Chapter 3
Frankie
There’s no such thing as too much Christmas
My hand shakes a little as I carefully pipe frosting onto the last batch of cookies.
My kitchen smells like a bakery exploded in the best way—sugar, butter, vanilla, and a hint of cinnamon.
The countertops are a mess of mixing bowls, powdered sugar, and half-empty bottles of food coloring, but I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I’m in the zone.
I hum along to Jingle Bell Rock playing softly in the background, concentrating as I add tiny holly berries to a Christmas tree cookie.
It’s a labor of love, but worth it. Every cookie in this batch has to be perfect: snowmen with jaunty scarves, reindeer with little red noses, and, of course, plenty of sparkling Christmas trees.
As I finish, I step back to admire my work.
The icing glistens under the kitchen lights, and I can’t help but smile.
Baking has always been my therapy, my way of channeling holiday excitement into something tangible.
Mrs. Kline down the street said they’re the highlight of her year, so I’ll take that.
Plus, these cookies are going to serve a very important purpose.
Operation Kill-Sam-With-Kindness.
My work week is finished, and my flight to Boston isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, so I have a little time to see if I can thaw his icy heart.
I peek out the window toward his house. His curtains are drawn tight, but that’s nothing new.
“Well,” I say to no one in particular, “even Scrooge got a second chance.”
Ten minutes later, I’m standing on Sam’s porch, the tin of cookies balanced precariously in one hand. The wind is sharper than I expected, whipping my hair around my face as I press the doorbell, which chimes faintly inside, followed by the sound of footsteps.
The door creaks open, and there he is in all his perpetually irritated glory. He’s wearing a dark sweater that clings to his tall frame, his hair as messy as ever. His hazel eyes narrow when they land on me, suspicion flashing across his face.
“Frankie,” he says, eyeing the festive tin in my hands. “What... is this?”
“Hi, neighbor,” I chirp with a grin. “I come bearing festive treats.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Christmas,” I say, trying not to stare and get lost in those green and brown orbs. Can eyes hypnotize you? Because his probably could. And, oh shit, I’m staring. Clearing my throat, I look down at the cookies. “And you look like someone who could use a little cheer.”
Those magnificent brows furrow. “I don’t need cheer.”
“Everyone needs cheer,” I counter, pushing the box into his hands before he can protest. “It’s scientifically proven. Something about endorphins and sugar and, I don’t know, magic.”
Sam stares at the box like it’s a bomb about to go off. “I don’t eat cookies.”
My jaw unhinges at the blasphemy. “You don’t eat cookies? What kind of monster doesn’t eat cookies?”
“A disciplined one,” he replies dryly, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement—in his eyes.
“Come on,” I say, nudging him lightly with my elbow. “Just one. For the sake of science.”
He sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly as if this interaction has already drained his energy. “Fine. One.”
I watch with barely concealed delight as he opens the tin and picks up a snowman cookie. He examines it for a moment, like he’s trying to determine if it’s safe, then takes a cautious bite, teeth digging into the head before he chews.
“Well?” I ask.
He chews slower, his expression still blank. “It’s... fine.”
“Fine?” I repeat, crossing my arms, all attraction toward him dissipating at those two words. “That’s it? I slaved over a hot oven for hours, and all I get is fine?”
His lips twitch, and for a split second, I think he might actually smile. “It’s better than fine,” he admits grudgingly.
“Wow, I thought British people knew all the words,” I say with a sigh. “Oh, I should’ve warned you, they’re laced with Christmas magic too.” I beam.
Sam rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Then he stops chewing. “Wait, is that code for you just gave me cookies with drugs?”
“What?” I shriek. “No. God, what kind of person do you take me for?”
“Someone who loves to torment me.”
He’d be right. A very small—it’s not so small actually—part of me likes annoying him. But the bigger part enjoys bringing joy more.
I glance past him into the house, noting the lack of decorations. No lights, no tree, not even a sad little wreath. Just bare walls and a faint glow from a single lamp. My heart sinks a little for him.
“Don’t tell me,” I say, tilting my head. “You didn’t decorate at all.”
He shrugs. “What’s the point?”
“The point,” I say, my voice rising slightly, “oh Grinchy one, is to celebrate. To make your space feel warm and inviting and... alive.”
He leans against the doorframe, tucking the cookie tin under one arm. “My space is fine the way it is.”
I shake my head, a mix of disbelief and determination bubbling up inside me. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“Christmas isn’t just about decorations or cookies or presents,” I say, gesturing wildly. “It’s about... connection. About reminding yourself that even when things are hard, there’s still something to celebrate. Don’t you have anyone to spend the holidays with?”
A shadow falls across his face, but he doesn’t answer, and I know that I’ve crossed a line. But what he doesn’t know about me is that I’m a talker. A chronic, can’t-stop-won’t-stop talker. Or maybe he does know, and that’s why his face looks like it does.
“Well, I mean—I didn’t mean that to sound so judgey. Obviously, if you don’t have anyone, it’s not a bad thing. I just meant... like, logistically. Not emotionally, or even romantically. And now I sound like a psychopath.”
He blinks, so I carry on.
“I was just gonna say you could come to Boston with me. My parents love strays, but not in a pity way. In a festive, community-spirit, Hallmark-movie way. And not that you’re a stray. I just meant—ugh. Anyway. I rescind the offer.”
For the love of Santa, stop talking, Francesca.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Probably for the best.”
“But now I sound like a monster who uninvited you. I didn’t mean it like that.
I just… my mom would definitely assume we’re dating, and then I’d be stuck explaining how you’re not my boyfriend, and then she’d start pulling out the good china and asking about baby names.
And my dad—oh god, he’d try to bond with you over fishing and give you one of his hideous festive ties—”
“Frankie,” Sam cuts in, holding up a hand. “Stop talking.”
I snap my mouth shut as heat creeps up my neck. “Right. Yep. Shutting up.”
We stand there for a second in the kind of silence that buzzes with secondhand embarrassment (all mine) before I take a step back and almost lose my footing, my heel catching on the wood beneath me.
. He moves instinctively, much faster than I am, his free hand landing on my arm through the thick fabric of my coat.
It’s barely a touch, more a reflex than anything.
But the way he freezes after, our eyes colliding, makes it feel like something else entirely.
I clear my throat, pretending I didn’t just forget how to breathe for a second, and his hand drops.
“Uh, anyway. Cookies. Peace offering-slash-Christmas-magic-not-drugs-though. Enjoy.”
He watches me for a beat, then nods. “Thanks.”
It’s a small word, but it carries more weight than I expected. Maybe it’s because I really wasn’t sure he’d say it.
As I turn to leave, I look down at the wood below me, making sure I don’t trip again. When I’m almost at the foot of his steps, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder and grin. “By the way, you’ve got frosting on your lip.”
Sam’s eyes widen slightly, and he swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, muttering something I can’t quite make out.
“See you later, Scrooge,” I call, skipping down the steps before he can retort.