Rebecca Hoyt gave one last tug, dislodging her Louis Vuitton suitcase from the backseat of the rented car. Propelled backwards by her efforts, she tripped over her Labrador, Max, and landed in a pile of slushy, dirty snow. It was a glorious ten seconds.

Not.

In fact, the last one sixth of a minute had just been the icing on the cake that was the horrible last twenty-four hours. But Rebecca had a feeling things were soon to get even worse. If the heavy, sick feeling in the middle of her stomach was any indication, it would be awhile before she felt good again.

“Max! Can you just move? Please?” She leaned over the dog to grasp the handle of her suitcase. “Anywhere but right under me would be great…” she mumbled.

“Becky!”

Rebecca turned to see her mother, arms stretched wide for an embrace, coming down the brick walk that led from the front door of Rebecca’s childhood home. Her mother had a grin on her face that threatened to put the Cheshire Cat out of business. That’s odd. Why is she so happy?

A moment later Rebecca was being smothered in the shoulder of her mother’s bright red sweater. “It’s so great you’re here,” gushed her mom. “Come on, let’s get inside. That dog of yours is clean, right? Does he need a bath?”

Rebecca grabbed the rest of her bags from the car, whistled to Max, and followed her mother up the driveway. The yard and sides of the driveway were piled several feet high with snow, but Rebecca noticed the path to the house was perfectly clear. She wondered who had shoveled it. Certainly not her father.

It was bright and warm in the house. Her parents, always lovers of the holidays, still had their Christmas decorations up, even though today was the last day of the year. Garlands wound around the staircase banister and festive knick-knacks, prancing reindeer and little pudgy Santas holding Merry-Christmas! signs, adorned every shelf. There was a whiff of what smelled like sugar cookies in the air. It was just as if the holidays in this house had always been. The thought made Rebecca shudder a little.

“Where’s Dad?” she asked, unwinding her cashmere scarf.

“In the living room. He can’t wait to see you. Here, let me take these bags up to your room, and you can go say hi.”

Rebecca moved down the hall slowly with bated breath. This was what she had come for, and now she was afraid of what she might find.

In typical Rebecca fashion, she had spent Christmas all alone at her house in Los Angeles—other than with Max, of course—catching up on some work. She had planned on doing the same for New Year’s Eve. One day ago, her plans had abruptly changed when she had emerged from the shower to find a voicemail from her father.

“Your mom doesn’t want me to tell you,” he had begun. “But I’m not doing so well. I’m pretty sick, kid. It would mean a lot to me if you came home for New Year’s.”

Rebecca had been instantly racked with guilt. It had been several years since she had been home. Her parents had come and visited her in L.A. only last summer, but they were always nagging her about not going to see them in Montana. Rebecca felt bad about the aversion to her childhood home that she had developed, but she couldn’t explain the reasons behind it to her parents. They would never really understand.

When she got that voicemail, though, she knew she had to go home. It had been hard booking a seat last minute, not to mention insanely expensive, but she had managed to get herself a ticket on a flight that also shipped pets. The idea of leaving Max at a kennel back in California didn’t appeal to her at all since he was pretty much her best, and sometimes only, friend.

From the moment she got the voicemail, she had been frantic over what was happening in Montana. They didn’t talk about it much, but her father had only recently been a survivor of colon cancer. He was two years clean now, but Rebecca still worried that it might come back. She had tried a dozen times to call her parents in the last twenty-four hours, but had always gotten either a busy signal or no response at all. By the time she pulled into the driveway, she thought she was going to hurl with anxiety.

But now here she was. Her mother had seemed cheery enough, true, but she had always had a way of sugarcoating pretty much every experience.

Rebecca exhaled, attempting to release the tension she had been storing up. Taking a fresh breath, she prepared herself for the image of her father lying pale and pasty, wrapped up in blankets on the couch, and slowly slid into the living room.

“Thatta boy! Get ‘em!”

“Dad?”

There he was all right, but he was anything from pale and pasty, immobile, and lifeless. In fact, he was at the moment jumping up and down excitedly, beer can clutched in his hand, yelling at the football game on TV.

Rebecca gaped. She had been tricked. Duped.

“Becky!” He rushed to greet her.

She disentangled herself from his embrace. “You’re not sick!”

Enthusiasm ran out of her father’s face as he began to look ashamed. “Ah, well… I kind of am. I have a pretty bad cold.” He sneezed. “There. See?”

“You tricked me!”

“Oh, come on, Becky. I told you that I wasn’t doing good, right? And I’m not. I actually do have a cold.”

“Yeah, well, it obviously hasn’t hurt your energy levels any.” Rebecca turned away, angry, and was about to leave the room when she stopped herself. She couldn’t be mad at her dad. Besides, she knew why he’d done this.

“You’re never home, kid. I had to get you here somehow. It’s the holidays.”

She knew. And she felt bad enough about it. She didn’t need him making her feel worse. This thought, though, she didn’t give voice to. Instead, she smiled weakly at him. She couldn’t blame her father for wanting to see her more. She had been distant ever since she had graduated college and moved away, and her parents deserved better.

“I know that you’re always saying it’s your job that keeps you away, but it’s something else, isn’t it?” he asked, settling back into his chair.

“What? No. I mean, yes, it is my job. It keeps me busy almost non-stop.”

Although her job as a producer on a national morning talk show did keep her extremely busy, it didn’t exactly occupy her twenty-four seven. She certainly had breaks to get away now and then. But she decided to let her father think what he thought.

“Well, I forgive you… as long as you can forgive me.”

“For leading me to think you were on your death bed? Yeah, I’ll think about that one,” she joked, taking a seat on the worn leather sofa. Max followed, burrowing his head between two cushions. “Pass me a beer, will you?”

“No, not that….” he began, opening the mini fridge he kept by his recliner.

“What then? Forgive you for what?”

“Maybe for having me here,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. Rebecca turned to take in the newcomer.

No. No way. This had to be a dream. Tall. Golden blond hair. Crystal blue eyes. Perfect body. Dazzling smile. Always charming. Smarter than anyone else she knew. The most passionate man, or so she had once thought, in the whole world.

Ryan Wilson. The one that got away.