Chapter 1 #2
“You’re not fine,” Asher says matter-of-factly. “You’ve got a hurt leg, and you’re in shock. Just let me do my job.”
Dean mutters something under his breath that’s probably not suitable for mixed company, but he stops trying to move.
Asher glances up and catches me staring again. This time, his expression is all business. “Could someone call Dr. Morris? And maybe get these folks to step back a bit?”
There’s something about the way he takes charge—not bossy or demanding, just quietly competent—that warms my chest. He’s not grandstanding or making a show of being the hero. He’s just handling what needs to be handled.
“Already called,” Mom reports. “He’ll be here in five minutes.”
“Thank you.” Asher’s attention is back on Dean, checking for injuries with gentle hands. “Chief, can you tell me where it hurts?”
I move closer instead of backing away, because apparently common sense isn’t my strong suit when there are injured people and competent first responders involved.
“Ma’am,” Asher says without looking up, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I thought we talked about stepping back.”
“I’m not good at following directions,” I say before I can stop myself.
This time he does look up, and there’s almost a smile hiding behind all that seriousness. “I’m getting that impression.”
Our gazes linger for a second longer than necessary, and I feel that spark again.
Even lying there, clearly in pain, Dean tries to reassure Grandma Sanders that everything’s going to be fine.
“Just a little tumble,” he’s saying through gritted teeth. “Nothing that won’t heal.”
Asher keeps one hand steady on the chief’s shoulder, the other already checking his pulse. There’s something reassuring about watching him work. He’s calm, thorough, and completely focused on taking care of people.
“You did good, Lennox,” Dean manages.
“Just following protocol, Chief.”
“You probably saved me from a concussion.”
Lila’s gone pale beside me. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s going to be fine,” Asher says without hesitation, glancing up at her with those surprisingly gentle eyes. “Looks like a broken leg, which is painful but manageable. Dr. Morris will get him fixed up.”
The confidence in his voice settles something anxious in my chest. This muscled man knows what he’s talking about, strong and reliable when everything’s falling apart.
Dr. Morris arrives within minutes. Thankfully, we’re in a small town with the benefit of a doctor who makes house calls. After a quick examination, he delivers the verdict we’re all dreading. Dean’s leg is definitely broken, and he’ll be in a cast for at least six weeks.
“Six weeks?” Dean looks more distressed about this timeline than he did about falling off a ladder. “But Christmas is in three weeks.”
No Dean means no Santa.
No Santa means no Christmas festival.
No Christmas festival means no boost to local businesses during the slowest season.
But more importantly, no Santa means a bunch of disappointed kids who’ve been counting on seeing Dean in his red suit at the annual tree lighting, the Christmas Eve story time, and the festival parade.
“We’ll figure something out,” I say, though I have absolutely no idea what that might be.
Dean reaches for my hand from his position on the ground, waiting for the ambulance Dr. Morris called as a precaution.
“Mads, honey, I need you to coordinate the Christmas committee. You know how everything works, and people trust you.”
“Dean, I can’t—”
“You can,” he says firmly. “You’ve got the biggest heart in this town and the best ideas. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
Mom squeezes my shoulder, and when I look back at her, she’s nodding encouragingly. Even Lila gives me a thumbs up, though she still looks worried about Dean.
By the time the ambulance arrives and takes Dean to the mainland hospital for X-rays and a proper cast, the entire town has gathered in the parking lot of Twin Waves Brewing Co. Michelle’s handed out coffee to anyone who wants it, which is everyone, because a crisis demands caffeine.
Asher’s stayed behind to help coordinate the scene cleanup, and I keep finding myself glancing over at him as he works.
There’s something mesmerizing about watching someone who’s completely competent at their job.
The way he moves with purpose, checks on people without making a big deal about it, handles the practical details that everyone else forgets about in the chaos.
“So what do we do?” Brett Walker asks from beside Amber, still in his “Yo Yo Yo” sweater. “Christmas is basically Dean’s department.”
“We could ask the mayor,” one of the firefighters suggests, but everyone shakes their heads. Mayor Waters is about as Christmas-spirited as a tax audit.
“What about hiring someone from the mainland?” Michelle offers.
“With what budget?” One of the other townspeople laughs, but not in a mean way. “We’re talking about Twin Waves here, not the Rockefeller Center.”
The suggestions fly around. Ask the high school drama teacher, see if anyone’s cousin knows someone who might be available. And the weight of Dean’s earlier words settle on my shoulders.
People trust you.
“What about you, Mads?” Michelle asks suddenly. “Dean’s right. You know how all this stuff works. You’ve been helping him coordinate Christmas events for years.”
“I’ve been helping,” I say quickly. “That’s different from actually running things.”
“Is it, though?” Jessica says. “Seems like you know what needs to happen.”
Everyone’s looking at me now, and I feel that familiar urge to deflect, to make myself smaller, to suggest someone more qualified. The way Spencer always made me feel. Too small for big ideas, too optimistic for real responsibility.
Asher is listening to our conversation while coiling up fire hoses. He catches my gaze and nods slightly, the gesture somehow managing to be both encouraging and completely unassuming.
Someone believes I can do this. Someone who doesn’t even know me yet thinks I’m capable of more than I think I am.
“I can coordinate,” I hear myself saying. “But we still need a Santa.”
The brainstorming session that follows would be hilarious if it weren’t so desperate.
Mr. Jimbob volunteers despite being about five-foot-four and weighing maybe a buck-twenty soaking wet.
Mrs. Posey suggests her nephew from Raleigh, forgetting that he’s currently serving overseas.
Someone mentions checking if the mall in Wilmington has spare Santas.
“What we need,” Mom says thoughtfully, “is someone who actually cares about this community. A person who understands that being Santa isn’t just about the costume.”
“Who won’t scare the children,” Michelle adds, which eliminates half the remaining male population of Twin Waves.
“Someone reliable,” Lila says, “who won’t bail at the last minute when something better comes up.”
I’m mentally running through the list of possibilities when Asher appears at my elbow, holding a cup of coffee.
“Thought you might need this,” he says quietly, and the simple thoughtfulness of the gesture makes my heart do that skippy thing again.
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the warm cup. December air is actually pretty cold when you’ve been standing around in the coastal winds for an hour. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” His voice is matter-of-fact, but there’s something in his eyes that makes me think the coffee isn’t just about coffee.
We stand there for a moment, listening to the increasingly desperate Santa suggestions flying around us, and I’m very aware of how solid and reassuring he feels standing next to me.
“Why don’t you do it, Asher?” Jo says to him.
“What? Me? No way.” He scowls. “I’d be horrible at that.”
“Oh, come on,” Mom says. “We can add some padding to fatten you up.”
He crosses his arms, biceps bulging, and I can’t look away. “You’re really convincing me now.”
“Yeah,” Jo says, nudging her with her elbow. “He even has community theater experience.”
“Even better,” I say, grinning at his frown.
“What do you say?” Mom says.
“I still say no. There’s got to be a dozen other people in town who’d be better.”
“People with the acting experience?” Jo asks.
He groans.
“Think of the kids,” Mom says. “They’ll be so disappointed.”
“Oh, fine. I’ll do it. But don’t go telling half the town.”
Jo squeals and hugs him, which only serves to deepen his frown.
“Yeah?” I say.
“I mean, I’d have to check with Chief Dean first and make sure it doesn’t conflict with department duties, but...” He shrugs.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that Dean would be thrilled to know someone cares enough about the community to step up. And I think you’d make a really good Santa.”
He almost smiles at that. Still serious, still controlled, but warmer somehow. Like maybe there’s more humor and lightness under all that competence than he usually lets people see.
“So we have a plan?” Jo asks.
“We have a plan,” I agree, and for the first time since Dean fell off that ladder, I actually believe we might be able to pull this off.
“In a minute.” I want to hold onto this moment a little longer—the two of us standing here with steaming coffee and the beginning of something that might be a solution, or might be something else entirely. “I just... thank you. For stepping up. For caring about people you barely know.”
Then Lila’s voice cuts through the December air: “Hey, did the grumpy firefighter just volunteer to be Santa?”
Annoyance flickers in Asher’s eyes. “So much for keeping it quiet.”
And just like that, our quiet moment becomes a community celebration, with everyone talking at once and making plans and thanking Asher for saving Christmas.
But as the chaos swirls around us, our gazes collide, and he actually smiles—the kind of smile that says this is just the beginning.
An hour later, after the crowd has dispersed and plans have been made for an emergency coordination meeting tomorrow, I’m walking home with Mom and Lila, pulling my coat tight against the sudden chill in the air.
The adrenaline from the crisis is finally wearing off, leaving me with the weight of what I’ve just committed to.
“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” Mom says as we reach our street. “You can say no.”
“Can I, though?” I ask. “Did you see Dean’s face? He’s devastated about missing Christmas.”
“Dean will understand if it’s too much,” Lila says firmly. “You’re twenty-four, not the town’s designated Christmas fairy.”
But as we walk up the path to The Hensley House, the Victorian beach mansion Mom renovated with Jack, my now stepdad, the Christmas lights Mom and I put up last weekend twinkle in the starlight. Simple white strings outline the porch, nothing fancy, but warm and welcoming in the gathering dusk.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out the cream-colored envelope, finally ready to see this mysterious message.
“Finally,” Lila says. “I’ve been dying to know what that says.”
Inside, written in the same elegant script as the address, is a letter that makes my heart skip:
Dear Mads,
Someone who loves you very much has written to ask that I help you open your heart to new possibilities this Christmas. She says you’ve been dimming your light to avoid being hurt, but that the world needs your brightness. Especially now.
The holidays have a way of bringing people together who are meant to find each other. Don’t be afraid to trust your heart when love shows up in unexpected packages.
Sometimes the grumpiest wrapping paper hides the sweetest gifts.
With mistletoe kisses and a heart full of hope,
Mrs. Claus
I read it twice, and Mom and Lila watch me expectantly.
“Well?” Lila asks. “What does it say?”
I fold the letter carefully and slip it back into my pocket, thinking about steel-blue eyes and quiet competence and someone who stepped up to save Christmas without being asked.
“It says Christmas is going to be interesting this year.”
As if on cue, snow begins to fall, a rare occurrence in Twin Waves, NC. Big, fat flakes catch the light from our porch and make everything look magical.
Maybe the answer to our Christmas crisis really is closer than I think.