Chapter Text
The inn smelled like dust.
Andy stood in the front hall, her breath faintly visible in the December cold slipping through the old windows. She’d been here two days, and the place still didn’t feel like home. The furniture was covered in sheets, the floors creaked underfoot, and the radiators clanked and hissed, struggling to warm rooms that had been empty for months.
Her great-aunt Marion had left her this place. Andy barely remembered the woman: a stern face at a cousin’s wedding, a signature on a Christmas card years ago. They’d never been close. The inheritance had come as a shock, delivered by a lawyer who sounded apologetic, as if he knew the gift was more burden than blessing.
The Blackwood Inn. Built in 1887. Needs work.
That last part was an understatement.
She pulled her cardigan tighter as she crossed to the window. The light was fading, the Vermont hills bluing at the edges. Snow was coming, flurries according to the weather report she’d seen two days ago. Maybe an inch or two. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
Andy turned back to the hall. She’d spent the morning going through the books in the library, the afternoon trying to make sense of the accounts Marion had left behind. The inn had been closed since her death three months ago. There had been no guests or income, only bills and a building that was slowly surrendering to neglect.
She should sell it. That’s what her mother had said on the phone yesterday, her voice tight with that particular blend of concern and disapproval Andy had learned to recognize. You have a career, Andrea. A life in the city. What are you going to do with an inn in the middle of nowhere?
Andy didn’t have an answer. She’d come here to find one.
The kitchen was warmer. She’d managed to get the old stove working and made herself tea in a mug she’d found at the back of a cupboard. The room was solid: wide plank floors, a deep porcelain sink, and windows that looked out over the back garden. It could be beautiful again, if someone had the time and money to make it so.
She was halfway through her tea when she heard the car.
The sound carried clearly in the stillness: tires on gravel, the low purr of an expensive engine. Andy frowned and set the mug down. She wasn’t expecting anyone. The inn was closed, had been for months. There was no sign out front, no listing online. Unless...
A fist of anxiety tightened in her chest.
She’d found one reservation in the old leather ledger on the desk, marked for this week. December 20–26. A Mrs. Preston. The entry was strange. Unlike the others, it listed no address or phone number. Marion’s handwriting filled the margin beneath it: Private arrangement. Do not contact. Andy had assumed it was old. Something Marion had forgotten to cancel. She’d meant to look into it, but everything else had taken priority, and it hadn’t felt urgent.
Andy moved to the window.
A black Rolls-Royce sat in the drive, out of place against the weathered building. The driver’s door opened, and Roy stepped out, and Andy froze; she hadn’t seen him in years. He crossed to the rear door and reached for the handle. There was no one else it could be...
Andy’s breath caught, her hand tightening on the edge of the sink. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could only stare as Miranda straightened, adjusting the collar of her coat with one gloved hand. She looked exactly the same. No, her hair was shorter, but the way she carried herself hadn’t changed at all.
Three years.
It had been three years since Paris. Three years since Andy had walked away, since she’d chosen herself over the job, over the woman standing in her driveway. She’d thought about Miranda more than she cared to admit. Late at night, when she couldn’t sleep. In the middle of interviews, when someone’s voice carried the same clipped authority. In quiet moments when she caught herself wanting to tell someone something and realized the someone she wanted to tell was a person she didn’t speak to anymore.
And now she was here.
Andy forced herself to move. Her legs felt unsteady as she crossed the kitchen, her pulse loud in her ears. She reached the front door and pulled it open just as Miranda started up the steps.
Miranda stopped.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Miranda’s expression shifted: surprise, then something that flickered and vanished before Andy could catch it. Her eyes swept over Andy once, quick and assessing, before returning to her face.
“Andrea.”
Her voice was exactly as Andy remembered it.
“Miranda.” Andy’s throat was dry. She swallowed and tried again. “I didn’t... I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly.” Miranda’s gaze moved past her, taking in the dimly lit hall, the sheets still covering the furniture. When she looked back, one eyebrow lifted fractionally. “Is the inn open, or have I made a mistake?”
“It’s...” Andy fumbled. “The inn isn’t officially open. My great-aunt, the owner, passed away a few months ago, and I inherited this place. I’m just here for the week, trying to figure out what to do with it.”
Miranda went still. The guarded look on her face shifted into genuine surprise. “Marion is dead?”
“You knew her?”
“I’ve been coming here for years.” Miranda’s voice had lost some of its edge. “She never mentioned having family. I had no idea you were connected.”
“We weren’t close.” The words sounded distant to her own ears. “She left me the inn in her will. I didn’t even know she owned it until the lawyer called.”
Miranda was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her tone had softened. “I’m sorry for your loss. Marion was a remarkable woman. She had a gift for creating spaces where people could simply... be.”
The kindness in her voice caught Andy off guard. “Thank you.”
“I assume that’s why my name wasn’t in her records in the usual way.” Miranda glanced toward the door, then back at Andy. “We had an arrangement. Privacy in exchange for my continued patronage. She never kept detailed records of my visits, and I paid in cash.”
That explained the strange entry in the ledger. Andy nodded slowly, processing. “I saw your reservation. Mrs. Preston. I thought it was an old booking she’d forgotten to cancel. I should have looked into it more carefully. I’m sorry.”
The apology settled between them, insufficient and out of place. Miranda studied her for a long moment, and Andy felt exposed under that gaze, the same way she always had. Like Miranda could see past whatever version of herself Andy tried to present.
“The nearest hotel is forty minutes away,” Miranda said at last. “And there’s a storm coming.” She paused, her expression unreadable. “I had planned to be here for the week. Marion always kept the same room available for me this time of year.”
Miranda Priestly, who could book a suite anywhere in the world with a single phone call, was standing on Andy’s porch. Waiting. The word itself felt foreign attached to her.
Andy glanced past her. The sky had darkened further, clouds massing low over the hills. The air felt heavy, the way it always did before a real snowfall. Not the light dusting the forecast had promised. She looked back at Miranda and saw exhaustion beneath the composure. Faint shadows under her eyes, a tightness around her mouth. Miranda Priestly didn’t do exhaustion, didn’t let it show, but Andy had worked for her long enough to recognize the signs. “You can stay.” The words came out before she could second-guess them. “The inn isn’t ready for guests, but there’s a room on the main floor that’s clean. It’s warmer down here anyway. The upstairs radiators are struggling.”
Miranda’s eyes narrowed slightly, searching Andy’s face. “You’re certain?”
No. Andy wasn’t certain of anything. The smart thing would be to send Miranda away, to keep the distance they’d built over three years intact. There were a hundred reasons this was a bad idea. The history between them. The way Andy’s heart had started beating faster the moment she’d seen Miranda step out of that car. The fact that she’d spent three years trying to convince herself she was over this, over her, and now all of that careful work was threatening to unravel in a single evening.
But the wind was picking up, and the temperature was dropping, and Miranda looked... Tired. Miranda looked tired.
“I’m certain.” Andy stepped back, pulling the door wider. “Come in.”
Miranda hesitated. She turned back toward the car, where Roy stood waiting by the open trunk. Andy watched as Miranda descended the steps and crossed to him, their voices too low to carry. Roy’s expression shifted as they spoke, something passing between them that Andy couldn’t read. After a moment, Miranda nodded once, and Roy began unloading luggage.
He carried the bags to the porch, and Andy met him at the top of the steps. Miranda had moved to the side, checking something on her phone, giving them space.
“Andy.” Roy set the bags down, and when he looked up, his face broke into a genuine smile. “It’s good to see you. It’s been too long.”
The warmth in his voice loosened something in her chest. “You too, Roy. How have you been? How are the grandkids?”
“Growing too fast. Sarah just started kindergarten. Can you believe it?” He shook his head, still smiling, but then his expression shifted. He glanced toward Miranda, who was still looking at her phone, and lowered his voice. “Listen, Andy. Take care of her this week, will you?”
Andy blinked. “What do you mean?”
Roy’s jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to say more, but something held him back. “Just... It’s been a difficult few months. She won’t tell you that, but it has.” He met Andy’s eyes, and the seriousness there struck her. “She needs this week. More than she’d ever admit.”
Before Andy could respond, he straightened, and his professional demeanor returned. “Drive safe,” she managed.
“Always do.” He touched the brim of an imaginary cap, an old joke between them, and headed back to the car.
Andy stood on the porch, the cold seeping through her sweater, and Roy’s words echoing in her head. It’s been a difficult few months. She hadn’t checked the news in weeks, hadn’t read Runway or searched Miranda’s name online. She’d trained herself not to. It was easier that way, not knowing. Not seeing photos of Miranda at galas or events, not reading speculation about her personal life, not torturing herself with glimpses of a world she’d chosen to leave behind.
Now she wondered what she’d missed.
The Rolls-Royce pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the gathering dusk. Andy watched until it was gone, then turned to find Miranda standing at the door, waiting.
“Ready?” Andy asked.
Miranda inclined her head and stepped inside, bringing with her the faint scent of her perfume. Andy’s memory supplied the name before she could stop it. Some things, it seemed, she couldn’t unlearn.
The door closed behind them, and the inn felt smaller suddenly. Andy was acutely aware of the space between them, the way Miranda stood in the center of the hall, taking in her surroundings with that same sharp assessment she’d once used on photoshoots and editorial meetings.
“I’ll show you to your room.” Andy’s voice came out steadier than she felt. She gathered the bags and moved toward the hallway that led to the back of the house.
The room was at the end of the corridor, past the library. It was small but clean, with a brass bed frame and a fireplace that Andy had tested the day before. Fresh linens, a reading lamp, faded wallpaper with a pattern of climbing roses. The radiator in the corner hummed steadily, filling the space with warmth.
“The bathroom is just across the hall.” Andy set the bags down by the wardrobe. “I can bring more wood for the fire later if it gets cold.”
Miranda set her bag down by the bed. She looked around the room, her expression softening in a way Andy hadn’t expected. “This was always my favorite room. Marion knew.”
“She kept it for you?”
“Every December if I could make it.” Miranda ran her fingers along the brass footboard, a gesture that seemed almost unconscious. “For almost eight years.”
Eight years. Andy did the math. That meant Miranda had been coming here even before Andy had started at Runway.
“I had no idea,” Andy said quietly.
“That was rather the point.” Miranda’s voice was dry, but not unkind. She turned to face Andy, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, filled with all the things they weren’t saying, all the history that lay between them. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Miranda said finally.
“I didn’t expect to see you anywhere.” Andy’s mouth curved into a small, involuntary smile. “Especially not in the middle of Vermont.”
“Life has a way of defying expectations.” Miranda held her gaze, and for a moment the mask slipped. Andy saw exhaustion, weariness, maybe, or loneliness. It vanished before she could be sure. “I find myself in unexpected places more often than I’d like these days.”
Andy wanted to ask what she meant. Wanted to ask about the shadows under her eyes and the exhaustion she was trying so hard to hide. Wanted to ask what Roy had meant by difficult months. But Miranda was already turning away, unbuttoning her coat, and the moment slipped past.
“I’d like to freshen up,” Miranda said. “Give me a few minutes.”
It was a dismissal, gentle but clear. Andy took it. She stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut, leaving Miranda alone. She stood there for a moment, her hand still on the doorknob, her heart beating too fast. Miranda Priestly was on the other side of this door. Miranda Priestly was in her inn for the next week.
Andy walked back toward the kitchen, her footsteps loud in the silence. She stopped in the middle of the hall and pressed her palm flat against the wall, steadying herself. This was absurd. She’d come here to get away, to think, to figure out what she wanted from her life. She’d come here to escape the noise and the pressure and the feeling that she was living someone else’s story.
She hadn’t come here to find Miranda Priestly in her driveway.
And yet some part of her, some treacherous part she’d spent three years trying to silence, wasn’t surprised at all. As if she’d been waiting for this. As if every choice she’d made since Paris had been leading her back to this moment, to this woman, to a conversation they’d never finished.
Whatever Andy had come here to figure out, this hadn’t been part of the plan.
Outside, the snow began to fall in earnest.