The Bright Side of Christmas (Holly Ridge #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

“I think he’s a serial killer,” my best friend says as I sit on my couch, cutting endless amounts of shapes from colored construction paper. My fingers are going to go numb soon, but it has to get done before next week, so a break really isn’t an option.

As I often do when I’m in the middle of a project, I deeply regret signing up to do all the decorations and snacks for the school-wide Thanksgiving party at the elementary school where I work.

Unfortunately, considering no one else was signing up for it, I knew that if I didn’t offer, it simply wouldn’t get done.

It’s what my grandmother would have done, too.

I push that thought aside, instead looking up at Hallie. She’s standing at the window that faces my neighbor’s home, watching him like she’s on an investigative lookout. I’m surprised she doesn’t have some kind of long-range camera in hand, taking black-and-white surveillance shots.

“Jeez, Hal, he’s not a serial killer,” I say with a laugh and a shake of my head.

“Do you have proof of that?” She pauses her intense investigation, looking over her shoulder at me with a raised eyebrow.

I tip my head at her curiously. “How does one obtain evidence that their new neighbor is not a serial killer?”

“You talk to him, for one, something no one has been able to do.”

That much, at least, seems to be true. My new neighbor moved in almost two weeks ago, having bought the house sight unseen in cash, according to Jeanie Holmes, one of the two real estate agents in our small town of Holly Ridge.

No one knows anything about the mysterious man, except that his name is incredibly average.

(Searching for Adam Porter brought up at least three dozen results, the most being a real estate mogul who must spend a considerable amount on ads, as he took up almost every result on the first page.

That Adam Porter, though, lived in Michigan, a far cry from northwest New Jersey.)

“Nat is going for a Mafia don in hiding.” Natalie Deluca, my other best friend, would vote for a Mafia don in hiding.

I’m sure Adam Porter is here for some incredibly boring and run-of-the-mill reason, but given the strange purchase details and the lack of insight on our newest resident, I’m not surprised the rumors have started to fly off the handle.

Holly Ridge isn’t just a small town. It’s a close-knit community where everyone knows everyone and everything about everyone, whether you want them to or not.

An outsider randomly moving in with no one being able to discern any information about them is not just strange—it’s unheard of.

It also breeds wild stories, such as him being a serial killer or in witness protection, just two of the many ideas Hallie has thrown out in the last hour since she noticed his car pull into his driveway.

She came here to help me assemble decorations, but even when I invited her, I knew she was mostly going to chat and keep me company while I worked.

“I highly doubt a Mafia don would choose Holly Ridge to hide out in.”

“Exactly. That’s why serial killer makes so much more sense,” she says matter-of-factly.

As I set the hundredth orange triangle aside, my fingers cramp. “None of it makes sense, Hallie.”

“I just don’t know how you sleep at night knowing a potential serial killer lives right next door to you.” I’ve known Hallie since preschool, when we both showed up on the first day in the same dress, so her dramatic responses are nothing new to me.

“Like a baby,” I say, although these days, I’m actually not sleeping much, not with a million and seven projects on my plate. But that’s neither here nor there. “Honestly, Hallie, think about it. Why would a serial killer move to a small town? Wouldn’t a big city be the better choice?”

She scoffs in disbelief, waving a hand at me. “Exactly what a serial killer would want you to think.”

I let out a laugh as I cut the last orange triangle, deciding I need a break before I move on to turning them into pie slices.

Might as well knock out two birds with one stone.

I stand up, brushing scraps of paper off my black yoga pants.

“Fine. I’ll go over there and ask him.” Hallie’s head snaps toward me, her face panic-stricken, and I have to fight back a giggle.

“You’re just going to go over there and ask him if he’s a serial killer?

” She stares at me, aghast, as I move toward my front door and slip on my shoes.

“You can’t do that, Wren. That’s how you become number one on his list. You already have the whole cutesy, innocent heroine in a horror movie who lives alone and almost makes it to the end thing going on. ”

I shake my head with a laugh. “No, I’m not going to ask him if he’s a murderer. But he’s home right now, and I need to ask him when he’s going to start decorating.”

“Ah, decorating committee duties,” she says with a nod. “That’s a good cover, actually. Ask him about his decoration plans, keep an ear out for the pleas of women trapped in his basement, check to see if his house is furnished, that kind of thing.”

I pause and stare at her, shaking my head. Sometimes, I can’t tell if she’s joking or being serious.

“Hallie, if he were keeping women locked in his basement, I would know.”

“Would you?” she asks, skeptically.

“I mean, I would like to assume I would notice if my new neighbor were dragging women into his house.”

“Not if you’re constantly making pumpkin pie garlands and cutting everything out for hand turkey popcorn balls or whatever other bullshit you signed yourself up for.”

I don’t respond to the jab, knowing it won’t get me anywhere.

Hallie doesn’t get my need to help where I can and constantly tells me I need to relax more.

But she doesn’t understand how it’s just in my blood: it’s what I do.

I’m Wren King, daughter of Peter and Susan King, granddaughter of Dottie King.

My grandmother told me from the moment I was able to understand that Kings help people, always, and from a young age, I took that to heart.

I’m proud to be someone everyone can count on to lend a helping hand.

“Hush,” I say with a wave of my hand, not wanting to hear her speech on how I need to prioritize myself again. “Get to gluing those cotton balls on while I go over there, will you?”

“Hell, no. I’m standing here on watch with 911 on speed dial just in case he drags you inside against your will.

” Her lips tip mischievously before she adds, “Though, that might not be too bad. I hear he's ridiculously hot.” I roll my eyes at her dramatics but leave without saying anything else, knowing that if I do, I’ll never get this done.

I’d been meaning to go next door and introduce myself to my new neighbor anyway.

When he moved in, I tried to say hello, but he didn’t answer when I knocked, so I left my welcome basket with fresh muffins, a few new-home essentials, and a welcome packet I put together for everything one might need to know about our little town: community events, takeout menus, a list of important numbers, and the like.

The next morning, the empty basket was on my front porch along with a note that simply said, Thanks.

-A. Since then, I’ve tried to catch him numerous times, but I haven’t managed to do so.

When I walk up his pathway, I catch sight of him moving in the window and give him a little wave and a friendly smile.

I might be imagining it, but I think he might groan when he sees me.

Ignoring that, I move up the three steps of his porch, a familiar routine because this house used to be owned by Mrs. and Mr. Demauro, whose daughter was in my grade.

When I’d go to my grandmother’s house, which I now own after she left it to me, I would often go next door to see if she could play.

After I knock, I wait for a long moment.

Long enough that I wonder if he actually did see me.

Maybe he didn’t, and he didn’t hear my knock.

I’m contemplating whether I should knock again or ring the bell when the door opens, and the choice is made for me.

When it does, a towering man stands in the doorway, staring down at me, unspeaking.

“Hi!” I tip my head up to my new neighbor, who is about a foot taller than I anticipated and far more handsome than Jeanie let on, or that I could catch in the small moments I saw him going in or out of his home.

His hair is dark, longer on top than it is on the sides, with warm brown eyes and a thick layer of scruff along his cheeks.

His flannel shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a tight white T-shirt that stretches across a broad chest, paired with a casual pair of jeans that fit far too well.

If Hallie were here, she’d probably ask him to turn around so she could see his ass.

Eventually, my gaze makes it back up to his eyes.

That’s when I realize he has not returned my smile.

Discomfort settles in my gut for a second before I know I can’t really blame him.

There’s a stranger on his front steps, practically ogling him, and there’s a good chance he saw my best friend weirdly watching him from the window.

“I’m Wren. I live next door.” Silence hangs between us, and I give in to the urge to fill it.

“The white one.” I tip my head to the side toward my home and stare at him, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as he remains quiet.

Still, I’m determined to make a good impression.

“I keep meaning to come over and introduce myself, but life has been so wildly busy. So… Hi! I’m Wren!

” I let out a nervous giggle that makes me sound like an idiot, I’m sure, but it must do something, because finally his stone facade cracks the tiniest bit.

His face stays stoic, but his eyes light as if, despite himself, he’s entertained by me.

“Adam,” he says. The word is finite, but I nod and shrug at him.