A Christmas Love Affair

Chapter 1

SYLVIE

“Oh, sleigh bells and candy canes,” I muttered under my breath.

The twinkling lights at the Northwood Christmas Tree Farm refused to come back on after all my efforts of fidgeting with the bulbs.

The entire string of lights that had been cheerfully illuminating our entrance sign spontaneously went dark, like someone had flipped a switch on Christmas itself. The audacity.

It was after five on Thanksgiving and I was freezing my tiny little butt off in the November chill. I was in no mood to screw around with crappy lights.

“Come on!” I stomped by boot and resisted the urge to scream.

The lights had to work. Tomorrow was the day after Thanksgiving, which meant Christmas season would officially kick off, and our entrance couldn’t look like a sad, forgotten corner of winter when our first customers arrived. They were expecting Christmas magic, not Christmas whomp whomp.

I was absolutely convinced there were literal gremlins in the world. Gremlins working for the Grinch. Because no matter how carefully we put away the Christmas lights, and no matter that they worked when we put them away, they never worked the following year. And they were always tangled.

Always.

I glanced up toward the lodge. Golden light spilled from every window. Through the glass, I could make out the shadows of my family moving about inside, probably going in for another round of leftovers.

At least they were cozy and warm.

Man, a glass of red wine by the stone fireplace sounded absolutely divine right about now.

But first, these blasted lights. I gritted my teeth and glared down at them.

“Come on, you stubborn little—” I caught myself before the curse word slipped out. Even when I was alone and frustrated, old habits died hard. “You stubborn little gumdrops,” I finished instead, crouching down to examine the first strand of lights more closely.

I started at the beginning, testing each connection point with my frozen fingers.

My breath fogged the area in front of me as I worked my way along the string, searching for loose bulbs or damaged wires for the third time.

Snow had started falling again, dusting my shoulders and the brim of my knit hat.

Despite being bundled up in my warmest winter jacket, thick jeans, and insulated boots, the cold still managed to seep into my bones.

“Fiddlesticks,” I grumbled as I spotted what looked like a loose bulb about halfway down the strand. I reached for it, trying to twist it more securely into its socket, when my boot hit a patch of ice hidden beneath the fresh snow.

My feet went out from under me faster than you could say “Frosty the Snowman,” and I went sliding backward. My arms windmilled wildly as I tried to regain my balance, but gravity had other plans. I crashed right into one of our prized eight-foot Fraser firs.

The tree, apparently as startled by our collision as I was, decided to take revenge by tipping over and landing right on top of me.

“Holy mistletoe!” I yelped, finding myself trapped under a mountain of pine needles and branches. The tree wasn’t particularly heavy, but it was awkwardly large and seemed determined to keep me pinned to the snowy ground.

I wiggled and squirmed, trying to find leverage to push the tree off me. Pine needles were getting in my hair, down my jacket collar, and somehow even inside my socks. My skin started itching all over.

“This is just peachy,” I muttered, spitting out a mouthful of evergreen. “Real dignified, Sylvie. Your ancestors would be so proud.”

After what felt like an eternity of pitiful struggling—though it was probably only a minute or two—I finally managed to work my way out from under the Fraser fir.

I sat up in the snow, brushing needles off my jacket and out of my hair while contemplating every life choice that led me to that moment.

The tree lay on its side, looking rather sorry for itself. I felt a pang of guilt as I scrambled to my feet and hurried over to assess the damage. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be hurt—just a little rumpled. I grabbed the trunk and hefted it back upright.

“Sorry about that, beautiful,” I told the tree, patting one of its branches apologetically. “You’re right as rain. Someone will buy you and slap a thousand beautiful lights on you. Lights that work,” I added venomously and shot the broken strand a dark look.

Maybe getting tackled by a tree was exactly the motivation I needed. After going through the rest of the strand, I plugged it in, and hallelujah, it worked.

Light blazed to life, illuminating the entrance to our tree farm in cheerful colors. The sight of it made my heart lift despite just having my butt whooped by a tree.

I dusted the remaining snow off my jeans and jacket, though I suspected I was fighting a losing battle.

My hair was probably a disaster zone. I could still feel pine needles scratching against my neck.

But the lights were working, the tree was upright, and I had successfully avoided any actual profanity. All in all, not a bad day’s work.

As I trudged back up the slight hill toward the lodge, all I could think about was red wine, leftovers, and a warm fire.

But as I got closer to the lodge, my festive mood dimmed a little.

The building looked beautiful, all lit up with warm golden light spilling from every window and evergreen garland wrapped around the porch railings.

It looked exactly like the kind of place families would want to spend their holidays.

The problem was, there weren’t enough families wanting to spend their holidays here anymore.

I paused on the path, looking up at our family’s pride and joy with a heavy heart.

The Northwood Lodge was operating at about thirty percent capacity.

It was a record low that made my chest tight with worry.

I could remember when this place used to be bursting at the seams during the holiday season.

Families would book rooms a year in advance, and they’d pack in extended relatives on cots and sleeping bags because being together mattered more than having perfect accommodations.

Now some families booked separate rooms for their teenage kids rather than share a suite.

Togetherness didn’t seem to mean as much as it used to.

Everything was about convenience and personal space and having the latest gadgets to keep everyone entertained individually instead of finding entertainment in each other’s company.

The thought made me sadder than I wanted to admit.

This was going to be a challenging year.

Mom and Dad were breathing down my and Brom’s necks to restore the lodge and tree farm to its former glory, but how were we supposed to compete with big commercial tree lots and fancy resort destinations?

We were just a small family operation in a tiny mountain town that most people had never heard of.

And then there were the rumors floating around town about some business tycoon from New York City who supposedly had his sights set on property around Northwood.

Nobody knew exactly what that meant, but it had everyone on edge.

Local business owners were nervous. Long-time residents were worried.

Even the mayor seemed more stressed than usual.

Tomorrow, the day after Thanksgiving, Christmas season would officially begin. Our busiest time of year. Our make-or-break time. If we didn’t make decent money this year, there would not be a next year.

We all knew how important this season was. We were all going to be busting our butts trying to salvage our family legacy.

And while Mom had Dad and Brom had Stacy, I was alone.

Romance definitely wasn’t on the table for me this year.

I had way too much to worry about, way too much riding on making this season successful.

I had to focus. No distractions. Yes, I wanted the husband and family, and yes, my biological clock was moving from a ticking sound to a drumbeat, but it would have to wait.

“Sylvie! There you are!”

I looked up to see my brother Brom stepping out onto the porch with his wife, Stacy, beside him.

They both waved when they spotted me trudging up through the snow.

I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them.

Brom wrapped his arm around Stacy’s waist, pulling her close and dropping a kiss on top of her head.

The gesture sent a little pang through my chest.

They looked so perfect together, so settled and happy.

Brom was tall with the same dark hair and green eyes that ran in our family, while Stacy was petite and blonde and upbeat.

They’d been high school sweethearts, had weathered the storms of young adulthood, and had built this life together with their two beautiful children.

I loved seeing them happy, I really did. But it also made me acutely aware of how single I was, especially during the holidays when everything seemed designed for couples and families.

“You look like you’ve been wrestling with the trees,” Stacy called out, laughter in her voice.

“Just one tree,” I called back, making my way up the porch steps. “And I won.”

“That’s my sister,” Brom said proudly. “Everything working now?”

“The lights are fixed and the tree is upright,” I reported. “I’m calling it a victory.”

“The bar for victory keeps getting lower,” Stacy teased, but she was already ushering me toward the lodge entrance. “Come on, you must be frozen solid. Your mom’s been asking about you.”

We reached the front doors and I paused for a moment to look back over the property.

The tree farm stretched out below us, now properly illuminated with twinkling lights that reflected off the fresh snow.

Beyond that, the mountains rose up against the dark sky, creating the perfect backdrop for what should have been a thriving holiday destination.

It was beautiful. It was magical. It was everything a Christmas vacation should be.

So why weren’t more people coming?

I was immediately hit with a wave of warmth and cheerful noise that made my spirits lift despite everything.

The lodge was alive with activity in the great room.

Our guests were mingling and children’s laughter echoed from the main hall.

The soft sound of Christmas music played in the background.

I took off my coat and hung it on the hook, more needles falling to the floor.

“Sylvie, sweetheart!” My mother appeared almost immediately. “Look at you, all covered in snow and pine needles. Come sit by the fire and warm up.”

Before I could protest, she steered me toward the massive stone fireplace that dominated one wall of the main room. The fire crackled and filled the air with the scent of burning cedar.

I sank into one of the comfortable armchairs positioned near the hearth, grateful for the warmth that immediately began seeping into my frozen bones.

From this vantage point, I could see the entire main room of the lodge, and despite my worries about occupancy rates, I had to admit the scene was pretty wonderful.

Children were playing while their parents sipped spiked punch and chatted with other guests. Singles and couples had found cozy corners near the windows to watch the snow continue to fall outside.

Maybe some people still understood what the holidays were really about. Maybe there were still families out there who valued togetherness and tradition over convenience and commercialism. Maybe we just needed to find a way to reach them.

“Mind if I join you?” Brom’s voice interrupted my thoughts. He settled into the chair next to mine. It was just the two of us by the fire. It was just like when we were kids and would sneak down here on Christmas morning before anyone else was awake.

“How are you holding up?” he asked quietly, his voice pitched low so our conversation wouldn’t carry to the guests nearby.

I considered giving him some cheerful, everything-is-fine answer, but this was Brom. My older brother, my business partner, my best friend in the whole world. If I couldn’t be honest with him, who could I be honest with?

“I’m scared,” I admitted, staring into the dancing flames. “I’m scared this might be our last year, and that everything is about to change.”

Brom was quiet for a moment. When I glanced over at him, I could see the same worry reflected in his eyes that had been keeping me awake at night.

“Things are going to change,” he said finally. “The question is whether we can change with them, or whether change is going to happen to us.”

It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was honest, and I appreciated that about my brother. He had never been the type to blow sunshine up my skirt when reality was staring us both in the face.

“What if we can’t save it?” I whispered, voicing the fear that had been growing stronger every day. “What if everything our family built just… disappears? We’re like the seventh generation? We’re the ones that destroy over four hundred years of hard work? That sucks.”

“We’re not there yet, Sylvie. We’ve still got fight left in us.”

He was right. We weren’t defeated yet. Tomorrow was a new day, the start of a new season, and maybe this would be the year we figured out how to bring the magic back to Northwood.