My Ex Came Back on Christmas Eve

Chapter 1 The Ghost of Christmas Past

I stared at the blinking cursor. It stared back. Mocking me.

Another Christmas romance novel that refused to write itself. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, a professional purveyor of happily-ever-afters, struggling to string two sentences together on Christmas Eve.

On the TV, a woman in a perfectly tailored red coat was about to kiss a guy who looked like he smelled of pine needles and trust funds. I stuffed a handful of cheese popcorn into my mouth. Classy.

I wiped orange dust on my pajama pants.

It had been a month since I moved back to Appleridge. A month of "finding myself," or whatever lie I told my editor. In reality, I was hiding out in this small cabin near my parents, nursing a case of burnout so severe it felt like a physical bruise.

*Ding, dong.*

My hand froze halfway to the bowl. Nine o'clock at night. Who comes over at nine on Christmas Eve?

My stomach dropped. Mom. Dad.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. They were getting older. That was half the reason I came back. If something happened—a fall, a heart attack—I was the closest one.

I scrambled off the couch, nearly tripping over the throw blanket.

"Coming!" I yelled, though my voice cracked.

I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. A disaster. Hair in a messy bun that was more "rats' nest" than "chic," flannel pajamas covered in popcorn crumbs. Whatever. If it was an ambulance driver, they wouldn’t care.

I unlocked the deadbolt and yanked the door open.

The icy wind hit me first. Then the smell. Woodsmoke and expensive cologne.

I blinked.

It wasn't a paramedic. It wasn't a neighbor making a late delivery.

"Maggie."

The voice was deeper. Rougher. Like gravel crunching under tires.

I stopped breathing.

Standing on my porch, dusted with snow, was Garner.

My Garner.

Well, not *mine*. Not for a long time. But my brain didn't seem to get the memo.

He looked… different. The lanky boy I’d cried over in high school was gone. In his place stood a man who took up the entire doorframe. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his dark wool coat. A thick, well-groomed beard covered his jaw, dusted with snowflakes. He wore a beanie pulled low, but I’d know those blue eyes anywhere. Even in the dark.

"Garner?" My voice was a whisper. A ghost.

He shifted his weight, boots crunching on the frost. "Hey, Mags."

No way. It couldn’t be. I looked again.

He was massive. When did he get so big? The last I heard, he was schmoozing with producers and trying to act. Now he looked like he wrestled bears for fun.

A hot flush started at my neck and raced down. White-hot lust. Instant. Inappropriate. Or maybe it was just shock.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. Genius question.

"I was in town." He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic I remembered from prom night. "I saw the lights. Figured you might be awake."

He figured?

"Can we talk for a minute?" He gestured vaguely behind him. "Maybe inside? Where it’s not two degrees?"

I hesitated.

My brain shouted *NO*. Slam the door. Lock it. Hide under the bed with the popcorn.

I pinched the skin on the back of my hand hard, twisting until a sharp shooting pain traveled up my arm. I definitely wasn’t sleeping. Garner was here. Real. Solid.

Garner and I ended on good terms. Years ago. There was no reason for me to turn him away.

Except one big one.

If I invited him in, looking like that, knowing how I used to feel—how I clearly still felt given the way my pulse was hammering in my throat—he’d end up in my bed before the night ended. I knew it. He knew it. The air between us was already crackling with it.

"Maggie?"

"Right. Sorry." I stepped back, pulling the door wide. "Come in. Don't freeze to death on my porch."

He stepped inside, bringing the chill with him. He stomped his boots on the mat.

"Let me take your coat," I said, autopilot taking over.

He shrugged it off. Underneath, a dark sweater clung to him in all the right places. Muscles shifted as he moved. God, he was built. I took the heavy wool coat, my fingers brushing his arm. An electric zap hit my fingertips.

I pulled back like I’d been burned.

"I need… I just need a second," I stammered, clutching his coat to my chest. It smelled like winter and him. "Make yourself at home. I have to… freshen up."

"I don’t mind if you’re in your pajamas, Mags. You’re beautiful either way."

His voice was low. Intimate.

I nearly tripped over my own feet. "Drink. Or something. Kitchen’s through there."

I fled.