Snowed in with the Single Dad: A Clean Romance

PROLOGUE

ONCE UPON A TIME, there were two little redheaded girls. Identical twins who lived in Hollywood, were best friends and wore princess dresses whenever they could get away with it.

Their parents were Hollywood royalty—a studio head and a talent agent. Said parents traveled, a lot. They entertained, a lot. But they also fought, a lot, which upset the girls.

Laurel was a girlie girl, in love with shoes and fabrics, hairstyles and makeup, peace and quiet. From an early age, she devoured fashion magazines and red-carpet shows. She begged the family maid to teach her how to sew, imagining a future where she created pretty dresses for celebrities. Making smooth, even stitches became a welcome escape from the household’s chaos. But sometimes, there was no escape.

As for Ashley... She might have watched too many soap operas and romantic movies while the maid taught Laurel to sew. Those hours in front of the TV gave Ashley a fascination with people, their emotions and how they expressed them. The slightest of smiles, the well of tears, the shudder of bent shoulders. Body language said so much without saying anything at all. And pretending to be a character on-screen? That was sometimes better than being Ashley Monroe.

Like many identical twins, Laurel and Ashley learned early on that one could easily be mistaken for the other. And like many identical twins, they learned early on to take advantage of their mirrorlike facades and implement what they called The Twin Switch.

The girls would have lived happily ever after in obscurity if not for their parents stumbling upon five-year-old Ashley reenacting a scene from a soap opera with what they said was amazing talent. Mama Monroe enrolled her in acting class, hired a writer to create a television series around her and devoted herself to making Ashley a star.

Which meant Laurel was often forgotten in her twin’s shadow.

Unless she was needed to stand in her place.

CHAPTER ONE

DON’T ENCOURAGE THE MONROES.

Standing in the kitchenette of the Lodgepole Inn, Laurel Monroe stopped steeping her tea bag, stopped mentally mending the tears in the fabric of her life and paused, trying to place that voice.

Masculine.

Three men were living or staying at the inn.

Authoritative.

Two were natural-born leaders.

Presumptuous.

Given her father wasn’t in town, that narrowed it down to one.

Mitch Kincaid, mayor of Second Chance, Idaho, and the man who ran the Lodgepole Inn. A month ago she’d thought Mitch had kind eyes. Three weeks ago he’d held her head when she’d been too weak to keep it out of the toilet. And then last week he’d cast shade on her family, the wealthy Monroes, not once but three times!

Dad. A much younger, feminine voice reached Laurel.

Gabby. Masculine. Authoritative. Presumptuous. That was Mitch, all right, talking to his preteen daughter. We’re not going to make friends with the Monroes. They need to leave town before it’s too late.

Too bad for Mitch that the Monroes owned Second Chance. It was their town to ruin. Not that that was their plan. Not that they had a plan. Not that Laurel had a plan for herself, either. Not yet anyway. She’d make one after her doctor’s appointment two days from now.

But the town...

Laurel still found the ownership part hard to believe. Years ago her grandfather had bought Second Chance—every ramshackle cabin, every building housing an underperforming business, every plot of land—which might have been a smart investment if Grandpa Harlan hadn’t gone on to charge residents and those who ran businesses leases of one dollar a year.

Her beloved grandfather had left his hometown in better economic condition than he’d left his grandchildren. According to his will, the vast Monroe fortune was designated for Grandpa Harlan’s four sons, but only if they fired Harlan’s grandchildren, who all worked for the Monroe Holding Corporation, and evicted them from Monroe-owned residences.

Job? Gone. Rent-free condo? Gone. Trust fund? Never had one. And now she was pregnant? Don’t make friends with the Monroes?

What did Mitch have against the Monroes?

The Monroes were the reason struggling businesses like the Lodgepole Inn weren’t closed! The Monroes were the reason people like Mitch could make a living in the mountains!

All I’m saying is I don’t want you hanging out with the Monroes, especially Laurel. Mitch opened the door behind the check-in desk and saw Laurel.

Mouth dry, Laurel stopped dipping her tea bag.

They stared at each other in silence.

Mitch Kincaid carried himself like he should be wearing a suit and tie and standing in the corner office of a high-rise. Solidly built, tall and proud. Thick, dark hair cut short. Intelligent brown eyes that could easily read any situation.

But he wasn’t wearing a suit or surveying the world from a corner office. Mitch wore a navy cotton sweater over faded blue jeans and stood in an inn built entirely from logs. It was just that he wore the casual attire the same way he spoke. With authority.

Not that Laurel or her cousins acknowledged his authority as mayor. And maybe that was part of Mitch’s problem. He had no control over what happened in town next and that seemed to be making him cranky.

Case in point, he made a grumpy noise to acknowledge Laurel.

Bad morning, Counselor? Laurel returned her attention to her tea, stung that she was the villain in this scenario.

And Mitch? He could’ve acknowledged her testy greeting with a muttered apology. Or a cocky eyebrow quirk. Instead, he went for a repeat of the grumpy noise.

Laurel had a grumpy noise, too. But before she could use it, the aroma of bacon drifted from the plate Mitch carried, turning Laurel’s stomach—once, twice, a third time.

Baby doesn’t like bacon.

Which was a shame, because Laurel loved bacon. Maple bacon. Smoked bacon. Crispy bacon with burnt edges.

Laurel disposed of the tea bag and willed her stomach to stop doing barrel rolls. Are you going to eat that? As in immediately?

Is that Laurel? Gabby poked her young face around Mitch’s wide chest, lisping slightly from her new retainer. Hi! Gabby’s smile was bright. Her intelligent dark eyes and quick wit seemed to be a gift from her father. Presumably, her long, straight strawberry blond hair was a gift from her mother, who wasn’t around and apparently never had been. Ignore him, Laurel. Gabby poked her father in the ribs. His bark is worse than his bite.

So you keep telling me. Laurel tried to discount the way nausea crept up her throat. Are you going to eat all that bacon?

Smells good, doesn’t it? Mitch was no longer looking at Laurel or he might have noticed her green pallor. Did you want some? I made plenty.

No. Laurel took a step back and breathed shallowly.

Baby definitely doesn’t like bacon.

Despite Laurel’s best efforts, the aroma of greasy bacon filled her nostrils. Her stomach took a nosedive. Could you...eat a little quicker? She waved her hand in the air, trying to encourage Mitch to eat up.

Mitch gently pushed Gabby back and closed the door in her face, eliciting a muffled, Da-ad.

Ignore me and my bark, darling daughter. Mitch went to the check-in desk and deposited his plate there, sparing Laurel a half grin. How are you this morning?

If you smile at me like that any longer, I might forget you consider me and my family the plague of Second Chance.

People rarely considered Laurel trouble, if they considered her at all. She averted her gaze. If you’re asking, did I upchuck in my room last night? The answer is no. If you’re asking if I might lose it now, well... Baby is undecided.

Ah. Mitch bit into a piece of bacon and chewed slowly. He slid Laurel a look that said many things.

Thank heavens this Monroe won’t try to snatch my bacon.

Thank heavens this Monroe didn’t get sick in the bathroom I have to clean later.

Thank heavens this Monroe isn’t bringing up the conversation she just overheard.

Laurel wasn’t about to let Mitch get by on that last one. Is there something you want to get off your chest?

Your very tall, broad chest.

Baby was undercutting Laurel’s perspective when it came to men.

Really, Baby was only undercutting Laurel’s perspective when it came to this man. There was a handsome cowboy sitting in the common room recuperating from a nasty broken leg. Laurel’s imagination didn’t stray across appropriate lines when it came to Zeke. Nope. It was just Mitch who got under her skin.

Off my chest? Mitch took another bite of bacon. Not a blessed thing. When it came to repartee, Mitch was a worthy adversary. Not surprising, given he’d been a defense attorney before he decided innkeeping was his calling.

Dad, be nice, Gabby shouted through the closed door.

I am. Mitch grinned like the evil overlord he probably thought he was. He turned back to Laurel, black hair glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window. Are you going somewhere?

No. Laurel took a sip of her tea, breathing in the clean scent that masked the bacon. Didn’t you tell me the roads wouldn’t be open until tomorrow?

Second Chance was one of the snowiest places in America and was often isolated during winter. Outside, some drifts had to be at least eight feet tall.

I don’t expect the snowplows to make it over the pass until tomorrow. But... Mitch gestured to her attire with a burnt piece of bacon. You’re dressed to go out on the town.

Silently cursing bacon, Laurel glanced down at her black geometric V-neck tunic and silver leggings. One hid her growing topside and one was forgiving of her expanding waistline. And her black leather booties... What did he expect her to wear? Clunky snow boots?

Counselor— she’d taken to calling Mitch that when she was annoyed because he’d taken to calling her Miss Laurel, like she was high society and he was her chauffeur —you may have noticed I like clothes. Up until a month ago, clothes had been the way Laurel made a living—costuming actors for movies and styling her identical twin sister for the red carpet. Dressing well isn’t a crime.

It sometimes seemed it was around Mitch, whose plucky preteen daughter regularly wore ill-fitting, boy-cut blue jeans and T-shirts with iron-on transfers. Laurel would enjoy seeing the delicately blossoming beauty in a floral-print skirt and pastel blouse. Not exactly appropriate attire for the mountains in winter.

I love the sound of kindly people exchanging kindly greetings in the morning. That was Zeke, recuperating cowboy and slinger of zingers.

Good morning, Zeke. To avoid the lingering smell of bacon, Laurel carried her tea upstairs. Clothes aren’t evil. I’m not admitting defeat this round, Counselor.

I wouldn’t expect any less, Miss Laurel.

If Laurel hadn’t been queasy, and bothered by her attraction to Mitch, she might have smiled.

The inn’s stairs creaked as she climbed. The hallway upstairs listed to one side and protested every step she took. The outer wall was made of thick, stacked logs with gray chinking in between. The inner wall was flat-sanded wood, stained the color of redwood. It was a far cry from the Hollywood mansion of her youth.

Sorry, Baby. Mama won’t be feeding you with a silver spoon.

Reality Check Number One. Laurel’s share of Second Chance wasn’t worth enough to buy silver spoons.

Take the Lodgepole Inn. It wasn’t a five-star hotel. If it had a website, which it did not, it would have touted itself as rustic—code for outdated.

She opened a warped door that stuck and entered her room. It had faded brown carpet, a bed covered with an artfully crafted sunflower quilt, a woefully small closet and an equally small bathroom appointed with pink fixtures. From what she’d seen, the rest of Second Chance was in the same—or worse—condition.

She sat on the edge of her bed and sipped her tea, staring at the pink rhinestone-studded evening gown she’d made for her famous twin’s latest opening night.

Ashley! Ashley! Look over here!

The flash of camera bulbs had blinded. The pop of those same bulbs had made ears ring. The cries of the photographers had been deafening.

Reality Check Number Two. Ashley had never worn that pink dress.

Laurel had stepped into her twin’s shoes, literally, and masqueraded as Ashley Monroe, up-and-coming starlet.

Laurel set her mug on the scarred bedside table and lay back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. Her days being a double for her identical twin in Hollywood were coming to an end. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to fit into her sister’s clothes.

Anxiety sat immobile on Laurel’s chest like a semitruck stuck in LA traffic. Her sister was a joy, a talented actress and a delicate flower. Laurel had spent most of her life watching out for her. But...

Reality Check Number Three. Laurel was pregnant, and she hadn’t worked up the courage to tell her family or the famous actor responsible for her pregnancy.

Her news... It wasn’t likely to be well received.

Her news... It would make her the least popular Monroe with more than just Mitch Kincaid.

WE’VE GOT TO get rid of the Monroes. A short time after Laurel had overheard his conversation with Gabby, Mayor Mitch Kincaid presided over an emergency council meeting held in the Bent Nickel Diner. Them staying... It’s not what Harlan wanted.

Or what he’d promised them ten years ago.

Promises? Mitch’s father had scoffed at him from behind security glass. You might just as well ask for rainbows.

Honor a promise? His father hadn’t known how.

Looking back, Harlan’s promises sounded a lot like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

Harlan said by disowning his grandchildren and leaving them our town... Ivy, who ran the Bent Nickel, paced behind the counter. He said they’d agree with his stewardship and curate Second Chance remotely.

While they made their own fortunes elsewhere. Mackenzie nodded. She ran the general store and garage.

That’s what Harlan hoped, Mitch reminded them. Harlan banked on their hunger to make their mark in the world once he freed them from obligation to his fortune. But he didn’t bank on Shane.

He’s a fixer, all right. Roy, the town handyman, pushed up the sleeves of his long johns until they disappeared beneath the cuffs of his blue coveralls. He blew out a breath. And Shane Monroe ain’t leavin’ until he fixes this town.

How’s he going to boost our profits? Ivy asked unhappily. In winter, no less.

Second Chance had a unique rhythm. Seven or eight months out of the year, they did a brisk business in town, or at least enough commerce to get by. And when the passes began closing in winter, things slowed down. Snowed in, Second Chance residents spent more time with family, more time gathering and gossiping at the Bent Nickel, operating fewer hours or closing down altogether.

Let’s face it. Shane’s fixes will likely improve his bottom line, Mitch added, not sounding any happier. That is, if they aren’t interested in leasing to us anymore and decide to sell the town. The coffee he’d been drinking felt like acid in his stomach. But if it comes to selling, I’m sure they’ll give us the opportunity to buy back our homes and businesses.

They stared at each other in silence, because none of them were convinced of that. The Monroes hadn’t made any promises or guarantees.

Home never looks the same after you leave. Those were the first words Harlan Monroe had spoken to Mitch. The millionaire had been standing next to a beat-up Ford pickup, gazing at the town’s main drag with an air of sadness. I suppose I’ll need a room for a few nights, if you’ve got one available.

Mitch had just bought the inn. He was adjusting to life outside the courtroom and his role as a small-town single dad. Harlan’s wife, Estelle, had just lost a long battle with cancer. Harlan was coming to terms with his own mortality and how to manage his legacy. A few nights’ stay turned into a few weeks’.

Surprisingly, the notoriously media-shy Harlan had been a talker, particularly candid when he was one-on-one. He shared his past, his road to wealth and his hopes for his grandchildren, who he considered too privileged. And he expected frankness in return.

And that’s why I left Second Chance, Harlan had concluded his tale as he and Mitch sipped whiskey on the inn’s back porch one night, serenaded by an owl in a nearby pine tree. You know, I’ve never told my grandkids that story. I love ’em, but try holding a meaningful conversation with a dozen kids staring at cell phones.

You should tell stories like that to a biographer, Mitch had said. If you tell them at all.

Says the former lawyer with caution in his voice. Harlan had chuckled, a deep rumbly sound that hinted at fluid in his lungs. And then he’d switched gears. None of the businesses in town seem at capacity. Tell me about your bottom line.

Mitch had.

I want to invest in Second Chance, Harlan had told Mitch weeks later, his small satchel in hand. I want it to live on, like my business legacy, but I don’t want John Q Public to know. He’d explained his plan to buy up real estate in Second Chance and lease it back to residents. He’d shared his idea about guarding his legacy—the nondisclosure agreements with those who accepted his offer, agreements that would expire one year from his death, a date coinciding with the release of his authorized biography.

Look. Mack tossed her dark braid over one shoulder, bringing Mitch back to the present when her hair almost hit him. Shane means well. He uses Mitch’s snowmobile to deliver my grocery orders to folks without charge. My pocketbook isn’t complaining about them staying longer, but...

They need to build lives for themselves elsewhere, Ivy said, her pacing stomping on Mitch’s last nerve. And forget about changing anything in Second Chance. We like our quiet winters. It’s what’s made this town like a family. She choked on the word and clutched her throat.

Calm down, Roy said. We’d all feel better if they skedaddled. But we ain’t doin’ so bad. One Monroe left already.

Mitch frowned. Granted, one of the Monroes—Ella—had left town nearly two weeks ago.

If Mitch had his druthers, he’d be rid of another Monroe. Not Sophie and her young twin boys, who posed no threat. Not Shane and his endless ideas about how to make the town a thriving metropolis—completely at odds with Harlan’s wishes.

No. If Mitch had his druthers, it would be Laurel who left next, the petite woman with the vibrant red hair who sometimes looked as if someone had deflated her spirit. When Mitch saw the unguarded side of Laurel, something inside him softened.

Mitch set his jaw. Now wasn’t the time to be sympathetic.

Gabby showed too much interest in the redhead. Laurel might have arrived in Second Chance pale, pregnant and exhausted, but she had big-city, look-at-me style, like his ex-wife. And impressionable Gabby was enthralled, despite the fact that Laurel didn’t fit in the Idaho high country. Her high-heeled, black leather boots weren’t made for snow. Her paper-thin, black leather jacket wasn’t made for temperatures below fifty.

For heaven’s sake, she had an evening gown hanging in her bathroom!

Which Mitch only knew about because he had to clean said bathroom. Which, up until two weeks ago, Mitch could only reach by walking through the trail of clothes Laurel left on the floor, dropped—presumably—wherever she was when she undressed. Which—Mitch imagined, because he was divorced, not dead—was a process that wasn’t conducted when she was standing still. Shoes had littered the space required to swing the door open and pants, leggings, sweaters and T-shirts fanned five to ten feet from there. Unmentionables of every color—indelibly marked in his memory—had landed closest to the bathroom door and the glittery pink evening gown.

Mitch pressed at the ache in his temples. He’d spent too many nights pacing, worrying, wondering what he could have done differently with Harlan’s offer. Granted, our deals with Harlan were a gamble to begin with. The buyout and low lease were like a golden ticket, one with an expiration date. When he sold, Mitch had figured after Harlan died, he and Gabby would move elsewhere. But he hadn’t anticipated the town winning him over. In Harlan’s defense, no one could’ve predicted Laurel would arrive pregnant and be put on bed rest.

Or that the other two would stay to support her. Mack rolled her shoulders. We’re lucky it’s only the three of them. It could have been all twelve.

Harlan had assured them his grandchildren—who worked mostly high-profile jobs in the movie industry, finance, museums, oil, yacht building or luxury hotels—wouldn’t want to stay in their small town.

Three little birdies to force out of their comfy little nests, Roy pointed out. And then things will return to normal, just like Harlan promised. You’ll see. Mitch was having a hard time seeing anything other than disappearing rainbows.

Return to normal? When Ella Monroe left, we lost Doc. Who will we lose with the next Monroe we get rid of? You, Roy? Ivy stopped pacing behind the diner’s counter and crossed her arms over her gray hooded sweatshirt, covering up the neon-yellow letters that spelled out Best Mommy Ever. The next nearest handyman is in Ketchum and the nearest medical clinic is an hour’s drive from here. The worry in Ivy’s voice was hard to miss. It wasn’t that long ago that her oldest had dislocated his shoulder and her youngest had sprained both his ankles. They were younger than Mitch’s daughter and growing like clumsy weeds.

Laurel Monroe had probably never been a clumsy weed.

Something clattered in the diner’s kitchen.

Ow-woooo. Nick, Ivy’s youngest, ran out in his Star Wars pajamas, holding his finger toward Ivy. His brown hair was in need of a brushing or a trim and it bounced with each urgent step. Mom, I shut my finger in the microwave and dropped my plate of nachos.

Ivy picked him up and settled him on her hip. Pumpkin, what have I told you about the microwave?

Grinning, Roy elbowed Mitch and whispered, What have you told him about eating nachos for breakfast?

That comment earned the old man Ivy’s evil eye.

Not to use it! the kindergartner wailed, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. "And I did and now