Chapter One
DON’T MISS MISTLETOE & MISCHIEF
I swore I’d never come back to Mistletoe Bay—especially not at Christmas when everything sparkles like a Hallmark movie and everyone remembers me as the girl who once “borrowed” a nativity sheep.
Then the opportunity of a lifetime lands in my lap: a chance to prove my talent by capturing all of Mistletoe Bay’s holiday magic for a documentary on small-town Christmases across the county. So I pack my bags, swallow my pride, head home … and run straight into Chief of Police Nathan Hale.
The man who always caught me in the midst of my teenage rebellions. The man who’s still far too steady, far too serious—and far too handsome for my peace of mind.
He’s older now. Wiser, maybe. And yet when snow, nostalgia, and a little holiday mischief collide, the line between naughty and nice starts to blur.
Because in Mistletoe Bay, some happily ever afters come wrapped in twinkle lights and taste a lot like trouble.
Chapter One
Tessa
The minute I pass the “Welcome to Mistletoe Bay” sign, something in my chest loosens.
Maybe it’s the twinkle lights strung from every lamppost, or the faint scent of cinnamon wafting in the air from Dockside Cafe, or maybe it’s just the fact that for the first time in months, I’m not staring at a screen or stuck in New York City traffic.
I roll down my window, letting the December air slap some color into my cheeks as Bing Crosby croons through the speakers.
My old SUV hums along down Main Street, the bay glittering off to my right, dotted with boats dressed up in garland and lights for the town’s annual Santa-Arrives-By-Boat event.
Only in Mistletoe Bay would Santa trade his sleigh for a fishing trawler.
The plan is simple: film a small-town Christmas documentary celebrating quirky local traditions. Come here, get some good footage, maybe clear my head a little in the process.
That’s all.
Except … my stomach twists in that familiar, nostalgic way that says maybe I’m lying to myself just a little.
Because the truth is, I didn’t come back just for work. I came back to remember what belonging feels like. Belonging to a place. And, hopefully someday, a person.
And maybe to figure out why I ever left.
Out of nowhere, flashing blue and red lights appear in my rearview mirror.
You have got to be kidding me.
I groan, easing to the side of the road, the sound of jingle bells on the radio now feeling like a mockery. A patrol SUV pulls in behind me, and when the door opens, my stomach does a weird, swoopy thing I’m not proud of.
Because that’s not just any cop.
That’s him.
Chief Nathan Hale.
Stoic. Broad-shouldered. Maddeningly composed. The same man who used to drive me home in the back of his patrol car after my teenage “adventures.”
Only now, he’s older. More distinguished looking somehow. And apparently allergic to smiling.
He approaches the driver’s side of my car with that steady, no-nonsense gait, the one that says rules are rules and I’m probably about to get a lecture.
I lower the window a little further, pretending I’m not already flustered. “Well, if it isn’t Chief Hale himself. Tell me, do you pull over everyone with New York plates, or did you just want to say ‘hi’ to an old...friend?”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile—but not quite. “Tessa Pope.” His voice is deeper than I remember, the kind that hums under your skin. “In case you forgot, speed limit is 25. Not 50.”
I didn’t even realize I was going that fast. “Oops.” I bat my eyes. “I slowed down when I saw you, though,” I tease, because old habits die hard.
He arches a brow. “When I turned my lights on.”
“Semantics.” I smile broadly just to annoy him.
He gives me that look—part exasperation, part disbelief—that used to make me laugh. “License and registration.”
I sigh dramatically, fishing them out of my wallet and handing them over. “You’re really going to give me a ticket my first day back in town?”
“Depends,” he says, flipping through the paperwork. “You planning on making this a habit?”
I grin. “I’m only in town for a few weeks. Figure I should make an impression.”
“That’s not the kind you want to make.”
His words are all business, but when he glances up, our eyes meet—and for a second, there’s a flicker of warmth beneath the cool, gray steel. The kind of look that says he remembers me, too.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
He hands me back my license, that unreadable expression firmly back in place. “Slow down, Pope. And stay out of trouble.”
“No promises.”
This time, he almost smiles. Almost. Then he steps back, taps the hood, and walks away, all authoritative stride and broad shoulders disappearing into the morning light.
I sit there for a long second, staring after him, pulse still racing.
The Chief of Police should not look that good in uniform.
I take a long sip of my coffee, trying to shake the heat crawling up my neck.
Stay out of trouble, huh?
We’ll see about that.
After all, if I’m making a documentary about Mistletoe Bay’s small-town charm, it’d be criminal not to feature its most handsome, broody public servant.
And if I happen to enjoy rattling his perfectly-composed cage along the way?
Well. Some traditions are worth revisiting.
Whistling along with the jaunty little carol now playing on the radio, I slowly pull back onto the road and follow it to the left, past the lighthouse at Holly Point, and toward Snowberry Lane, where my parents live.
The house I grew up in comes into view at the end of the lane, a white Cape Cod-style house with green shutters, a red door, and smoke curling lazily from the chimney. It’s picture-perfect. Like something straight off one of those glossy Christmas cards my mom still insists on mailing.
I pull into the driveway, heart tugging somewhere between comfort and guilt. It’s been years—too many—and I didn’t exactly make it easy for us to stay in touch while I’ve been gone. Work always came first. Deadlines. Airports. Hotel rooms that smelled like bleach and burnt coffee.
But now, with the twinkle lights blinking against the frosted windows and my childhood home looking like something out of a snow globe, I can’t remember why I stayed away so long.
The front door flies open before I can even grab my bag.
“Tessie!”
Mom barrels down the steps in her red plaid scarf and puffy vest, arms wide and eyes shining, her hair pulled into that same messy bun she’s worn since I was ten. When she tugs me into a bear hug, she smells like sugar cookies and cinnamon.
“Hi, Mom,” I laugh, my face muffled against her shoulder as she squeezes me tight enough to crack a rib. “You’re gonna break me before I even unpack.”
“Worth it,” she says, pulling back to give me a good once over.. “You look thinner. Are you eating? And why didn’t you call when you left the city? Your father’s been pacing since breakfast.”
“Mom.” I grin. “You’re being a little dramatic right now, don’t you think?”
She swats my arm, then links hers through mine and tugs me toward the porch. “You love it.”
She’s not wrong.
Inside, the house smells like pine and cloves. There’s a half-decorated tree in the corner, a garland on the banister, and the faint sound of Christmas music playing from the old record player Dad refuses to replace.
“Look who finally found her way home,” comes his voice from the kitchen doorway.
Dad leans against the frame, wearing his favorite flannel and holding a mug of coffee. His beard’s a little grayer, but his smile is exactly the same as I remember.
“Hey, Dad.”
He sets the drink down and pulls me into a hug—the gesture quieter than Mom’s greeting, but deeper somehow. “Good to see you, kiddo.”
“You too.”
When he steps back, there’s this look in his eyes—soft and proud, but curious too. “So what brings you back this time? Please tell me it’s not another one of those ‘what Christmas means to me’ fluff pieces.”
Dad’s always thought I was wasting my time and a Master’s in Fine Arts degree on all the nonfiction pieces…like this very documentary. But I didn’t have much of a choice right now. I had to take whatever jobs my boss gave me. Besides, it paid the bills.
“Documentary,” I correct automatically. “A Christmas documentary about small-town traditions.”
Mom claps her hands together like I just announced I’m marrying Santa Claus. “Oh, I love that! You’ll have to cover Santa’s arrival! And the tree lighting! And the gingerbread contest—”
“Already on the list,” I say, setting my camera bag on the couch. This one would be different. I could feel it in my bones. Christmas at Mistletoe Bay would be my breakout work. The one that would open doors to even bigger things. I just knew it.
“Good,” she says, satisfied. “Because the people need to see what real Christmas looks like.”
Dad raises a brow. “You mean chaos? Sort of like our little NASCAR driver?”
My cheeks flush, and I look down at the floor.
Word really did travel fast in a small town. Unless, of course, Chief Hale personally called my Dad and reported pulling me over on my way to their house.
Agitation rumbles under the surface of my skin.
I’m a grown adult. There are some things my parents don’t need to know. What are they going to do now? Ground me? Take away the keys to the car I pay for?
The silence stretches for a beat, broken only by the faint croon of Nat King Cole from the speakers.
And maybe it’s guilt or nostalgia—or maybe it’s the lingering image of a certain police chief’s jawline under winter sunlight—but suddenly, being home feels more complicated than I expected.
Mom starts fussing with a tray of cookies, her hands dusted with flour, humming along with the carols playing, and Dad changes the subject to the upcoming festivities. Dad clears his throat and shifts the conversation, eyes twinkling just a little behind his glasses.
“So,” he says, voice low and conspiratorial, “did you get a good look at all the decorations on your way down the lane? Ol’ Frank thinks he’s pulling out all the stops this year.
Bet me $100 that he was going to win it all.
” Dad laughs. “Little does he know, Tommy Castle has been poking holes in all of Frank’s blow-up decorations and sending him fake letters from the HOA saying that he’s violating some made-up rules. ”
I shake my head and giggle. “Mr. Frank always had the best displays. Remember the year that he paid one of the Robotics Club kids from the high school to help him sync his displays to music.”
Dad nods. “I remember. But last year, Tommy created a real-life snow globe. Then Frank switched Tommy’s snow maker for a heater. It rained instead of snowing.”
I grin, leaning against the counter, letting their voices wash over me. Familiar, safe…normal. For a moment, it almost feels like I never left.
“The tree lighting,” Dad continues, jumping right to the next topic, “it’s set for six sharp.
You know how the kids wait for it, all bundled up, mugs of cocoa in hand, eyes wide as the first lights flicker on?
That old pine in the square hasn’t looked this good in years.
Mrs. Callahan even volunteered her grandkids to help hang ornaments.
Make sure you’ve got your camera ready.”
And there it is, his unwavering support despite his feelings on ‘fluff pieces’.
But he’s right, there’s something so…magical about it. Almost like the town itself is holding its breath, waiting for the moment the tree bursts into light.
I can still remember Main Street glowing with garlands, twinkle lights strung along every shop, families jostling for the best view, laughter bouncing off the snow.
Mom chimes in, “Don’t forget the carolers! They’re practicing by the gazebo again this year. Dockside Cafe is setting up a hot cocoa cart, too.”
Tiny details, little traditions—I didn’t realize how much I’d missed them until now. The smell of cocoa, the crunch of snow under boots, the glow of lights reflected in icy windows.
“Mistletoe Bay has a way of making even grown-ups feel like kids again. You’ll see. Tomorrow you’ll be running around that harbor with your camera, trying to catch Santa’s first wave while snowflakes stick to your eyelashes if the weather report is right.”
But it’s not Santa I find myself hoping to catch another glimpse of.
If Chief Nathan Hale thought I was trouble when I was sixteen…he hasn’t seen anything yet.