Based on an adorable Christmas movie I watched the other day... There'll be one chapter a day from today til Christmas.

Let me know what you think!

As always, I own nothing.


The streets of New York City are crowded, bitter wind hitting the heavy coats draped over the many men and women milling about as they head to work on Monday morning. There's snow stacked in every corner, melting into cold, slushy puddles that splash against her expensive boots whenever someone nearby steps on them carelessly, and still Regina Mills cannot help but smile when she reaches the newsstand she passes by every morning on her way to the subway, her gaze instantly finding the engrossing cover of Kings and Queens Magazine lining the shelves, and she buys a copy like she does every week, stares at the scandalous title of their newest headline, emblazoned in blue against the neutral backdrop of action movie star Gaston Thicke's fair complexion.

It's an egregious process to be a gossip reporter, but sometimes, just sometimes, she'll catch someone like Gaston (a rich Hollywood hunk that fancies himself an actor) making sex tapes with prostitutes behind his spouse's back, and she feels justified in her current career path (she keeps saying she's only doing this until an actual writing job appears, but it's been years already, and she's used to the work environment by now). Thanks to her, there will most likely be a messy divorce in the cards for Gaston, and since there was no prenup, his indie songwriter wife Belle French will probably get half his millions, and Regina feels a zing of pride slither through her as she climbs onto the express, because she's just inadvertently helped a cheated woman make bank by uncovering evidence of her husband's very salacious extra-marital hobbies, and it feels damn good.

She knows the layout of the glossy paper by heart, after playing around with it so much before it went to print, but there's something about seeing the end result, some sense of pride and closure as she stares at her piece and beams, sipping her doctored Americano as her train speeds on. HD stills from the various sex tapes color the pages under a NSFW warning, little yellow stars covering nipples and other areas, the sordid details of the affairs added as text under each photo… It's glorious, the biggest story the magazine has done in recent months, and she's responsible for it, has earned a very nice paycheck because of it, and so the muddy banks of melting snow, the freezing wind and the overcast sky of a dreary winter's day in New York City, do nothing to dampen Regina's very satisfied mood as she walks the two blocks from the subway to her office building and strolls into work, pleasantly greeting her assistant Ruby with a high-five and mockingly saluting Mal, her boss, who smiles and congratulates her yet again before telling her to stop by her office on her lunch break.

Her day is slow, relaxed, nothing major to do except post a few articles on their newly launched online version of the magazine, with sneak peeks to future issues and new content added daily to keep people interested.

In an effort to get more involved with the audience and boost the relevancy of K&Q, Regina has set up a new section through the mag's Twitter account, encouraging readers to visit the site and drop hints of possible celebrity scoop on their inbox, promising two red carpet passes to the premiere of Hollywood sensation Wendy Darling's newest movie to whoever sends in the winning tip. She goes through the new submissions, but sees nothing of substance so far, so the rest of her morning is spent in what Mal calls "subject study", which basically amounts to reading up on celebrities or influential members of society that have been recently featured in other magazines and public events. It's the way they stay on top of things, researching and analyzing their targets' every move until one of them shows signs of a possible story coming up (or a source reveals an important detail that can turn into an article). Mal is usually the one who picks their subjects, drops a different information packet for each of her writers every morning when she arrives.

Regina looks through the newspaper articles and pictures in the folder that's been left on her desk, as well as the email full of links to important tweets and posts about her assigned targets for the day: the Locksley family. She knows who they are, of course, their influence and good looks makes famous individuals of them all. Though they're not necessarily what Regina would call a problematic group of people, the general audience seems to be fascinated by them, and a couple of disgraceful little incidents pertaining to them have been published by K&Q before.

The family has also suffered its fair share of tragedy. Almost four years ago now, Senator Locksley and his wife died in a car crash just outside of Boston, when they were headed there for some state affair. Their two sons are now the most prominent figures, with their widowed aunt Shirley Lucas acting as the matriarch behind the scenes, handling her deceased sister's charities and managing both of her nephews' careers.

Walsh is the youngest of the Locksley men, a thirty year-old accountant working for high profile companies and making hundreds of thousands of dollars. There's not much known about him except that he has a taste for expensive cars and even more expensive company, dating only socialites and famous supermodels. He's a marvel at his job, but a complete party boy the moment he's off the clock. Robin, the older brother at thirty-four, is a whole other story. Raised in a London boarding school until he was seventeen, he'd been the one expected to continue his father's legacy in politics. He'd been given the best education, exposed to the cultural and intellectual wonders of the world from a very young age, and shaped into a smart man with a law degree from Yale and every tool to carry out his family's political ambition, except that he hasn't, at least not yet, has opted instead for a quiet life and kept a low profile from the press, save for his very controversial relationship with socialite Zelena Greene, which ended messily a little under a year ago.

They're dull, Regina thinks, just another boring pair of trust fund babies that don't have much going on in the way of feelings or human decency, spoiled brats who insist on showing off how much better they live than everyone else, hosting parties and galas every other week, wearing the most expensive outfits, charging five thousand dollars a plate at charity dinners and donating insane amounts of cash as a way to "give back to the community", something that Regina can only see as a blatant attempt at a tax break, just like every other wealthy family in this town.

When lunch time rolls around, she's on the phone, so she sends Ruby out for a salad, the one with blue cheese and walnuts and apples that she likes so much from the place down the street, tells her to grab something for herself as well and put it on her tab. When she gets back to her call, it's nothing but jokes and laughter. She's talking with Elle Tinker, a dear friend and the Chief Editor of Neverland, a Manhattan-based publishing house. Elle is a big fairytale fan, has been since before Regina met her at one of the company parties. The woman is a tiny, sprite looking thing, with blue eyes that are always bright and happy, a small, delicate nose that she tends to turn up at Regina's cynic views on romance, and messy blond locks that resemble sunshine itself, kept in check by the stylish bun she wraps them in atop her head.

"Did you seriously throw the guy's manuscript out the window?!" Regina asks, baffled at her friend's tale.

"It was a terrible manuscript!" says the woman on the other end, as if that justifies her.

"That poor, poor man," Regina murmurs.

"He wrote about a woman who rips out hearts!"

"Oh, so he met my mother, then," Regina quips.

"The entire story was hollow and lacked proper character development," Elle continues on her tirade.

"So you threw it out the window of your sixteenth floor office?" Regina asks disbelievingly.

"He wrote trash, he had it coming," her friend replies, resolute.

"That New Zealand accent of yours gets thicker when you're exasperated, did you know that?" she notes, and Elle huffs that that's the least of her problems right now.

"I need a good story, Regina," she tells her dejectedly, "and I can't find one."

"Don't you think maybe you're being too demanding? The heart-ripping lady can't have been so bad."

"It was, and I am not being too demanding!" she petulantly protests, "I just want something I don't gag at when I read it."

"Let me guess, you want a love story?"

"Well, yes!" she admits, "I want something beautiful and enthralling, something so wonderful it makes me weep, is that too much to ask?!"

She teases her again for being a hopeless romantic, and Elle counters she's not hopeless, but hopeful. They say their goodbyes, and Regina wishes her friend luck in finding her new novel, hangs up, and makes her way to Mal's office while her food arrives.

When Regina knocks on the door that's been left ajar, her boss, who is also on the phone, waves her in while she rambles on to whoever it is she's speaking to.

"Of course, dear, if I have the scoop, you'll be the first to know," she promises, rolling her eyes as she waits for the person on the other end to finish their goodbye, adding one of her own and hanging up with a scowl.

"Someone looking for dirt on an ex?" Regina asks jokingly.

"Worse, Ursula wants to know what story we'll be publishing in our Christmas issue."

Ah, that explains Mal's mood, then.

Ursula is the CEO of K&Q, a wealthy mogul who has built an empire on buying and selling magazines and social media sites. She's a machine, nonstop and determined. Even now, at the height of her career, she's rumored to be looking for a buyer for K&Q, someone who will take part in running the magazine while she finds her next target, but no concrete offers have been made yet, as far as they know. She's a strong boss, fun, proactive, demanding, and very, very impatient.

"Do we even have a story for the Christmas issue yet?" Regina asks, curious, and is met with a smirk from the blonde woman in front of her.

"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about," she tells her before gesturing to the chair in front of her on the opposite side of the desk, prompting Regina to take a seat.

"Is everything okay?"

"Well that depends on how you take the news I'm about to give you. You're up for a promotion."

Whoa.

That… was not what she was expecting.

"Are you serious?!" Regina exclaims.

"Oh, yes, Ursula's idea," Mal admits, "she's promoting me to Editor in Chief, so she's looking for a new assistant editor to take my place, and she thinks you'd be a great match, if you prove yourself."

"That's amazing!"

"Hold your horses, dear," Mal warns, "she thinks Sidney would also be a good choice."

Ugh.

Sidney Glass. Regina's competition and a total slimeball. He's good at his job, sure, has some very valuable connections that get him plenty of information for his stories (and she has to admit that the piece of his that had been printed last year, about famed director Ella Feinberg bullying America's sweetheart, actress Anna Arendelle, on the set of their new movie, is still one of the best bits of gossip Kings and Queens has ever published), but he's also a sleaze, and a nasty rival. Knowing she has to compete with him for the editor job immediately takes the fun out of it, but she's willing to do it, if only so she can see his face when she wins.

"What do I have to do?" she asks, determined.

"We received a tip-off from an anonymous source on that Twitter thing you're doing, about the Locksley family."

"Is that why you had me study them today?"

"Yes, but don't tell Sidney I did that," she answers with a wink. "I have him reading up on that new screenplay author that's getting all the Oscar buzz, just to throw him off the trail."

"Isaac Heller?"

"Yeah, him. Anyway, the tip is that one of the Locksley brothers will be getting engaged this weekend, at the family's mansion Saranac Lake."

"I saw that tip, but there's no report of any kind to back it up, none of my sources have said a peep, I feel like we'd know if that was true."

"Oh, it is, Ursula's confirmed it with one of those informants she has that she never reveals, so your job -and Sidney's- is to get that story before anyone else. Whoever has the best article gets the job."

"Really? That's it?"

"Yes, so I suggest you start looking around for info. All we know is that the engagement will happen this weekend during the family's big Christmas charity bash."

"They have a charity bash?"

"They do it every year!" Mal says, looking incredulously at her, like she can't believe Regina didn't know about this, but hey, she's only just started studying them, and while she knows the basics, she doesn't pay that much attention to them.

And if she's honest, she's had bigger fish to fry. Her most recent article is perfect proof of that.

"Okay so at this charity thing, one of them is going to propose."

"Yes."

"Right, see there's one problem with that, they're not dating anyone!"

"That we know of."

"They're rich, they're hot, and they're related to politics, if they were involved with someone, we'd know."

"That's not necessarily true, Regina, they're a very secretive bunch, we've only seen two interviews from the brothers this year. They used to be all over the place up until Robin broke up with Zelena Greene, it's been almost radio silence since then, no one really knows what they're up to."

Regina huffs out a breath, still dreading that she's about to be sent on a wild goose chase, but then she realizes, she could be editor, she could actually do it, all she needs is that story.

"Fine, I'm in," she informs Mal, whose red lips pull up in a smile as she wishes her luck.


"You're going upstate?! Less than three weeks before my wedding?! Do you have any idea how much planning there is left to do?! You can't go off to the Adirondacks so close to the event, you just can't!"

Regina rolls her eyes. She knew Mary Margaret wouldn't take this mini trip well.

They've been friends since high school, maintained that friendship even after they went their separate ways in college, and Mary Margaret had been there for Regina when she'd lost her father, had even flown over from Arizona to Maine just to be with her when her mother passed away two years later.

Regina had never gotten along with her mother, and having her die before she could settle their differences had weighed on her, but then Mary had shown up, had reiterated that none of it had been her fault, that Regina was not to blame for her mother's terrible parenting, that she shouldn't feel guilty for being relieved to be free of her, and at the time, it had been exactly what she needed to hear, to finally feel like her suffering had ended, that she wouldn't have to deal with Cora's abuses any longer, and her friend had understood that. Their bond had strengthened even more when Mary and her boyfriend David had moved to New York City three years ago, just a few blocks from Regina's uptown apartment. And when the boyfriend had turned fiancé earlier this year, and Mary had asked her to be maid of honor at her Christmas wedding, Regina hadn't hesitated to accept.

She's regretted that decision ever since.

Turns out, for all her sweetness and charm, Mary Margaret Blanchard is quite the bridezilla, and therefore far less accommodating where her wedding is concerned.

"It's only for a few days, it'll be fine."

"Regina, I rely on you to help me make this wedding happen, you can't just up and leave on a whim!"

"It's not a whim, it's work."

"Mal's doing this on purpose, isn't she? She hates me, so she wants to mess with my wedding!"

"She does hate you," no point in denying that, the two women had never gotten along, "but she's not doing this to spite you, she wants me to get that promotion. I want to get that promotion."

Mary leaves her then, huffing and puffing as she makes her way to the dressing room of Jefferson's Bridal, where they've been for the past half hour. That's when Regina's eyes focus on the hideous lump of fabric the seamstress is hanging up inside the dressing room for her friend to try on.

"That is your dress?!" she exclaims just before the door shuts. She's alarmed that anyone would ever even set her eyes on such a thing. It's… terrible, to say the least.

"It's vintage, Regina!" Mary exclaims from inside, her breathing labored, because just putting on the awful dress is a workout, it seems.

"Not the good kind, dear," she retorts as her friend steps out of the dressing room, drowning in taffeta and lace, and Regina has to resist the urge to guffaw at the image before her.

The thing looks like it's been kept in a box for forty years... after being worn by someone's grandmother... to a Gone With The Wind themed party.

The skirt is gigantic, and Regina has a hard time believing Mary Margaret will be able to walk in it, layers and layers of tulle puffing out from the waist under the heavy white taffeta that drapes the silhouette. The sleeves look like pillows, poofy and ridiculous to the elbows, with an even more ridiculous, sparkly lace undersleeve covering the rest of the way to the wrists. There's more shimmery lace at the top, trimming the sweetheart neckline, covering the chest area and up to the neck, Mary's hopeful face barely visible under the yards and yards of tulle that make up the veil.

"You look like the wedding cake instead of the bride," she quips, and her friend rolls her eyes, bunches her hands around the skirt and lifts so she can walk the whole way out and to the mirror. Her face falls the second she sees her reflection.

"It really is terrible, isn't it?"

"Why did you even pick this?" Regina asks. She knows Mary's taste, this ghastly pile of fabric is not it.

"I didn't, David's mother gave it to me."

"She hates you that much?"

"No! No, it's nothing like that. According to Ruth, every woman in the family has worn it for their wedding, and it's led them to a lasting, happy marriage. It's tradition, and David was so excited that I'd be wearing it, I felt bad turning it dow- what is that?!"

Her eyes have drifted from her reflection to stare accusingly at the seamstress, who is standing nearby wringing her hands nervously.

"What is what, Ms. Blanchard?"

"That stain marring my dress! I leave a valuable family heirloom with you for a week, trusting you to do the simple adjustments needed for it to fit me, and you damage it?!"

The mark is tiny, Regina hadn't even noticed it at first, but it's at the very front of the skirt, and now that she's seen it, it's not so easy to ignore it.

"Not to worry, Ms. Blanchard," a voice says from behind them, and they turn to find a flamboyantly clothed man approaching them. This must be Jefferson, Regina assumes, the owner of the shop. "This is only a minor setback. We'll have it cleaned, steamed, fixed and ready to go without a single detail out of place, I promise. You can come pick it up Wednesday afternoon."

Her friend turns to her then, desperation in her eyes as she rambles.

"Wednesday, he says. Like I can just rearrange my entire schedule to come pick up this thing! I'm supposed to go to the florist with David on Wednesday, and then the bakery, and then the hall to check that everything we've requested is set, he's taking the day off to do this with me, I can't just come here on Wednesday to pick up the dress!"

She's rambling, frustrated, her cheeks red and her eyes watery, and Regina decides to take pity on her friend, holds her shoulders and looks straight at her.

"Mary Margaret, breathe," she commands. "I'm your maid of honor, I only work a half day on Wednesday, I'll pick up the dress."

Mary's eyes light up, one stray tear falling down her cheek as she smiles at Regina, "You will?!"

"Sure thing. I'll borrow Mal's car when I leave the office and stop by on my way home from the gym to pick it up, alright?"

"You're the best!" Mary says before she throws her arms around her, poofy sleeves smacking her face, but Regina doesn't mind, returns the hug easily, cringing when her friend wobbles back inside the dressing room to take off the taffeta explosion that is her wedding gown.

Regina spends her Tuesday reading up on the Locksleys, editing a few articles and playing around with her schedule while Ruby makes notes on what she needs to do before she can head out for the weekend. She still can't believe she's going to stalk a political family at their own charity events just to get a story, but it's a hazard of the job, she supposes, and Ruby, wonderful assistant that she is, has booked her a cozy suite at a charming little B&B in town from Thursday night to Sunday, so that she can at least be comfortable while she stakes out possible leads.

She's messy and sweaty after her workout on Wednesday afternoon, the black shorts and light gray tank top she changed into before leaving her office now clinging to her skin as she heads out to run her errand, and she regrets not bringing her office clothes along for the ride. At least with those she'd be less icky.

She shifts uncomfortably against the back of the seat as she drives Mal's car (which she graciously lent her after rolling her eyes at the mere mention of Mary Margaret's wedding) to the bridal shop. Jefferson is there, waiting for her with the nightmare of a dress in a large garment bag, his sincerest apologies adorning the package in the shape of a white rose and a hefty discount on Mary's bill, and Regina thanks him, happy to know she'll be able to deliver some good news to the bride along with her dress.

It's when she's back in the car, driving off after carefully laying the bag across the backseat, that she gets the call.

She's going through the radio, trying to find a station that isn't playing cheerful and repetitive holiday music as she speeds by, passing stores decorated in all their Christmas glory, garlands and wreaths and gigantic Christmas trees adorning every other building, and then her phone rings.

It's Mal, and she seems aggravated, not even offering a "hello" when Regina picks up the call.

"Where the hell are you?" she seethes into the phone.

"Just picked up Mary's dress from the shop. It's the reason I borrowed your car, remember?"

"What I mean is, why are you not working on the Locksley story?!"

"Mal, it's Wednesday, I only work til lunch time. Don't worry, though, I have my research under contr-"

"Forget your research. Get a full tank of gas, and get your ass to Saranac!"

"I have everything set to leave for Saranac tomorrow night."

"It's been confirmed that the family arrived there today."

"Today?! But our sources said they'd get there tomorrow," Regina offers, puzzled.

"Don't you think I know that?! It seems our sources were wrong, or maybe the Locksleys wanted to avoid the press so they made the trip a day earlier. Either way, it's done, they're already at the mansion, so you have to get there now. Sidney's already on his way."

It's that last bit that does it, and Regina nods determinedly, setting her eyes on the road ahead.

"Okay, I'm on it. I'll call when I'm there," she promises her boss, taking the necessary detours and heading out of town.

It's a five hour drive to Saranac Lake, which means she'll make it just after nightfall. She has nothing packed, she realizes as she looks down at her chic combination of gym shorts and sweaty tank top, but it's no matter, when she gets there she'll have plenty of time to settle in, buy some clothes to get her through the weekend, and figure out her next move.

It all goes downhill from there.

Her GPS gets her lost twice, makes her take the wrong turn in three different occasions, and by the time she's finally back on the right track, darkness is covering the landscape around her, snowflakes beginning to form and fall more heavily as she drives on, and all of a sudden there's so much snow Regina can't really see where she's going, driving in circles until she hits a nasty bump, the crunch of the car's underside against whatever it got caught on dulling her senses as she tries not to panic, pulling the brakes and stopping the thing altogether.

She tries to call triple A, but there's no reception, uses the windshield wipers to clear the front window and look around for a way out of the snow ditch she's accidentally stranded herself on, or at the very least find a sign that tells her exactly where she is or how much further til she reaches the main village, but there's not a single thing in sight except for trees and snow and the road disappearing in the dark of night. The wind is blowing the snow all around her even harder, and the car is starting to sputter. She knows it won't last long, that whatever damage was done to it in the crash, paired with the cold, will make the engine stop any second now, and she tries to figure out a way to fix this.

The best Regina can think of is to try and find an area nearby where her reception isn't completely dead, so she can call for help, but that would entail going out into a rapidly brewing snowstorm and walking around in the cold for who knows how long or how far. Definitely not a very good prospect when all she has on are her gym clothes.

In a desperate glance around her for any item that might help, she notices the garment bag sitting in the back, almost teasing her with its hideousness because it knows what she's going to have to do if she wants to stay at least a little warm while she gets help.

As if on cue, the car gives out then, prompting Regina to gather her courage and steel herself for the ridiculous ordeal she's about to endure.

Exiting the vehicle, she makes her way to one of the back doors, yanks it open as she trembles in the cold night air and grabs the bag, ripping it open and hoisting the dress up over her head, until she's covered in fabric so bright and white she'd be easily confused with the mounds of snow piling up all around her if it weren't for her dark hair and the desperate little jumps she's giving in order to keep her body from freezing.

"God, you really must love him," she says as she looks down at the awful dress, somehow even more offensive in its ugliness now that it's on her, and then Regina walks, trots, wades through the snow with her cell phone held up in front of her, trying and failing to get at least one of the signal bars to show on her screen. This, she thinks, is what hell must be like.

The car is off, no chance of turning it on again in this storm, and so she keeps going, walks up a small hill and then down, looking frantically around for somewhere she can seek refuge for the night. In her frustration, she takes a wrong step, falls on her face through some tree branches and a broken barbed wire fence, ripping the skirt in the process. Great, that's just great, she's now torn her friend's very ugly, very sentimentally valuable gown to scraps, and she's about to pass out from exhaustion and most likely die of hypothermia before Mary Margaret can kill her herself.


Just when she's given up and collapsed on the icy floor, her angry tears now cold on her face, she sees something. But no, she must be imagining them, there's no way those are real headlights pointing at her, no way there's a car approaching her. Oh, but it is, she sees it clearly now, a sleek silver sedan moving slowly down the road, she can hear the soft crackling of the ice and snow under its tires as it gets closer, and then it's there, in front of her, a man getting out of the driver's side and staring at her in confusion.

Oh no.

This cannot be.

That's… no.

He's even more handsome in real life, she notices, the stubble perfectly framing his jaw adding not age, but a wisdom to his general appearance, dark blond hair (that her fingers would itch to touch if they weren't hurting from the cold) is perfectly combed into place, a few flurries catching on it no more than ten seconds after he's exited his car, and those eyes, piercing and bluer than any she's ever seen, they stare at her with concern, maybe a little curiosity, as he asks in the most charming of accents, "are you alright?" and god she was not prepared for this, for how attractive he would be in person, she always thought it was a myth, when people said celebrities were better looking when you saw them up close, but oh how right they were, no tabloid picture has done Robin Locksley any justice.

"Excuse me? Can you understand me?" he asks, taking her for a non-English speaker when she stalls her reply.

"I'm okay," she tells him, "just lost."

"That stranded car I saw a couple miles back is yours, then?"

"Yes, I was looking for help, reception here sucks."

"The storm's picking up, even if you got any reception now, no one would come, people are probably taking shelter for the night," he informs her, staring for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind about her.

"Why don't you come with me?" he finally offers, "I have a cabin nearby with a landline, though it won't work in this blizzard, you'll have to wait til tomorrow. You, um, you can spend the night in my guest room, and I could have someone pick up your car in the morning to get it fixed."

This is ridiculous.

Ridiculous and random and insane and... well, oddly perfect, now that she thinks of it. Who needs sources to outwit Sidney when she could get the story from the mouth of Robin Locksley himself? All she needs to do is get him to trust her, and then she'll have her way into every single event for this weekend. She can get her feature, she can get that promotion.

"Thank you so much," she says sincerely, because story or not, the man has just saved her from a possible freezing death.

"Robin Locksley," he introduces himself, eyes crinkling as they both stand there in the cold, bounding on the balls of their feet to try and get the formalities out of the way before they both share a car ride the rest of the way to his cabin.

"Regina Mill- stone," she returns, stumbling to add the extra syllable to her last name to keep her cover, and then he offers his arm to her, walks her to the passenger's side, and it's only when they're both safely inside his car and driving away from the storm that he decides to question her choice of attire.

"Were you running to your wedding?" he knows that's not it, she realizes, is only trying to be polite because he thinks she's a runaway bride, and that's great, she can work that angle.

"Running from my wedding, actually," she says demurely, looking down at her hands.

"Would you like to talk about it?" he offers, and Regina shakes her head.

"It's too painful," she lies, too tired and cold to make up a proper story to tell him.

"I'm not here to judge you, Regina," he says then, surprising her, "and we've only just met, but, if you do need to talk, I'm here."

"Thank you," she says, stunned.

His cabin is only a fifteen minute drive from where he'd picked her up, and when they arrive, he's every bit the gentleman as he shows her in, finds her something warm to drink (apple cider, much to Regina's delight) and then sets about finding her something to change into.

Regina focuses on enjoying her cider and taking in her surroundings. The cabin is made of beautiful cedar wood, the triangular ceiling reaching its highest peak right above her. Two windows line each of the two biggest walls, and the fire sputtering in the stone fireplace nearby reflects its flames on the glass. The furniture is upholstered in well-worn, warm-toned plaid, with mismatched quilted cushions on both the couch and armchair, a wicker basket with pine cones adorning the coffee table, red bows adding a festive air to the mantle piece, matching the red and gold decorations of the too-short-yet-somehow-just-right Christmas tree that sits next to it, and the simplicity, the coziness of it all, startles Regina. She wasn't expecting the house of a rich politician's trust fund baby to be so normal, so… homey.

"Here we are," his voice suddenly says, interrupting her perusal of the cabin as he emerges from the door adjacent to the small nook down the hall. He's carrying clothes in his hands, his clothes, she realizes upon closer inspection, comfy black pajama pants and a red and black checkered shirt.

"I'm afraid it's all I've got… we can call it 'lumberjack couture' to make it more fashionable," he jokes, and Regina can't help but laugh.

"I can honestly say I've never been so happy to see flannel," she quips back, smiling as she takes in his outfit for the first time. She'd expected him to be in a suit, or maybe khaki pants and a navy shirt, a Lacoste poster boy like the rest of his peers. Instead he's in worn jeans and boots, the collar of a blue plaid shirt propped up and visible under the V neckline of his forest green sweater.

"Ah, does that mean flannel is not usually to your taste, then? Not chic enough for your majesty?"

"Well, you've seen my dress," she answers without missing a beat, gesturing to the ripped, wet taffeta mess still on her, "my tastes are quite refined."

They both laugh then, and when he asks why she would ever get married in that particular gown, Regina feels just a little guilty when she continues her charade and explains that it's a family heirloom.

"Well, your majesty," he jests again as he leads her to the guest room, and the flirty way in which he says the nickname has a warm, tingly feeling settling in her, "if you'd kindly put up with my hideous flannel for the night, we can have your car sorted tomorrow and then you can head to town and find some more appropriate outfits to fit your regal stature."

She sighs then, defeated, adds a fake pout for good measure as she says, "I suppose it'll have to do, but only for tonight."

She takes the offered clothes from him, saying she'll return them to him when she purchases her things tomorrow, but he waves her off, tells her to keep it all.

"Think of it as a memento of your first and only time wearing commoner clothes," he teases, and she rolls her eyes, but accepts (just to appease him, she tells herself, making a mental note to leave his clothes washed, dried and neatly folded on his bed tomorrow, when she has something of her own to wear), smiling when he wishes her a good night and promises he'll take her car to the repair shop in the morning before she even wakes up.

"How do I know you're not going to steal it? For all I know you're some dangerous thief trying to make a quick buck," she throws at him, partly because she wants him to think she has no idea who he is, and partly because she's found that she likes this banter she's established with him, enjoys their interactions.

"I guess you'll just have to trust me," he replies before he heads to his room, "good night, your majesty."

"Good night… thief," she adds for lack of a better nickname, winking when he turns to look at her with a raised eyebrow, and at her smirk, he chuckles, shaking his head and disappearing down the hall.