Naughty, Nice, & Mine (The Reckless River #2)

Chapter One

Melanie

If Christmas spirit could kill you, Seattle would be a chalk outline surrounded by tinsel and overpriced gingerbread lattes.

I’d been stuck at the same intersection for seven minutes, staring at a blow-up Santa that was deflating faster than my will to live.

The poor thing sagged over the roof of a Subaru like a man who’d just given up halfway through a marathon.

“Move, you festive maniacs!” I yelled out my window, because apparently, everyone in the city decided today, December sixth, to come downtown and fight for the last remaining parking spots while waving the one-finger salute at Karma.

A horn blared behind me, long and ruthless.

I inched forward exactly one inch.

“Yeah, Merry freaking Christmas to you, too,” I muttered.

Lydia, beside me, took a slow, serene sip of her peppermint cocoa like a woman who’d transcended mortal suffering.

She looked obscenely calm, the picture of small-town peace.

“You know,” she said, swirling her straw with monk-like patience, “we could’ve taken the light rail from your apartment.”

“We could have,” I said, “but if everyone like us did that, then who would be left to experience the beauty that is downtown traffic, Lydia? The honking, the existential dread, the guy dressed like an elf aggressively juggling candy canes? This is the authentic holiday experience that I want to remind you that you’re missing, being tucked away up in Reckless River.

My goal is to tempt you and Callum back to civilization. ”

“This is definitely doing that.” She laughed softly, and I glared at her profile.

Lydia used to be as high-strung as I was with a color-coded calendar, a constant caffeine drip, two phones, and one meltdown per week. Now she was all glowing skin, cozy sweaters, and go with the flow energy.

It was disgusting.

“You’ve changed,” I said, squinting at her. “You’re all... calm now. It’s deeply unsettling.”

“Reckless River runs deep,” she said, smiling in that dreamy way that made me want to throw tinsel at her. “You’ll understand when you visit. Thanksgiving was incredible, and now with the Christmas Bazaar and Festival this weekend and next…well, you’ll see.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Last time I was in your smaller-than-small town, I got trapped behind a tractor for fourteen miles and had to pee in a cornfield.”

“That’s because you refused to use the gas station bathroom.”

“I have standards.”

Her grin only widened, the smug kind that said Callum has made me into a better person. I still couldn’t wrap my head around it.

Lydia, my big-city partner in crime, had fallen for a tattooed, broody small-town bar owner. And now she was... content.

Like, actually happy.

It was weird.

She was weird.

A man in a Rudolph costume jogged past my car, waving a cardboard sign that read Free Gift Wrapping—Tips Appreciated! But the arrow was pointed at his nether region, and his nose lit up. I watched him wander off.

Maybe Reckless River didn’t seem so bad.

Traffic finally inched forward, and I squeezed into a parking space that was approximately half the width of my car.

Lydia glanced out the window. “You’re going to get a ticket.”

“I prefer to think of it as a donation to the city’s Christmas fund,” I said, turning off the ignition.

Christmas had exploded like a glitter grenade.

Every store blared Mariah Carey, every lamppost was wrapped in fake garland, and every third person wore a Santa hat.

I tried to stay cheerful, by which I mean I kept my sunglasses on indoors to block the twinkle lights and muttered darkly about capitalism.

“Come on, Scrooge,” Lydia said, looping her arm through mine. “You love Christmas.”

“I love it in theory,” I said. “Like I love yoga or kale. I admire it from afar.”

She gave me a knowing smile, one that said she remembered all my Decembers spent stress shopping at midnight and mailing presents late with passive-aggressive notes.

“Maybe your visit to Reckless River will soften you up.”

“Softening is for butter,” I said, sidestepping a toddler wielding a candy cane like a weapon.

We passed a woman screaming into her phone, “No, Gary, the twelve-foot tree! The twelve! We’re not going small again this year!”

I gestured at her. “See? My people.”

Lydia just shook her head, all peaceful and serene. “You really need a vacation.”

“That’s what this weekend is!” I said. “My annual mental health retreat. You, me, and a trip up north with peppermint schnapps. What could possibly go wrong?”

The universe answered immediately.

A street performer dressed as Frosty the Snowman tripped on his own striped scarf and faceplanted into a pile of fake snow. A cheer roared from the crowd.

I applauded. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the true meaning of Christmas.”

Callum had dropped Lydia off last night on his way to pick up some huge contraption from the restaurant supply store in Seattle, so he could save on shipping. I didn’t have the heart to mention he probably used up the savings in gas.

By the time we’d hit our third store, I was carrying three candles, two pairs of novelty socks, and one catastrophic attempt at a matching Christmas sweater that ended with me stuck halfway through a size medium.

Lydia tried to peel it off my head while I flailed.

“Hold still,” she said.

“I am holding still!” I shouted through a mouthful of acrylic. “This thing’s tighter than Santa’s waistband after cookie season!”

“Breathe out.”

“Why would breathing out help? What are you trying to tell me?”

“I’m trying to keep you calm,” Lydia said, chuckling.

I peeked through the neck hole at a passing teenager who filmed us on her phone, and I realized my tragic wardrobe encounter at Nordstrom might go viral. When Lydia finally freed me, my hair was standing on end like I’d been electrocuted, and she was crying from laughter.

We stumbled back into the cold, damp air, clutching our coffees. It had started snowing or, more accurately, slushing. The umbrella we shared drooped sadly, dripping cold water onto my boots.

“I don’t know why people romanticize this weather,” I said. “It’s like being sneezed on by a snow globe.”

“Reckless River snow isn’t like this,” Lydia said. “It’s soft and quiet. You can actually hear the flakes falling.”

“Adorable,” I deadpanned. “Do the flakes sing carols too?”

She nudged me. “You’ll see when you visit.”

“Your town doesn’t even have Uber.”

“No, but it has stars you can see at night,” she countered, smiling. “And a man who makes the world’s best hot chocolate.”

I squinted at her. “Callum?”

She just grinned wider. “Maybe.”

I’d been visiting my best friend up in Reckless River for over a year, and her relationship with Callum had only strengthened. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or hopeful.

We ducked into a café to thaw out. It smelled like cinnamon and sugarplum dreams, dangerous territory for anyone trying to maintain emotional stability.

A chalkboard sign read Peppermint Mocha Day + Add Whipped Cream for free!

“If I add whipped cream, does it count as lunch?” I asked.

“Only if you add sprinkles,” Lydia said, ordering for us both.

I stared out the fogged window at the blur of honking cars and stressed-out shoppers as the barista handed over our drinks. I wasn’t surprised that Lydia was on beverage number two. She could pound the caffeine like few I’ve met.

“I love hot cocoa,” she nearly squealed.

“Are you telling me that’s not a coffee either?” I scowled at her.

“Nope. I don’t seem to need it like I did down here.” She happily sipped her hot chocolate, and I rolled my eyes.

“I don’t know how or why you left all this,” I said. “The chaos, the noise, the adrenaline, it’s like caffeine for the soul.”

She smiled softly, with that Reckless River calm in her eyes. “That’s just it, Mel. I don’t need chaos to remind me that I’m alive anymore.”

And I didn’t say it, but that was the moment I realized something had shifted.

Her life was quiet and rooted, while mine still spun like a pine needle-covered tornado.

I tapped my cup against hers. “To surviving December.”

“Maybe even thriving in it,” she said with a wink.

Outside, a man slipped on the slush and took down an entire row of inflatable penguins.

“Don’t count on it.” I sipped my mocha and smiled. “I just don’t want to wind up like that guy.”

Somewhere between the burnt coffee and Mariah Carey’s fifteenth encore, I had the uneasy feeling my best friend’s peace might be contagious, and that was almost as terrifying as the parking ticket waiting on my windshield.

The moment Lydia started humming along to some disgustingly cheerful Christmas song, I knew she was about to bring him up.

She always got that glow right before she mentioned Callum.

It was the same dreamy expression you see on Hallmark heroines when they realize the flannel-wearing stranger who saved their bakery from foreclosure also rescues puppies in his spare time, but not before making meatballs for his grandmother on Sundays.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and silently prayed. Don’t say it. Don’t say his name.

“I talked to Callum this morning,” she said brightly.

Of course.

I forced a smile that probably looked like mild dental pain. “How lovely.”

“He says everyone in town’s excited for the festival this weekend. He’s been putting up the decorations outside the bar.”

“Good for him,” I said. “Festive masculinity.”

She laughed, and I could practically feel the conversation curving toward danger like a slow-motion car crash.

Sure enough…

“And Drew helped him with the lights.”

I groaned. “Lydia. Please.”

“What?” she asked innocently. “You like Drew.”

“I liked Drew,” I corrected. “Past tense. As in, that ship has sailed. It sailed, it sank, it was found years later at the bottom of the emotional ocean.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, unconvinced. “Funny, because every time you visit, you somehow end up at the bar. Alone. At closing time.”

“I like bars,” I said flatly.

“You like him,” she said.