Chapter 3
Chapter Three
MADS
Twin Waves Brewing Co. smells like coffee and Mom’s relentless optimism this morning. Both hit me the second I walk through the door, and both are probably the only things keeping me upright after yesterday’s Christmas emergency meeting.
“Double shot vanilla latte,” Mom announces, sliding the cup across our usual window table. “Because you look like you got hit by Santa’s sleigh.”
I collapse into my chair and wrap my hands around the mug. Our daily coffee ritual is sacred—thirty minutes of caffeine, family updates, and whatever crisis Mom thinks needs my immediate attention. Today, judging by her expression, that crisis is me.
“So,” she says, settling back with her own cup, “tell me about this firefighter partnership.”
“There’s nothing to tell. We’re coordinating Christmas logistics. Keeping things professional.”
“Uh-huh.” Mom’s eyes sparkle with the same mischief that got Lila detention for creative problem-solving in high school. “And how’s the professional coordination going with Twin Waves’ grumpiest public servant?”
I nearly choke on my latte. “He’s not that grumpy.”
“Honey, yesterday he looked like he’d rather wrestle an alligator than plan a Christmas parade.”
“Well... maybe a small alligator.”
My phone chimes.
Lila: Mom says you’re working with a grumpy firefighter. Is he hot-grumpy or sad-grumpy? We need to know this so we can discuss it at book club.
“Great. Now Lila’s analyzing my love life,” I tell Mom, showing her the text.
“She cares about your happiness. We all do.” Mom reaches across and squeezes my hand. “Besides, you’ve been different since that letter arrived.”
I touch the cream-colored envelope in my jacket pocket. The one I’d swiped from Mom after she’d stolen it from my room. The thief. What was the point of that anyway? Did she really have to tell everyone about it? My cheeks burn, just thinking about how Asher knows about it now.
Spencer would have called the letter ridiculous. Said I was being naive, believing in fairy tales instead of focusing on “practical relationship goals.”
“The letter isn’t ridiculous,” I say, realizing I’ve spoken out loud.
“Absolutely not ridiculous,” Mom agrees firmly. “That letter has put more light in your eyes than I’ve seen in months. You hang onto that.”
Before I can respond, shouting erupts from the boardwalk outside. Through the window, I spot Mayor Water’s wife, Penelope, setting up what appears to be some sort of presentation station, complete with easels, charts, and visual aids.
“Oh no,” I mutter. “Penelope’s having an idea.”
Mom follows my gaze and sighs. “Heaven help us all.”
Within twenty minutes, half the town has gathered around Penelope’s display. I lock up Hensley’s Beach Shack and join the crowd, spotting Michelle, Amber, and at least six members of our book club all wearing identical expressions of polite dread.
“Twin Waves has tremendous potential,” Penelope announces in her crisp accent, “to become a premier holiday destination. We simply need to think bigger.”
She flips her first chart, revealing what looks like a Christmas explosion in a luxury hotel lobby. Crystal trees. Professional light installations. A budget that could probably fund the Christmas party for that billionaire family Brett knows.
“This transformation would put us on the map with Savannah and Charleston,” she continues. “Sophisticated. Elegant. The kind of Christmas that attracts the right sort of visitor.”
My chest tightens. That’s not Twin Waves. That’s putting a tuxedo on a golden retriever—technically possible, but missing the entire point of golden retrievers.
“What about our existing traditions?” I ask, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “The community parade? Local businesses? The things that make Twin Waves special?”
Penelope’s smile could freeze margaritas. “Those local touches are... quaint. But we need professional polish if we want to compete.”
Professional. Spencer’s favorite word. Nothing I did was ever “professional enough” for his vision of our future. I touch Mrs. Claus’s letter and feel that familiar surge of quiet strength.
“Our traditions aren’t quaint,” I say, louder this time. “They’re authentic. People come to Twin Waves because we’re us, not because we’re trying to be somewhere else.”
“The budget alone would be astronomical.”
The dry voice comes from behind Penelope, and I turn to see Asher leaning against the fire station wall, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the whole production.
“Electrical permits, safety inspections, months of prep time we don’t have,” he continues, his tone suggesting he’s calculating disaster scenarios in real time. “Plus insurance liability for installations that size.”
Penelope’s presentation deflates under his practical assault. Around me, the community shifts. Michelle nods. Amber looks relieved. Mom beams at me with pride.
“So what exactly are you suggesting?” Penelope asks, clearly frustrated.
“That we work with what we’ve got,” I say, feeling Mrs. Claus’s encouragement warm my pocket.
“Three generations of my family have built their lives around serving this community. Jo transforms broken furniture into beautiful pieces. Michelle’s coffee shop is where we solve half our problems and create the other half.
We don’t need to be different. We need to be the best version of ourselves. ”
The crowd murmurs agreement. When I glance back at Asher, he’s not just nodding anymore. There’s something like admiration in his blue eyes, and the corner of his mouth has almost twitched upward.
Maybe grumpy isn’t mean. Maybe grumpy is just someone who’s learned to protect the things that matter.
An hour later, I’m standing in Driftwood & Dreams, Jo’s restoration workshop, questioning every life choice that led me to volunteer for manual labor.
“I’m building Santa’s sleigh,” I announce to Jo, “with the same construction skills that brought you yesterday’s decoration disaster.”
Jo laughs, handing me a paintbrush. “Honey, your disaster had personality. Personality’s harder to teach than technique.”
The workshop door bangs open, and Asher walks in looking like he’d rather be fighting actual structure fires than building pretend Christmas vehicles.
“Mom recruited me for construction duty,” he says. “Fair warning: I don’t do arts and crafts.”
“Perfect, because this isn’t arts and crafts,” I reply cheerfully. “This is engineering. With Christmas colors and a complete disregard for structural integrity.”
He surveys the pile of wood, paint, and what appears to be every Christmas decoration within fifty miles. His expression suggests he’s reconsidering his relationship with his mother.
“Right.” He picks up a piece of lumber and examines it with the same intensity he’d probably use to assess a burning building. “Where do we start?”
Three hours later, we look like we lost a fight with Santa’s workshop.
I’ve got red paint in my hair, green paint on my cheek, and gold sparkles in places glitter should never be.
Asher’s navy work shirt is now a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of Christmas colors, but he’s still here.
Still patiently explaining why my engineering approach might result in Santa becoming roadkill.
“This frame won’t support actual weight during the parade,” he says, steadying the sleigh while I attempt to attach runners that resemble something functional.
“That’s what Christmas magic is for,” I reply, wrestling with a screw that refuses to cooperate.
“Magic doesn’t override physics.”
“Says the man who’s never built a magical sleigh.”
“Says the man who’s seen what happens when things collapse in public.”
I look up at him, paintbrush still in hand. He’s frowning at my work with the same focused intensity he probably brings to emergency calls. But his hands are gentle when he adjusts the wood frame, careful and protective.
Spencer used to criticize my projects by listing everything wrong with them, making me feel incompetent and scattered. But Asher’s corrections feel different. He’s trying to help me succeed, not prove I’ll fail.
“You know,” I say, stepping back to survey our progress, “for someone who claims he doesn’t do crafts, you’re pretty good at this.”
“It’s just construction with extra sparkles.”
“And magic. Don’t forget the magic.”
He gives me a look that suggests magic ranks somewhere below root canals on his list of things he believes in. “Right. Magic.”
“You don’t believe in Christmas magic?”
“I believe in proper engineering and following safety protocols.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s practical.”
“It’s heartbreaking.” I dip my brush in red paint, considering him. “When did you stop believing in magic?”
Something shifts in his expression. Closes off. “When I realized someone had to be the responsible one.”
There’s a story there. A hurt that makes my chest ache for reasons I don’t quite understand.
Before I can ask more, the workshop door flies open, and my sister Kira bounces into the room wearing a football jersey, her short wavy brown hair surrounding her head like a halo. She’s fifteen and obsessed with sports.
“Mom sent me to—oh wow, you two look like Christmas barfed sparkles all over you!”
“Thank you for that poetic description,” I say, grinning.
“But good sparkles!” Kira clarifies quickly. “The kind where people get messy together and then realize they’re in love! Like in the movies!”
Asher makes a sound somewhere between a cough and existential dread. “We’re building a sleigh, Kira.”
“Uh-huh.” Kira examines us. “That’s how it starts. Messy projects. Then meaningful looks. Then kissing under the mistletoe.” She crosses her arms and puts all her weight on one foot with a smug look. “It’s very scientific.”
“What kind of science are you studying?” Asher asks, alarmed.