Chapter 2 #2
That’s when disaster strikes.
I’m turning to look at myself in the full-length mirror Mom has propped against her workbench, trying to get used to the complete Santa effect, when my foot catches on a pair of boots we were considering.
I stumble forward, reaching out to steady myself, and my hand finds the first solid thing available.
Which turns out to be Mads.
She wasn’t expecting to suddenly support the full weight of a six-foot-two firefighter in a Santa suit. We both go down in a tangle of red velvet, fake fur, and Christmas accessories.
I land on top of her, face to face, close enough that her breath fans my face. The Santa hat has fallen over one eye, the beard is completely askew, and there’s a jingle bell from somewhere stuck in her hair.
“Well,” she says breathlessly, “this is not how I pictured the Santa suit fitting going.”
“Sorry,” I manage, acutely aware that I should move but somehow frozen by the way she’s looking at me. “I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“It’s the boots,” she says. “Santa boots are surprisingly treacherous.”
We’re still staring at each other. I should definitely move now. Get up, help her up, pretend this isn’t the most intense eye contact I’ve had in years.
Instead, I hear myself saying, “You’ve got a jingle bell in your hair.”
“I’ve got a Santa on top of me. I think the jingle bell is the least of my problems.”
Mom clears her throat. “Should I leave you two to sort this out, or...”
Reality crashes back. I scramble to my feet and offer Mads a hand up.
“Thanks,” she says, accepting my help and brushing dust off her jeans. The jingle bell falls to the floor with a tiny, cheerful sound.
“Right,” I say, adjusting the Santa hat. “So... successful fitting?”
“Very successful,” she agrees, but she won’t quite meet my eyes. “I think Santa’s going to be a hit this year.”
“Good,” Mom says with barely concealed satisfaction. “Because I have a feeling this partnership is going to be very... productive.”
The way she says it makes me think she’s not just talking about Christmas planning.
Later, walking to my truck with the Santa suit carefully packed in its garment bag, I find myself thinking about the way Mads handled everything—professional but warm, thorough but not overwhelming, laughing off my clumsiness instead of making me feel like an idiot.
My phone buzzes.
Mads: Thanks for being such a good sport about the fitting. And for not breaking anything important when you fell.
I find myself smiling as I type back.
Me: Thanks for catching me. Literally. Sorry about the jingle bell situation.
Mads: Don’t apologize. It was the most excitement my hair’s had all week.
Me: I’ll try to contain my clumsiness at tomorrow’s vendor meeting.
Mads: Please don’t. Watching you navigate Christmas logistics while trying not to trip over decorations is quickly becoming my favorite entertainment.
I’m still smiling when I get home. Which is probably a problem.
But thinking about tomorrow’s planning session, and the way Mads’ eyes lit up when she talked about making Christmas special for the kids, and the fact that she finds my disasters entertaining instead of embarrassing...
Maybe some problems are worth having.
Hazel’s Victorian beach house smells like red wine and Christmas cookies. The most dangerous combination known to mankind. The living room’s been taken over by women with paperwork, laptops, and opinions about everything from lighting to logistics.
“Asher!” Hazel waves me over to the couch, where she’s got her planning operation spread across her coffee table. “Perfect timing. We’re discussing crowd flow.”
I squeeze between Mads and Lila on the couch and try to ignore the way Mads shifts to make room for me, the brush of her shoulder against mine.
“So,” says a woman I don’t recognize who has short, curly white hair, “we’re thinking luminarias along the boardwalk path. Nothing that violates fire codes,” she adds quickly when she sees my expression.
“LED candles,” Mom clarifies. “Battery operated.”
“That could work,” I admit. “As long as we have clear pathways and proper spacing.”
“See?” Mads nudges my shoulder. “You’re already thinking like Santa. Keeping everyone safe while making it magical.”
“I don’t do magic.”
“Sure you do,” Mads’ six-year-old younger sister, Ellen, pipes up from her spot on the floor, where she’s coloring what appears to be a very detailed Christmas wish list. “You make fires go away. That’s magic.”
“That’s science.”
“Magic science,” she says firmly.
I’m about to argue when Hazel clears her throat.
“Actually,” she says, pulling out an envelope with careful reverence, “speaking of magic...”
“Oh no,” Mads mutters beside me. “Mom, you brought that?”
“What?” Hazel looks innocent. “I thought everyone should hear about the letter.”
“What letter?” I ask, though I’m already getting a bad feeling.
Mads sighs and covers her face with her hands. “It’s nothing. Just... I got this weird letter yesterday. Supposedly from Mrs. Claus.”
I stare at her. “Mrs. Claus.”
“I know how it sounds. But read it.” Hazel thrusts the letter at me before I can protest. “Tell me that’s not eerily specific.”
Against my better judgment, I read the letter. It’s weird. Specifically weird. Like whoever wrote it knows way too much about Mads’ and has some very definite opinions about her love life.
“This is...” I start, then stop. I’m not sure how to finish that sentence without either lying or insulting someone.
“Creepy?” Mads suggests. “Invasive? Someone’s idea of a prank?”
“Romantic,” Lila sighs.
“Mysterious,” Jessica says.
“Proof that Christmas magic is real,” Ellen announces.
I hand the letter back to Hazel and carefully avoid eye contact with Mads. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation.”
“Sure there is,” Mom says. There’s something in her voice that makes me look at her sharply. “Sometimes logical explanations and Christmas magic are the same thing.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning sometimes what looks like coincidence is really people caring enough to pay attention.”
She’s giving me one of those looks again. The kind that makes me think she knows something I don’t.
“Anyway,” Hazel says, tucking the letter away, “the point is, we all believe this Christmas is going to be special. Right, Mads?”
Mads glances at me, then away. “Right. Special.”
For the next hour, we plan. Vendor spaces. Volunteer schedules. Backup plans. Mads knows every detail about this island—which families have kids who still believe in Santa, which businesses will donate what, which volunteers can be counted on and which ones need gentle management.
“What?” she says, shrugging when I stare at her a little too long. “I get it from my great-grandma Hensley. It runs in the family.”
I find myself watching her while she talks.
The way her hands move when she’s explaining something.
The little furrow that appears between her eyebrows when she’s concentrating.
She’s compelling in a way that has nothing to do with Christmas magic and everything to do with the particular way she makes everyone around her feel heard.
“Earth to Asher,” Lila says.
Everyone’s looking at me.
“Sorry. What?”
“We were discussing Santa’s workshop setup,” Mom says with poorly concealed amusement. “Mads suggested using the space behind the fire station.”
“Right. Yeah, that could work. Good access, plenty of room, and if we need to shut down for an emergency...” I trail off because Mads is looking at me with this expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just... thank you. For doing this. I know it’s not your thing.”
“Community service is my thing,” I say. It’s easier than admitting that making her smile might be becoming my thing too.
“Is it?” Mads asks. “Or do you just like helping people?”
“It’s the same thing.”
“I disagree. Community service is when you have to do something. Helping people is when you want to.”
The girl’s got a point. Annoying, but accurate.
“Fine,” I say. “I want to help.”
“Why?” Mads asks quietly.
The room’s gone silent except for the soft scratch of Ellen’s crayons. Everyone’s pretending not to listen while obviously hanging on every word.
I look at Mads—really look at her. The way she’s sitting forward slightly, like my answer matters. The hope in her eyes that she’s trying to hide. The way she’s invested in this island and these people and this ridiculous Christmas plan.
“Because you believe in it,” I hear myself saying. “And maybe... maybe that’s enough.”
She smiles. It’s like watching the sun come up.
“I should go,” I say, standing up before I can say anything else stupid. “Early day tomorrow.”
I make it to the door before Ellen’s voice stops me.
“Asher?”
“Yeah, kid?”
“You’re going to be the best Santa ever. Because you care about people even when you pretend you don’t.”
“Thanks, Ellen,” I say. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will,” she says confidently. “Grandma Hensley says you’re exactly what Aunt Mads needs.”
I catch Mads’ eye one more time before I leave. She’s blushing again, but she’s also smiling. There’s something in her expression that makes me think maybe—just maybe—Grandma Hensley might be onto something.
Don’t tell Mom I said that either.
Twin Waves Island at night is different from the daytime chaos—quieter, more peaceful. The kind of place where you can hear the ocean and your own thoughts.
I think about Mads’ confidence when she was sketching out vendor layouts.
The way she knew exactly which families would need extra attention this Christmas.
Which volunteers could handle responsibility and which ones needed guidance.
The way she lit up when she talked about making Christmas magical for Ellen and the other kids.
She’s not some project that needs fixing. She’s a woman who’s built a life here. Who’s respected and needed and thoroughly integrated into this community. She’s got her own business. Her own friends. Her own family who adores her.
So why did that letter make her sound like she was waiting for something? Someone?
I shake my head. Not my business. I’m here to help with Christmas logistics and keep everyone safe. That’s it. Professional distance. Community service. Nothing more complicated than that.
Except...
Except she does sparkle. When Mads gets excited about something—when she’s planning or creating or just talking about the island she loves—there’s this energy about her that’s hard to ignore.
I’m almost to my truck when my phone buzzes.
Mads: Thanks for tonight. And for offering to play Santa. The kids are going to love you.
I stare at the message longer than is probably normal. Then I reply before I can second-guess myself.
Me: See you Tuesday for the costume humiliation.
Her response comes back almost immediately.
Mads: It’s going to be a very thorough humiliation. I hope you’re prepared.
Despite myself, I smile.
Me: Bring it on, Cooper.
Mads: Oh, it’s already been brought. Sweet dreams, Santa.
I’m still smiling when I get home. Which is probably a problem.
But looking up at the stars over Twin Waves Island, thinking about Christmas plans and community emergencies and the way Mads’ eyes light up when she talks about making magic happen...
Maybe some problems are worth having.