Chapter 1
One
Crisp winter air cuts through the open car doors, sharp enough to make my breath visible in small puffs. I pull my coat tighter, the soft wool a barrier against more than the cold. I’m twenty-six, and this is my first real family Christmas.
The Wallis family cabin rises from the snow-covered forest. The large wooden house is far grander than the quaint retreat I’d imagined, though even from here I can tell it bears no resemblance to the cold McMansion of my childhood.
Candles line every window; a wreath hangs against the wood with its bright, cheerful red ribbon.
A plastic Santa with reindeer stands guard out front, faded from years of devoted service.
I might not know much about a family Christmas, but I’m a pro at faking my way through anything. Shoulders squared, smile plastered, one deep breath. I know how to play a role. Perform. The one thing my parents taught me well.
“Ready?” Mason squeezes my arm, giving me that smile—the one he believes is charming.
His over-styled blond hair gleams, Oxford perfectly pressed. Picture perfect as always. I had planned to break up with him. We’d never been serious. But then the invitation to spend Christmas with his family came.
How could I refuse?
Before we take two steps, a whirlwind of curls and energy comes flying out of the house. “Sorry if you’re not a hugger, but I am,” says the tiny force of nature, already wrapped around me.
“Jules, give her a second to breathe.” Mason steps between us, as if he’s uncomfortable with how easily his sister has claimed me.
“I'm fine, Mason.” I hold up a hand to stop him, then lift an eyebrow at Jules, sensing a kindred spirit. “Are you always this friendly, or did someone spike your coffee?”
She laughs and loops her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death, and I have to explain to my mom why the pretty one got hypothermia.”
Inside is even more incredible. The home feels plucked from a Hallmark movie. Holly winds around the staircase railing, and mistletoe dangles from the ceiling. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the snowy mountain range beyond.
But it’s the Christmas tree that stops me mid-step.
Towering in the center of the room, it glows with bright, colorful lights. Branches sag under the weight of homemade treasures: construction-paper snowflakes gone soft with age, hand-painted macaroni shaped into angels, grade-school projects preserved and displayed year after year.
Ornaments that most parents proudly treasure.
“Mom, Dad!” Jules shouts. “Mason and Sydney are here!”
A couple walks hand in hand from the kitchen, silver streaking through their blond hair. Gentle lines frame their eyes, softened by wide grins. A petite teenage girl follows.
“Syd, this is my mom, Margaret, and my dad, Gary,” Mason says warmly. “You’ve met Jules already. And this youngster is Ivy.”
Before I can decide if a handshake or friendly wave is appropriate, Margaret steps forward and pulls me into a warm embrace. “We’re so glad you’re here, Sydney. If there’s anything special you do during the holidays, let us know. We’d love to include it.”
Pretty sure my childhood holiday traditions aren’t what she’s hoping for.
“Your home is so lovely, Mrs. Wallis. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Mrs. Wallis is my mother-in-law. Call me Margaret, and this is Gary. We’re not big on formalities.” She squeezes my arm and gives me a genuine, unfiltered smile.
Something tight in my chest begins to loosen as I take in their unguarded faces and the way this beautiful, lived-in home breathes with life.
I spent a lifetime dreaming of what Christmas with a family could be, and this seems almost too good to believe.
Tears threaten to spill, but I blink them away and settle onto the massive sectional with Mason and his sisters as Margaret outlines the holiday week: a Dickens Festival, hot cocoa bars, shopping in town, family dinners, Christmas movies, and skiing.
“Mom, can’t you back off? I want to relax, not have every hour of every day planned out,” Mason whines.
“Ouch, Mase.” Jules punches him playfully in the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. We can leave him behind. It’s more fun without him.”
I wait for their reaction, for them to insist their son participate. Margaret’s face tightens, and Gary rubs his hand over his jaw. But neither speaks.
“What do you think, Syd? You in?” Jules turns her inviting amber eyes on me.
“Hot cocoa and Dickens? I wouldn't miss it.” I open my coat to reveal my ugly Christmas sweater. It was a risk, but Jules’s boisterous laugh unknots my worry.
“I knew I’d like you.” She lifts her pant leg to reveal a hideous Christmas sock. “Got a pair for you when Mason said you were coming.” She reaches behind the couch and tosses them to me.
Ivy perches on the arm of the sofa. Home from her first semester of college, she looks ethereal in her bohemian dress and mane of wild curls. She watches me, quiet and cautious, wary of my judgment.
“You want these?” I hold up the socks.
She lifts the hem of her dress as Margaret does the same, exposing matching sets. Laughter ripples around the room as I pull the socks onto my feet.
I’ve got this. Everyone’s laughing. Smiling. So far, so good.
Mason, true to his word, stays behind. As we bundle up in coats and scarves, he settles deeper into the sectional, remote in one hand, beer in the other. “Have fun with the tourist trap stuff,” he calls as we head out. His family barely notices.
The village has been turned into a magical Dickens scene.
Actors dressed as characters from A Christmas Carol line the streets, greeting us and speaking in period-specific dialect, adding to the charm of the inviting town. Small mom-and-pop shops are decked for the holidays. Ebenezer Scrooge ladles hot chocolate to a growing crowd in the town square.
Jules and I peel away and find ourselves in the local bookshop, tucked between a candle store and a boutique.
A miniature locomotive puffs around a winter wonderland in the front window.
Santa’s village is complete with tiny workshops and figurines.
Elves no bigger than my thumb carry presents, while reindeer wait patiently beside a sleigh dusted with artificial snow.
It’s whimsical, ridiculous, and I absolutely love it.
“Do they set up this train every year?” I ask Jules, not bothering to hide my delight.
She crouches beside me. “They change the display yearly, but the train is always part of it. I’ve seen it go from a beachy Santa vibe to an epic gingerbread house village. Last year, it was Madagascar. Come on. Let me show you the rest.”
Soft instrumental carols drift through the store, layered with the faint chug of the toy train and the gentle hum of conversation.
I trail my fingers along the bookshelves, where sprigs of holly nestle between titles.
Holiday books are prominently displayed, with quirky, handwritten staff picks beneath.
The air smells of cloves, orange peel, and that magical blend of ink and paper.
This is my version of heaven.
Books line every inch, from the bright, open children’s section to the darker, quieter shelves in the back. We reach the furthest corner of the shop with thrillers on one side, romances on the other. Jules and I turn, each drawn to our respective shelves.
“I’m glad to see you don’t have the same aversion to books as my brother,” Jules says.
“While I plan to be a boring corporate lawyer, I love nothing more than reading. I’m partial to thrillers. The darker the better.”
“Ah, well, Miss Boring Corporate Lawyer, what’s your take on romance novels?”
She thrusts an open book into my hands. After scanning a particularly steamy passage, I snap the book shut and laugh. “Damn, I need a cold shower. I always thought those books were all angst, bare-chested men, and busty ladies.”
“Oh, girl, that was nothing. I’ll introduce you to some of my favorites.”
I open the book again. The scene where the heroine meets a stranger in a bar sparks a memory, and a small smile tugs at my lips.
Jules squints at me. “Okay, what was that look?”
“What look?” I flutter my lashes, feigning innocence.
“The I’m-remembering-something-deliciously-inappropriate smirk. Did my uptight brother actually do something scandalous?”
There’s something disarming about Jules. Maybe it’s the way she asks questions with the certainty that she’ll love the answers, whatever they are. I find myself wanting to share rather than retreat.
“Well… Mason and I didn’t exactly meet in the library.”
She’s practically bouncing on her toes. “Ohhh, do tell.”
I look around to make sure others can’t overhear. “It was at a bar near Capitol Hill.” The memory pulls me back…
It was one of those swampy D.C. nights when the heat clings to your skin and even your bones feel damp.
Rachel, another summer associate, dragged me to some sleek Capitol Hill hotspot after a brutal week.
The place was packed with suits too expensive for interns, sipping cocktails priced to ensure exclusivity.
“Try to have fun,” Rachel said. “Maybe smile and try not to scare every guy off.”
I slid onto a stool, ordered a vodka soda, and pulled out my phone—my shield of choice—and began scrolling, internally noting what I still needed to finish up at home.
A man leaned in, a hint of whiskey on his breath. “Did that scowl come with the suit, or was it a separate purchase?”
I turned to see a guy with an expensive watch, rolled sleeves, and a smile born of never hearing the word no. I should have been annoyed, but the audacity made me smile.
“Let me guess... hedge fund?”
He laughed, unfazed. “Lawyer. Mason.”
“Sydney. It’s only 9. How’d you escape the office already?”
“So you’re a first-year associate too?”
“No, summer associate, finishing my last year at Georgetown. I’m not looking to be picked up, so maybe shoot your shot elsewhere.”