business you are trying to conduct,” Layla said with a knowing smile, “you’re going to need every bit of it.”
“Did you happen to see a small beige delivery truck outside on your way in? He’s running late today, which is very unlike him.”
“I… I saw him making a delivery to the shop down the street,” Penelope replied vaguely, not wanting to gossip about what really happened. “I stopped to ask for directions to the inn.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Layla nodded. “Men complain about women babbling, but they’re just as bad. At least we can multitask.”
“It looked like the owner needed some… help.”
“I see,” Layla said, already pulling out her phone. “Oh—speak of the devil. He just got here.”
Penelope’s eyes widened, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Layla continued reading, brow arching higher by the second. “And apparently I’m supposed to take your pants and shoes…?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Penelope said quickly.
“Did he get you all wet?” Layla asked, and Penelope’s mind went in a completely different direction for a moment.
“Snow,” she blurted. “He got snow on me. Dirty snow. Which melted. And now my pants are wet—I mean,not—just—” She trailed off, mortified.
Layla laughed, already reaching under the counter. “Put them in these bags and leave them outside your room door. I’ll take care of them for you.” She handed Penelope two large plastic bags. “Consider it a complimentary service. Courtesy of Mr. Fife.”
Penelope accepted them with a nod and made a swift retreat down the hallway, determined to avoid running into Fife again.
She needed to get it together.
She had a very important job to do, and one infuriatingly charming cowboy delivery driver was already throwing her off her game.
—
Penelope spent the rest of the day in her room, resting and then working. The wi-fi was spotty but workable. The room itself was simple yet thoughtfully decorated, exactly what she imagined the kids called cottagecore these days.
She planned to sleep early so she’d be sharp for her meeting in the morning, but the noise drifting up from the bar downstairs made that difficult. Laughter, music, the muffled thud of boots against hardwood floors. She twisted and turned until she remembered the ear protectors she kept from flying first class. Once she put them on, sleep finally came.
The next morning, she skipped breakfast and went straight to her meeting. She never liked eating when she was nervous. She hated being nervous at all—this had been a fantastic year for her. Anthony trusted her to handle this assignment, which usually gave her confidence enough to do anything.
But something held her back.
When she arrived at the house, she immediately understood why.
She knocked on the door and froze when it swung open to reveal the delivery driver.
“Good morning, Miss,” he said with a smirk. “I was not expecting you to come looking for me so soon, but I’m flattered.” He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the doorframe.
He was wearing light wash jeans and a red plaid flannel over a white undershirt, the neckline dipping just low enough to reveal a hint of chest hair. He looked different from yesterday. More domestic and somehow more dangerous.
“Don’t be,” she replied sharply, returning his smirk with one of her own. “I’m here for Eliza Fraser.”
His expression faltered and he gave her a confused look.
“Reggie, who’s at the door?” a voice called from inside.
“It’s a… Miss Penelope,” he answered slowly. “For you, Nana.”
Penelope didn’t react outwardly but internally, she was panicking.
He wasn’t just the delivery driver.
He was the grandson.
The one who was firmly against his grandmother selling the land.
The land Anthony wanted.
The land she had been sent here to secure.