Chapter 1
Chapter One
MADS
So here I am, tangled in Christmas lights in the display window of Hensley’s Beach Shack.
The artificial garland I thought would look “beachy chic” draped around the boutique window is now attacking me.
I’m balanced on a ladder that’s definitely seen better days, with one foot on the window ledge and the other near a mannequin wearing a Santa hat and a bikini.
Because nothing says “Merry Christmas” like a surfboard leaning against a palm tree wrapped in twinkling lights, right?
“This is fine,” I mutter, trying to untangle myself without bringing down the entire display. “Totally under control.”
A family of tourists stops outside the window, and I freeze mid-wrestle with a particularly stubborn strand of lights. The little girl presses her nose against the glass and asks loudly, “Mommy, why is that lady fighting the Christmas tree?”
Apparently, my life is a comedy show, and everyone gets front-row seats.
I flash them what I hope is a confident smile and not the grimace of a shopkeeper slowly losing a battle with inanimate objects. The parents hurry their daughter along, probably worried that whatever I have might be contagious.
“Mads, what are you doing up there?”
Mom’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed and trying not to laugh. Behind her, my sister Lila is grinning, holding two steaming coffee cups from Twin Waves Brewing Co.
“Oh, you know, just living my best life,” I say, finally freeing one arm from the garland’s death grip. “Having a meaningful conversation with some Christmas decorations.”
“Well, your conversation partner looks like it’s winning,” Lila says, setting the cups down on the counter. “Want some backup?”
“I’ve got it handled,” I insist, attempting to climb down gracefully and instead nearly taking out a rack of flip-flops with my elbow.
Lila snorts. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Says the college student who texted me last week asking how to cook rice.”
“That’s different. Rice is complicated.”
Mom steps forward to steady the ladder with a familiar look on her face. The one that means she’s trying to decide between helping and documenting this disaster for future embarrassment.
“You know, there’s no shame in asking for help,” she says gently.
“Or in admitting defeat to a seven-dollar string of lights,” Lila adds cheerfully.
I finally make it down without breaking anything important, and survey the damage.
The window display looks like Christmas threw up on a beach vacation.
Again. “It’s supposed to be ‘coastal Christmas charm,’” I explain, gesturing at the chaos.
“You know, combining our beach vibe with holiday spirit.”
“I love the vision,” Mom says diplomatically. “Maybe we just need a different execution strategy.”
Lila peers closer at the display. “Is that ornament supposed to be hanging from the surfboard fin?”
“It’s artistic!”
“It’s definitely something.”
The door chimes, and Mrs. Green from the post office hurries in, still wearing her mail carrier uniform and looking slightly out of breath.
“Mads, honey, I’ve got a delivery for you,” she says, pulling a cream-colored envelope from her bag. “This one’s a little unusual—came without a return address.”
She hands me the envelope, and it smells faintly of gingerbread and the stamp in the corner reads Operation Mistletoe Match, North Pole in swirling script.
“That’s weird,” Lila says, peering over my shoulder. “Who still sends actual letters?”
“Someone with very good penmanship,” I observe, turning the envelope over. The address is written in elegant script that looks almost vintage.
Mrs. Green grins. “Well, I better get going. The mail doesn’t deliver itself. Though sometimes I think it would be easier if it did.”
After she leaves, I turn the envelope over in my hands. Something about it feels... important. Like it’s been waiting specifically for me.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Lila asks.
“In a minute.” I slip the envelope into my back pocket, deciding to save it for later when I can open it without an audience providing commentary.
The fire siren suddenly blares through town, making us all jump. Lila drops her coffee cup, sending liquid splashing across the floor.
“Shoot,” she mutters, grabbing paper towels. “That scared the life out of me.”
Through the window, I can see people emerging from buildings, looking toward the source of smoke rising from the direction of Grandma Sanders’ house.
“Someone should probably check on that,” Mom says, already reaching for her jacket.
“Grandma Sanders has been experimenting with deep-frying everything for the Christmas bake sale,” I explain, grabbing my own coat. “This was probably inevitable.”
“Deep-frying Christmas cookies?” Lila asks incredulously.
“Deep-frying everything. Last week it was gingerbread. The week before, candy canes.”
Mom sighs, but she’s smiling fondly. In Twin Waves, we complain about each other’s quirks while secretly loving them.
By the time we reach Grandma Sanders’, half the town has materialized in various states of dress.
Mr. Kowalski is wearing pajama pants and snow boots.
Amber and Brett come jogging up in matching Christmas sweaters that say “Ho Ho Ho” and “Yo Yo Yo”—apparently they coordinate even their emergency fashion.
Michelle appears from the direction of Twin Waves Brewing Co.
, still in her apron and looking as if she abandoned a latte mid-foam.
Jessica hurries over from her bookshop, clutching what appears to be a paperback romance novel she was probably reading when the sirens went off.
Betsy and Stan Woodbridge emerge from Scoops & Swirls, the ice cream shop, with matching mint chocolate chip cones that they’re trying to eat while speed-walking toward the emergency. Apparently, a crisis doesn’t stop ice cream dates when you’re in your seventies.
This is Twin Waves in crisis mode: bedhead and good intentions.
“Is everyone okay?” Mom calls out, immediately falling into her role as the responsible adult who makes sure people are taken care of.
Dean Beckett, our volunteer fire chief and resident grump, is already barking orders at the other firefighters while shooting irritated looks at Grandma Sanders, who’s fussing about her “Christmas cookie dreams going up in smoke.”
I spot one of the younger firefighters crouched next to Dean, and my heart does this weird little skip thing.
Dark hair, broad shoulders, and the kind of focused intensity that makes you think he could handle just about anything life throws at him.
He’s checking Dean’s equipment with careful precision, every movement deliberate and controlled.
Wait a second. I know him. He’s Jo’s son, Asher. I’ve seen him helping her out at Driftwood and Dreams, one of our competitor boutiques. Jo is in our book club, The Bookaholics Anonymous.
Even from here, I can see the serious line of his mouth, the way he’s all business while Dean tries to reassure everyone. Grumpy much?
“It’s okay, Mrs. Sanders,” Dean says gruffly, clearly uncomfortable with the crying but trying to do his job. “We’ll sort the bake sale out later.”
Asher looks up from Dean’s equipment and catches me staring. Steel-blue eyes meet mine across the chaos, and my cheeks go warm despite the December air. Great. Nothing says “responsible adult handling a crisis” like blushing at a first responder.
He has the kind of face that would look stern even if he was laughing—all sharp angles and no-nonsense intensity. But there’s something in those eyes that makes me think he might actually have a sense of humor buried under all that professional competence.
“Ma’am, you should probably step back,” he calls out, and his voice is exactly what I expected—deep, controlled, with just a hint of gruffness that suggests he’s used to people not listening to perfectly reasonable safety instructions.
Of course, my immediate reaction is to take another step forward, because apparently I’m contrary when faced with attractive authority figures.
Dean’s been our Santa for the past fifteen years, ever since he moved to Twin Waves and someone noticed he had the perfect ability to terrify children into good behavior.
Not exactly the jolly type, but somehow it works.
Christmas without Dean as Santa would be Christmas without the annual reminder that Santa’s watching and taking notes.
“The kitchen’s mostly fine,” one of the firefighters reports. “Looks like the oil overheated and caught some curtains, but we got it contained quickly.”
“Thank goodness.” Grandma Sanders sighs. “I thought I’d burned down Christmas.”
The fire’s mostly out—Grandma Sanders’ cookie disaster was more smoke than actual danger—but Dean’s insisting on checking the roof for hot spots. Because that’s who Dean is: the guy who makes sure everyone’s safe.
“Chief, I can handle the roof check,” Asher says, his voice carrying that note of respectful authority that suggests he’s had this conversation before and knows exactly how stubborn Dean can be. “You should probably—”
“I’ve been doing this job since before you were born, Lennox,” Dean snaps back, already halfway up the ladder. “I don’t need some rookie telling me how to—”
The crack is audible from twenty feet away. Not the roof—the ladder.
Everything happens at once. Dean’s falling, and Grandma Sanders is screaming. But Asher’s already moving, positioning himself to break Dean’s fall, catching him in a way that clearly saves Dean from hitting the ground at full impact.
They both go down hard, Asher taking most of the collision, but Dean’s leg still ends up twisted wrong.
“Don’t move, Chief,” Asher says, breathing hard but immediately switching into professional mode. “Let me check you over before—”
“Get off me, Lennox,” Dean grumbles, but there’s no real heat in it. Even hurt and grumpy, he knows Asher just saved him from a much worse fall. “I’m fine.”