Mistletoe and Magic

Chapter One

The Proposal/Promotion That Wasn’t

It started, as so many bad ideas do, with a spreadsheet. A carefully colour-coded one, naturally. Eva Coleman didn’t believe in chaos—she believed in structure. In neatly labelled tabs, in conditional formatting, in the quiet satisfaction of a cell turning green when a task was complete.

Column A was the timeline. Column B, the goals. Column C, the expectations her mother had lovingly but relentlessly installed in her brain since childhood.

By twenty-nine, she was meant to be:

Engaged (yellow—Richard kept hinting it’d be ‘soon’)

On track for promotion (yellow—trending red)

Homeowner (grey—pending divine intervention)

Planning a family (red—blinking)

On this particular December morning she was supposed to tick off two major boxes—proposal and promotion—she woke up early, wrapped in the comfort of her colour-matched pyjamas.

She smiled at the ceiling, sighed and whispered to herself, “today’s the day.

” Eva Coleman believed in signs. Not in a spiritual way or anything—she wasn’t about to start reading tarot cards or consulting star charts.

But she did believe that the universe occasionally nudged you in a particular direction.

Like when her favourite coffee shop closed unexpectedly the morning of her big presentation, forcing her to try the new place across the street where she discovered a lavender latte that became her new obsession.

Or when her third-grade teacher moved her next to Timothy Allen, who shared his animal crackers and later became her first kiss behind the science lab in ninth grade.

And today the universe was practically screaming at her in size 14 font, bold and underlined.

Eva could barely sleep the night before, too excited.

Today was the day. She peeled back the covers and hopped out of bed, then replaced her crisp white comforter and bright white sheets to their rightful place.

Shimmying out of her matching blue Nordstrom pyjamas and Ugg slippers, she turned on the shower and commenced the morning get-ready routine.

Today she’d wear the outfit from her mom’s boutique—a crisp blazer and pencil skirt combo that her mother, Sandy, insisted made her look ‘professional without being intimidating’.

She stared at herself in the mirror as she applied mascara with careful precision, then brushed her pale cheeks with the perfect shade of Charlotte Tilbury ‘Cheek to Chic’ blush in deep rosy pink.

“Today I’m getting a promotion,” she assured her reflection. “Tonight I’m getting a proposal.” She carefully wiped away the blush so it wasn’t too bright. Richard had once told her that her skin was a little too pale to wear such a bright colour. She hadn’t made the mistake again.

Eva sometimes wondered when she had last dressed for herself.

The thought of disappointing him made her stomach clench—the same feeling she got whenever she imagined her mother’s pursed lips and that particular sigh that meant Eva had fallen short.

But today would make it worth it. The fairy tale she’d earned was about to begin.

She even pictured it: Richard down on one knee, the ring sparkling, and then the two of them riding away into the sunset on horseback, like the end of a movie she’d half-believed in since she was a girl.

Her prince, her moment, her life at last neatly slotted into the spreadsheet’s green column.

She had followed every rule—stayed late at work, smiled when she wanted to scream, wore the right clothes, dated the right man.

If she just kept checking the boxes, eventually she’d earn the fairy tale: the ring, the house, the life.

That was how it worked, wasn’t it? Do everything right, and you’ll be rewarded.

Today, the reward was supposed to arrive on schedule. Promotion at noon; proposal at seven. Her mother had already texted twice: Any news? Remember to smile. Eva texted back a thumbs-up and swallowed the small panic at the back of her throat.

At work, she’d managed to parallel park without a single adjustment—a Christmas miracle on par with the parting of the Red Sea, at least in downtown Nashville.

The office peppermint bark hadn’t run out yet.

Her flawlessly applied Christmas-red nail polish (‘Cranberry Spritz’ by Essie) hadn’t smudged despite her rushing to type up meeting notes for the head of A&R.

And tonight—tonight—was her two-year anniversary with Richard.

She was wearing the lipstick he liked in anticipation.

He was taking her to Kayne Prime. Another delightful way to celebrate getting a promotion at work.

Everything felt beautifully, suspiciously aligned.

The Christmas spirit at Monarch Music was at full capacity.

Garlands hung from every doorway. Someone was definitely burning a contraband pine-scented candle.

‘Jingle Bell Rock’ drifted faintly from the break room.

Her desk was a cheerful contradiction—a miniature twinkling tree perched precariously between stacks of marketing briefs, a candy dish of peppermints next to scattered paperclips, and a bright yellow Post-it note where she’d written ‘CANCúN!! — 3 DAYS!’ in her neat handwriting, underlined three times.

She was supposed to be finishing a draft of a sponsorship deck for the Brooks tour—a country singer known for rhinestone jumpsuits and glitter budgets. But instead, she was rereading a text from Richard.

Can’t wait to see you tonight. 7pm. Don’t be late.

Eva smiled and tapped her phone against her chin. He was going to propose. She was sure of it. Things were aligning perfectly, she’d done everything she was supposed to and now (finally) she was going to reap the benefits and write her own fairy tale ending.

Blake from promotions popped his head over her cubicle wall, his white teeth reminding her of fangs. “Hey, Eva, you’re doing the Secret Santa thing, right?”

She blinked, jarred from her daydream. “Yeah … why?”

“I forgot to get a gift. Any chance you could pick something up for me?”

“Blake. The party’s in an hour,” Eva crossed her arms but held a tight smile.

“I know, I know. You’re amazing. Just something festive and classy. Nothing too weird. Budget’s like … twenty?” Blake said, already walking away. You could barely tell from the front that he had honey blonde highlights, but from the back it was obvious. Eva sniffed.

“One day,” Eva muttered to her computer screen, “I’m going to say no to someone and the sheer shock of it will cause a minor earthquake in Middle Tennessee.”

Eva sighed, already reaching for her purse.

Some distant part of her brain—the part that had once dreamed of writing stories instead of marketing copy—whispered that she could say no.

But she’d never been good at refusing people, especially when they looked at her with that mixture of hope and expectation.

Besides, there was something comforting about being the person everyone counted on.

It showed she was reliable, that she’d earned her place.

Even if it meant feeling like she constantly had to prove she deserved to be here, that she was more than just Sandy Coleman’s daughter.

More than the girl who had a family connection that got her the job.

Twenty minutes later, Eva returned from a gift shop three blocks away, out of breath, with a locally made cinnamon candle in hand.

She’d seen another one she liked better, with hints of pine and cedarwood, but it was thirty-five dollars.

Blake had only given her twenty, and she wasn’t about to subsidise his Secret Santa gift—not when she’d already stayed late three nights this week fixing his social media campaign errors.

As she walked back through the entrance of the office, Eva scrolled through Instagram, pausing on a photo of her younger sister Lily’s baby announcement.

“Baby #2 coming in June!” the caption read, with Lily, her perfect husband, their toddler, and their golden retriever all wearing matching Christmas jumpers.

Eva’s youngest sister, Maddie, had got married six months ago in a Pinterest-perfect barn wedding.

Both sisters, though years younger than Eva, seemed light-years ahead in the life checklist their mother considered non-negotiable.

“You’re the oldest, Eva,” her mother would say.

“You should be setting the example.” But somehow, Eva—always the responsible one, always the rule-follower—had fallen behind in the race to traditional milestones.

She was pushing thirty with no ring, no babies, no house with a picket fence.

Just a decent job and a boyfriend who, after tonight, would hopefully make her mother stop introducing her as “my first, Eva, still no ring on her finger” at family gatherings.

Tara met her at the elevator when she returned, eyeing the small shopping bag as they walked back to her desk.

“Please tell me you didn’t just run an errand for Blake.”

Eva handed her the bag. “It was either this or watch him wrap a protein bar in tinsel again.”

“You are too nice.”

“I’m festive.”

“You’re like a human Hallmark movie,” Tara said, “except instead of saving Christmas, you’re saving grown men from their own incompetence.”

Eva grinned and cast her eyes down to her Post-it note of the Cancún countdown.

Tara paused, then said, “So … what are you wearing tonight?”

Eva blushed, her fingers subconsciously touching the empty space on her ring finger. “The green silk dress. The one with the sleeves.”

“Ooh. You think he’s going to do it?”

Eva tried to play it cool, but her voice cracked slightly. “I mean … we’ve been together two years. He booked the steakhouse. And he prompted me to have my nails done in a totally casual, definitely suspicious way.”

“Please. You’ve been walking on air all week.” Tara lowered her voice. “Did you find the ring?”