Chapter 2
Chapter Two
ASHER
Great. Mom’s dragging me to another one of her “community emergencies.” Because apparently my actual emergencies aren’t enough.
I push through the door of Twin Waves Brewing Co.
, and caffeinated chaos hits me full force.
Michelle’s coffee could wake the dead, which is good because I feel half-alive after last night’s call.
Mrs. Jackson’s oven decided to stage a Christmas cookie rebellion at midnight.
Three hours of sleep. That’s what I’m working with here.
“Asher!” Michelle waves from behind the espresso machine, her blonde hair escaping what was probably a neat bun this morning. “Your mom’s commandeered table six. Fair warning, she’s in full coordinator mode.”
I grunt something that might pass for thanks. Half the town’s here, clutching coffee cups and looking like they’re preparing for war.
Mom’s got her laptop open, papers scattered everywhere, and that look. The one that means someone’s about to get “voluntold” for something they definitely don’t want to do.
She spots me. Waves me over with enthusiasm.
“Perfect timing,” she says. “I need your opinion. Do you think this timeline will work?”
I drop into the chair beside her and peer at the screen. “Mom, this isn’t a timeline. This is a fantasy novel.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being realistic.” I gesture at her screen. “You’ve got…” I quickly count them. “Seventeen major events scheduled in twelve days, half of which require permits we don’t have.”
“Details.” Mom waves me off. “That’s what you’re here for.”
Right. Details. The thing about being a firefighter is that details matter because they prevent disasters and keep people alive.
I’m halfway through explaining why her Santa’s workshop setup violates at least three safety codes when the door chimes.
My brain stops.
Mads Cooper walks in wearing a hoodie and sweatpants that are ready to swallow her whole, but it’s totally working for her.
Her hair is up in this messy bun with two tendrils of auburn hair framing her face.
She looks gorgeous and oozes confidence, like she’s right where she belongs.
Which, knowing her family’s history on this island, she basically does.
But it’s not that. It’s the way she moves.
Purposeful, like she’s got this handled.
She’s not some damsel in distress. She runs Hensley’s Beach Shack and knows every family on this island. That’s expertise, not amateur hour.
“Mads!” Mom practically launches out of her chair. “Perfect. We need someone with your community connections.”
“Hey, Jo,” Mads addresses my mom, sliding into the seat across from us. “Hey, Asher.” I thought for a minute there she was going to ignore me completely. Not that it would matter.
I catch vanilla mixed with sea salt.
“Community connections?” She raises an eyebrow. There’s amusement in her voice. “That’s a fancy way of saying you need someone to guilt people into volunteering.”
“I prefer ‘enthusiastic recruitment,’” Mom says primly.
“Uh-huh.” Mads glances at me.
I’m staring. Great. Real professional, Lennox.
“So,” she says, “we need to reorganize Christmas in less than two weeks, coordinate with every business in town, and somehow make it better than the fifteen years Dean’s been perfecting it.”
“That’s the gist of it,” Mom says cheerfully.
“Right.” Mads sits back. I can practically see the wheels turning.
“Well,” Mom says, looking between us like she’s planning something that has nothing to do with Christmas, “I think this calls for a planning session. Asher, can you meet us at the workshop in an hour? We’ll need your expertise on the logistics.”
Mom’s matchmaking radar is pinging so hard I’m surprised the fire alarm hasn’t gone off. Mads is already pulling out her phone to make notes, organizing Mom’s chaos into something manageable. Maybe this won’t be the disaster I thought.
Maybe Mom’s right about some things.
Not that I’d ever admit that to her.
An hour later, I arrive at Mom’s workshop covered in soot.
I had an emergency call right after coffee, a kitchen fire at the Sandpiper Inn. Nothing serious, but enough to remind me why I don’t believe in easy days.
Driftwood & Dreams is full of broken things waiting to be beautiful again. Mom’s life philosophy.
“Asher!” She waves me over to her workbench. “We’ve made progress.”
Mads is perched on a stool, laptop balanced on her knees. She looks perfectly at home among Mom’s organized chaos. She glances up when I walk in. Her nose wrinkles.
“Rough morning?”
“Another kitchen fire. Nothing major.” I grab water from Mom’s mini-fridge. Try to wash the taste of smoke out of my mouth. “What’s the update on planning Christmas?”
“We’ve got volunteers,” Mom announces proudly. “Michelle’s organizing the hot chocolate station, Amber’s handling the community dinner, and Jessica’s coordinating vendor booths along the boardwalk.”
“That was fast.”
“We’re an efficient small town, thank you very much,” Mads says. “Also, everyone’s terrified of disappointing the kids. Amazing how quickly people volunteer when Christmas is on the line.”
She’s got spreadsheets open and what appears to be a detailed timeline.
“You’ve been busy,” I observe.
“I may have gotten a little carried away.” She turns the laptop so I can see the screen. “But look, we’ve got vendor space mapped out, volunteer schedules organized by skill set, and a back-up plan in case of bad weather.”
“This is great,” I admit.
Her smile is bright enough to power the Christmas lights. “High praise from the emergency management expert.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. I’m definitely letting it go to my head.” She’s laughing, and the sound warms my chest in a way that has nothing to do with the workshop’s space heater.
“All right,” Mom says, looking between us with satisfaction. “I think it’s time for the Santa suit fitting.”
I groan.
“Did I forget to mention that?” Mads asks innocently. “Dean brought over the Santa suit last night. Complete with accessories.”
“Is that so?”
“You’ll see,” she says, and there’s mischief in her eyes that makes my stomach do something complicated.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing behind a folding screen in Mom’s workshop.
“This thing has more components than my firefighting gear,” I call out.
“Quality costuming is an art,” Mads calls back. “Don’t rush it.”
“I’m not rushing. I’m questioning my life choices.”
“Too late for that. You already agreed.”
We have to pack in padding, which Mads already has lined up. Mom jumps behind the screen to help, which is embarrassing to say the least, and she doesn’t stop until I resemble a stuffed sausage. I emerge from behind the screen like an idiot.
“Oh,” Mads says softly. Then louder: “Oh wow.”
Is my face red? It’s so hot in here. “That bad?”
“That good.” She’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You look...you actually look like Santa.”
“I look like a firefighter in a red suit.”
“You look like a version of Santa who works out and knows how to handle emergencies,” Mom corrects.
Mads approaches with a real-looking beard. “Okay, this next part might get weird.”
“Might?”
“I need to position this correctly. Which means...” She gestures vaguely at my face. “I need to touch your face.”
“Right.”
“Strictly professional,” she insists, but there’s pink in her cheeks now.
She steps closer, close enough that the vanilla and sea salt envelops me again. Her hands are gentle and sure as she positions the beard, fingers brushing my jaw as she adjusts the straps.
“Hold still,” she murmurs, concentrating.
I’m trying to hold still. I’m also trying not to think about how close she is, or the little furrow that appears between her eyebrows when she’s focused, or the way her touch is making my brain forget basic things like breathing.
“There,” she says, stepping back. “How does it feel?”
“Itchy.”
“All beards are itchy at first.” She tilts her head, studying her work. “Try walking around. Santa has very specific body language.”
“He does?”
“Jolly but authoritative. Welcoming but still magical.” She demonstrates, shoulders relaxed, arms slightly away from her body. “Kids pick up on everything.”
I try to copy her stance. Immediately feel like I’m going to fall over.
“Too relaxed,” Mom observes. “You look like you’re about to take a nap.”
“Here.” Mads steps closer again. “May I?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Her hands are light on my shoulders, adjusting my posture. “Shoulders back, but not rigid. Like you’re welcoming the whole world.” Her touch is appropriate, but it’s still making my pulse do complicated things.
“Better,” Mom says approvingly.
“Now try saying something Santa-ish,” Mads instructs.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something about Christmas.”
I look at her expectant face and feel increasingly ridiculous. “Ho ho ho?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Okay,” Mads says carefully. “That sounded more like you were coughing up a hairball than spreading Christmas cheer. I thought you said you did theater?”
“I was always the villain. I don’t really do jolly well.”
“It’s fine. We’ll work on it.” She reaches into a box and pulls out what looks like a small electronic device. “Here, try this.”
“What is that?”
“A voice modulator. Actors use them for character work. It’ll make you sound more... Santa-ish.”
“You got me a machine that makes ho-ho-ho sounds?”
“I got you options. Press the button and say something normal.”
I press the button. “This is ridiculous.”
What comes out is my voice, but warmer somehow. Deeper. More... jolly.
“Oh,” Mads breathes. “That’s perfect.”
“Really?”
“Try something else.”
I press the button again.
“Ellen’s going to love this,” Mads tells Mom.
The device transforms my naturally gruff tone into something that sounds genuinely warm and caring. Still me, but the version of me that believes in Christmas magic.
“See? Technology and authenticity can coexist,” she says, beaming.