Chapter 2
Jonny
Coming home always feels like slipping on an old pair of boots I haven’t worn in years—comfortable and broken-in, every mark and crease familiar, yet something about them doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
I hurry down the stairs, following the scent of biscuits and gravy toward the kitchen, but I hesitate at the threshold, listening to the laughter and conversation inside.
Caught, as always, between the tug of belonging and the urge to stand apart.
But then my dad spots me in the doorway.
“Look who decided to join the land of the living!” he booms, the same line he tossed at me practically every morning of my teenage years. Usually, Dad would be helping Mom with breakfast, but this year he’s stretched out in a recliner, healing from surgery.
“It’s nine a.m. the day after Thanksgiving, old man,” I tell him, grinning as I enter the crowded kitchen. “Most people are probably still in bed.”
“Most people are lazy bums.” That’s from my older brother, Isaac. He’s sitting at the big farmhouse table with everyone else, feeding leftover apple pie to his youngest in the highchair, complete with airplane zooming noises.
“Compared to you, that’s true,” his wife Annabel chimes in, which is exactly why he’s the heir to my dad’s alfalfa farm.
“Need I remind you,” Isaac says to me, “that the workday starts at dawn? Farms don’t run on a nine-to-five.”
Everyone at the table chuckles. I’m about to fire back that neither do any of the businesses I’ve built from scratch, that I know plenty about early mornings, late nights, and constant worry.
But I stop myself. No point in explaining when it’d just lead to more ribbing about what constitutes “real work” and how my “fancy degrees” and “soft hands” disqualify me from it.
“Jonathan James,” Mom calls from the stove, “you better get over here and give me a kiss.”
I obey, coming closer and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. As I do, I grab a wooden spoon so I can sneak a quick taste of the gravy she’s stirring. Before she can scold me, I say, “Need me to drop anything off at Kara and Kyle’s on my way into town?”
It works; Mom smiles and nods at a foil-covered dish on the counter. “That’d be lovely, sweetheart. Thank you.”
My younger sister is on bed rest for a high-risk pregnancy, due in three months. Her doctor agreed that she could attend yesterday’s Thanksgiving dinner, as long as she spent the rest of the weekend resting.
“Pull up a chair and stay awhile, son,” Dad says, but I’m already shrugging on the tan Carhartt work jacket I’ve had since high school.
“Can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “Not after being told every damn day of my life to stop burning daylight.”
“Language,” my older sister Bianca scolds, eying my nieces and nephews sitting around the table. Her husband Chad bites back a grin; Bianca used to swear like a sailor before becoming a mom.
“If we’re not supposed to say damn, why’s it in the Bible?” I wink at my oldest nephew, who’s staring at me wide-eyed. “I need to check on the space for the holiday market, see how it’s coming along.”
“Oh, that can wait ’til tomorrow,” Dad says, rubbing a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard. “The day after Thanksgiving’s not for shopping, it’s for—”
“Leftovers and football, like God intended,” Isaac and Bianca finish in unison, and everyone laughs. That launches a discussion about the Cowboys’ win yesterday, and how the Aggies better show up today.
“I’ll be back before kickoff,” I tell them, “but speaking of leftovers…” I reach across the table and swipe a slice of pumpkin pie with my bare hand.
Bianca swats me. “Jonny! Get yourself a plate.”
In response, I grin and take a massive bite of the pie.
Then I go around the table and give a little greeting to each of my six nieces and nephews: fist-bumps, nose-boops, a tickle under the chin for baby Nellie. Even our golden retrievers, Samson and Delilah, get a scratch behind the ears.
After that, I snag the keys to Dad’s truck, stuff the rest of the pumpkin pie in my mouth, take the foil-covered dish from my mom, and head out the door.
I point Dad’s F-350 toward town, following the road cutting through winter-brown alfalfa fields under a cloudy sky.
Soon I’m passing Henderson’s Hardware with its faded sign, the diner that I’m sure still smells like burnt coffee, the squat little high school where we all spent Friday nights under the lights
It’s not a cute, picturesque small town—it’s a tired place where nothing’s really changed in decades.
Other than a few more boarded-up shops on Main Street and the paint on the water tower fading, it’s the same as when I grew up.
Which is comforting, sure, but also why I vowed never to get stuck here.
The past few years, I’ve been all about innovation, pushing the envelope, chasing growth, and being here is a reminder of why I left.
People here just aren’t interested in that. Especially when it comes to me.
After swinging by my little sister’s house to drop off the food—her husband meets me at the door and whispers that she’s sleeping—I head further into town.
Soon I’m pulling into the cracked asphalt parking lot of the old textile mill, its brick walls still stamped with the faded outline of a long-gone sign.
The site of this year’s Azalea Christmas Market.
For two decades, the market has been a town tradition, started by Dad when he was mayor, to keep Azalea’s holiday spending local.
But this year, a tractor accident left him with a broken left hip and a right ankle fractured in three places, so he’s had to hand over the reins.
Kara would do a great job, but with the high-risk pregnancy, she’s out.
Isaac’s busy with winter duties around the farm, Bianca’s got her hands full with three kids, and Mom’s nursing Dad back to health.
So, it’s on me. Which is why I’m back for my longest visit ever since hightailing it out of here for college twelve years ago.
I always come for Thanksgiving and Christmas—Christmas is my favorite holiday, and Thanksgiving is a close second—but I never stay longer than a couple of days.
Got to escape before this place sucks me back in.
It’d be too dramatic to call myself the prodigal son or black sheep, but as the only McKay who doesn’t still live in Azalea, I might as well have a big neon sign over my head that says ONE OF THESE THINGS IS NOT LIKE THE OTHERS.
When I step out of the truck, the cool air carries that ever-present tang of manure.
I grab Dad’s tool belt from the back of the truck and buckle it around my hips, figuring I’ll tighten up that squeaky door I noticed yesterday.
Then I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and head into the building, whistling “I’ll Be Home for Christmas. ”
Even though it’s not exactly my ideal scenario, spending a month sleeping in my childhood bed and being harassed by my siblings at every turn (nor am I thrilled to be back in a town where everyone remembers exactly how much of a pain in the ass I was as a kid), there’s always something nice about being home for the holidays.
And honestly? I’m excited about my plans for the Christmas market.
Dad always crammed it all into a drafty old barn, but I convinced him to let me try something different.
The textile building is half-renovated and rough around the edges, but I had a vision: the old foreman’s office and other storage rooms are perfect for small shops, and booths all across the production floor will sell everything from handmade quilts to cowboy boots and hats, beeswax candles, jars of local honey, and toys for the kids.
Same stuff that’s sold every year. Except this time, I’m trying something new: a pop-up bookstore as the main attraction. My buddy from grad school owns a company that runs these, and he did me a solid and helped pull this all together in record time.
When I step inside, the lights are off, and the air smells faintly of dust and old grease. My boots echo on the concrete as I round a corner—and collide with someone holding a box.
A big box, teetering dangerously.
“Whoa there,” I say, steadying the box with one hand.
I glance around it, expecting to see someone from town, here to set up their shop. Instead, I see the face of a stranger: full lips, parted in surprise, and glossy dark hair with swooping bangs over the biggest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
Well, not a stranger exactly.
“Oh, hey, taco girl,” I say, grinning.
Color rushes to her cheeks. “I—uh—hi.”
“Allow me.” I slide the box out of her arms before she can argue. It’s heavier than expected, and when I peek inside the open flap, I see why. Books.
And then it clicks: Conor said he was sending someone to run the pop-up bookshop, although I had imagined a middle-aged librarian type. Certainly not…her. Barely five foot something with curves for days, wearing jeans and a sweater that fit like they were stitched with her in mind.
I’m kind of a sucker for a woman in a sweater, and this one—V-neck, form-fitting, a soft camel color…yeah. This one’s working its magic.
“You’re setting up the bookshop?” I say, forcing my gaze up to meet her eyes.
“I finished last night,” she says. “Wanted to be ready for all the Black Friday shoppers.”
We both look around the vacant space.
“Sorry, guess you didn’t get the memo,” I say, feeling genuinely bad about that—but I swear I told Conor. “The market starts on Saturday. Black Friday’s not really a thing here, but we’ll have a good crowd tomorrow.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes darting to the tool belt at my waist. “Well, in that case, are you—um, do you have a minute to help me with something? I put together all the bookshelves yesterday, but two are still kind of wobbly, and I’m afraid if I put any books on them, the whole thing’s going to—”
“Slow down, darlin’.” I flash her an easy smile. “We’re not in a rush.”
I know I’m laying it on a little thick, the whole small-town charm routine—but the way she flushes and smiles? Worth it.
“Sorry,” she breathes.
“Your boss is the one who should be sorry.” And I’ll be giving Conor shit about it as soon as I get a chance. “Sending you here all by yourself to haul heavy boxes and build shelves? What was he thinking?”
She lets out a half-laugh. “Not sure he cares.”
“Sounds like I need to kick his ass, then.”
“Please don’t,” she says, sighing. Then, in a quieter voice, “I really need this job to go well.”
My joke about kicking Conor’s ass doesn’t feel so jokey anymore. How could he expect her to get all this set up alone?
“I’m Jonny, by the way.” I can’t shake her hand, given the box in my arms, so I just nod. “Jonny McKay.”
Her mouth twitches. “Of course that’s your name,” she mumbles.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” She shakes her head, cheeks flushing an even deeper pink. Very pretty.
It makes me want to tease her a little more. “No, no, you have an opinion about my name. Out with it.”
“Just seems a fitting name for…” She waves a hand in my direction. “All this.”
“All what?” I raise an eyebrow, but I don’t mind the way her eyes are lingering on me. Not at all. When she doesn’t answer, I say, “Now here’s the part where you tell me your name.”
“Oh…” She hesitates. “It’s, um. Sarah.”
“Just Sarah? No last name?”
“You walked in off the street,” she says, lifting her chin. “How do I know I can trust you with that information?”
I nod seriously. “Never can tell what kind of riffraff is gonna help you carry boxes and fix wobbly shelves.”
She immediately reaches for the box. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be all lady-in-distress. If you’re too busy—”
“Ladies in distress are my specialty.” I grin, hefting the box higher. “I’ve got this. Lead the way.”