Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The Knit and Kettle coffee shop fogs its own windows like it’s proud of being warm.
Carols crackle from a retro radio, and the café smells like honey, espresso, and the snug comfort of freshly baked things.
A fire nestles in the recessed hearth; along the mantel, knit stockings and twinkle lights do their level best to out-cheer winter.
Every table has a poinsettia and a tiny tealight.
I slump into a corner chair and try very hard not to be charmed.
My Christmas sweater has acquired permanent glitter thanks to yesterday’s chaos, and my mittens steam on the radiator like exhausted hedgehogs.
The barista slides two chunky mugs across to us—peppermint mocha for Marcy, gingerbread latte for me—both crowned with whipped cream and a dusting of nutmeg.
My best friend sips her drink, her gaze heavy with barely concealed amusement. Her long, dark curls behave like they’ve signed a contract with a shampoo company. Mine attempt ‘curl’ and achieve ‘festive static’—as if I lost a fight with a helium balloon.
“Soooo,” she says, drawing the word out like she’s savoring it. “How’s the Christmas festival prep going?”
The glacial stare I send Marcy is cooler than the icicles hanging from the frozen gutters outside. “Fantastic. Nothing says festive spirit like rogue elves destroying half the town square and stealing the centerpiece of your event.”
“Rogue elves?” she snorts, nearly choking. She dabs at her mouth with a red-and-white striped napkin that bears an uncanny resemblance to elf hosiery—and to the stockings that flashed across my vision as they made off with the Christmas lights. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” I ask, gesturing at my frazzled hair and the faint glitter embedded in my Fair Isle knit.
Even my beloved clipboard slumps in defeat beside the sugar caddy.
“They wrecked the entire square. The tree is gone. And to top it off, Nick bloody Draven decided to show up and…” I wave my hands vaguely, searching for the right words.
“...do his whole brooding, smug vampire thing.”
I stir my latte with a gingerbread man until his head falls off. Accidental. Mostly.
“As in the Nick Draven? Mr. Tall, Dark, and Infuriating?” Marcy slurps her peppermint mocha and leans in closer, eager to hear the gossip.
I groan, letting my head fall to the table with a dull thud. “Yes, that Nick. He’s impossible, Marcy. He showed up in the middle of everything, all silver eyes and fangy smiles, like he owns the place. And then he had the audacity to act like he was helping.”
Marcy snickers, and I want to throttle her. She moved to Willow Creek after a spectacularly bad breakup and we quickly became good friends. She hasn’t quite let go of the fallout, which means everyone else’s love life is now apparently community entertainment.
“Well, at least he isn’t Josh,” she says.
“Low bar,” I mutter.
“Did he help?”
“No,” I snap, lifting my head only to be faced with Marcy’s knowing look and deep brown eyes that refuse to let me get out of this. “Alright, technically, he helped, inasmuch as he chased the elves off. But he was insufferable about it and, apparently, he wants to help me track the tree down.”
She grins. Widely. “Sounds nice of him.”
The barista sets down a plate with two cranberry-orange scones and a ramekin of clotted cream because the Knit and Kettle understands emotional triage.
I scoff and chug back my gingerbread latte, slamming the festive cup down on the table in protest.
“He’ll want something in return. He always does.”
Marcy rests her chin on her hand. “Sounds like your mind is already made up about him. What did he do to earn you eternal wrath?”
The fire crackles in the background, and for a moment, I watch the flames as they twist and leap.
I wish I had that kind of energy, that ability to keep burning, no matter what’s thrown my way.
Right now, all I feel is the creeping dread of what else could go wrong, especially now that Marcy’s got me talking about Nick Draven.
“He just… turns up,” I say, dragging my gaze back to Marcy. “Exactly where I don’t want him. Offering opinions. Judging everything. It’s like I can’t do anything without him appearing out of nowhere to comment on it.”
Marcy’s smile widens.
“I swear he’s doing it on purpose. Like I’ve personally offended him by existing,” I add.
“He waltzes into town and thinks he can do whatever he wants because he’s—what’s the phrase he used?
‘Older than Christmas.’” I roll my eyes.
“And don’t even get me started on that ridiculous blood bar of his. ”
Marcy snorts again. “You mean Hemoglow?”
“Yes, Hemoglow,” I say, mimicking air quotes.
“Who names a bar that? It sounds like a vampire nightclub designed by a marketing committee and a fog machine. He turned a perfectly nice, old tavern into some vampire haven where people actually volunteer to let him and his friends drink their blood. And somehow, I’m the one who gets side-eyes in this town for saying I don’t think it’s right. ”
“The place is popular,” Marcy says in a tone that suggests she’s about to say something scandalous. “You’ve seen the line outside on Friday nights. Honestly, if Nick wanted to have a nibble, I’d probably roll up my sleeve and ask if he wanted it shaken or stirred.”
She giggles and rolls her eyes suggestively, and then her hair decides to join in, adding more insult to injury.
Marcy isn’t remotely interested in Nick, or anyone else for that matter, but she likes a good flirt from time to time.
She also enjoys winding me up, and that, apparently, isn’t a challenge when it comes to a certain vampire.
My fingers pull at the sleeve of my Christmas sweater, adjusting it unnecessarily as I scoff. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound?”
Marcy laughs, leaning back in her chair with a smug little smirk. “I’m just saying, if Nick Draven asked me to volunteer, I’d consider it. Those cheekbones? That jawline? He could ask me to alphabetize his blood fridge and I’d probably swoon.”
“You’re gross,” I say, shaking my head. “Also, never say ‘blood fridge’ in a café where pastries are trying their best.”
She shrugs. “Fine, but you’re deflecting. What’s the real issue with him? You’ve had it in for him since the day he arrived, and while I get it—vampires, blood bars, smugness—this feels more personal than that.”
The conversation’s sudden change of direction catches me off guard. My gaze flickers back to the fire, the flames licking at the logs with lazy persistence.
“It’s not personal,” I lie, and even my latte foam judges me.
“It’s totally personal,” Marcy counters, her grin widening. “Spill.”
I press my lips together, reluctant to dive into the mess that is my history with Nick. But Marcy’s enthusiasm is unrelenting, and I know she won’t let it go.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “The first time we met, he told me humans were ‘predictably small-minded.’”
“That feels like he was joking. You’re really that bothered by something he said that long ago?”
“Okay. Two things.” I sip my coffee, thinking about what I’m about to say and how childish it sounds. “When I told him I was the event planner for the Christmas Gala, he laughed at me. He actually laughed. Like I’d said I was hosting a gala for squirrels.”
Marcy winces. “Oof.”
“Yeah, oof,” I echo bitterly. “He’s been condescending since day one.
I know Willow Creek has other events. You handle Valentine’s.
Amy does Easter. But Christmas is mine, and it’s important to me.
My mom pulled strings to get me this job.
If I can just make it work, really work, it’s the kind of thing people notice.
If I pull this off, I stop being ‘her daughter’ and start being me. ”
I huff out a breath.
“And now, I’m supposed to believe he’s suddenly interested in helping? I don’t buy it. He probably thinks it’ll be entertaining to watch me fail.”
“You’re not going to fail,” Marcy says, suddenly all steel wrapped in a cable-knit.
I let out a humorless laugh. “You’re confident.”
“That’s because I know you,” she says simply. “You care too much to let this year’s gala flop. Besides, it’s not just about the tree or the decorations. You’ve been working on this for months. The whole town can see how much effort you’ve put into it.”
I toy with corrugated sleeves. Warmth leaks into my fingers.
It’s ridiculous how much I need that. I’ve been under more pressure than I want to admit, and although it’s been difficult, I know that the town is counting on me.
I’ve got to deliver the Willow Creek Winter Wonderland and make the gala the best we’ve ever had—for the town, as well as for myself.
“It’s more than that,” I admit softly. “More than the gala. It’s about proving that I’m not...a complete disaster.”
Marcy frowns. “Who said you’re a disaster?”
“No one,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Not outright, anyway. It’s just…
the expectations are always there. My mom built her career on events people still talked about years later, and I’m the one who set a town wreath on fire during last year’s Christmas festival.
” I bury my head in my hands. “There’s a video.
It has views. More views than this town has people. ”
Marcy snickers, failing to hide her amusement.
“To be fair, the wreath was impressive,” Marcy says. “It’s more that wrapping it in enough fairy lights to illuminate an oil tanker with only one extension cord has consequences.”
She gets a look. It joins the pile of looks she’s ignored before.
“Exactly my point. People remember the disasters. And this gala is my chance to prove I have what it takes. That I can do this. That I can do something that matters.”
“I don’t think anyone expected you to proactively plan for a tree kidnapping by stray elves.”
“This is Willow Creek. Normal around here is what other people call a government inquiry.”
“This is just a small blip.”
It’s more than a blip to me.
It feels like everything.
Every late night spent poring over plans, using every ounce of energy to make this event perfect, it all feels like it’s teetering on the edge of collapse.
And the worst part? If it does fall apart, I don’t know if I’ll be able to convince myself to try again.
The gala was supposed to be my moment, my chance to show the town—and my mom—that I’m more than a backup plan.
But all I’ve managed to do is make a mess of everything.
And now a literal vampire wants to help, which is either fate being kind or fate being bored.
Marcy leans forward, her expression earnest now. “Holly, you’ve got nothing to prove. Anyone who knows you can see how much heart you put into everything you do. You’re not your mom, and you don’t have to be. You’re you. And honestly? That’s more than enough.”
I blink, her words catching me off guard. “That’s disgustingly sweet, Marcy. Are you feeling okay?”
She laughs, tossing her napkin at me. “Don’t ruin the moment, Frost. I’m trying to be a good friend here.”
I smile despite myself, the tight knot in my chest loosening a little.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself.
But then the memory of the destroyed square and the missing tree flashes in my mind, and my shoulders sag again.
This gala is supposed to make everyone feel like Christmas is magical, even after the awful year that Willow Creek’s had, and I can’t help but think I’ve let everyone down. Again.
Marcy reaches across the table, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. And if Nick Draven wants to help, let him. Even smug vampires have their uses.”
“Like driving me up the wall?” I mutter.
“Or driving you against a wall?” she adds, because friendship is suffering.
“Marcy!” I swat at her, and heat rushes into my face.
“Seriously, Holly,” she laughs. “Don’t let him distract you. You’ve got a town rooting for you, even if they don’t always say it. And if anyone can pull off a miracle, it’s you.”
I manage a weak smile, Marcy’s confidence in me a balm I didn’t know I needed.
Her words sink in as I stare down at the remnants of my gingerbread latte, and it’s not like I haven’t heard similar encouragement before—my mom always tells me I have potential, that I’m capable.
But potential is a nice word for not quite there yet.
And that’s the weight I’ve been carrying for as long as I can remember: the need to prove I’m more than the quirky girl who makes mistakes.
More than the daughter of the Hollywood event planner.
More than the girl who thought she could make a flaming wreath work.
The bell above the café door jingles, and a gust of icy wind sweeps in, carrying with it the scent of snow and pine. I glance up and freeze as a familiar figure steps inside.
Nick Draven.
Of course.
What’s a peaceful morning without a dash of smug vampire to spice things up?
Snowflakes dust his dark hair and coat, the sharp lines of his face somehow making the cozy café feel like the wrong backdrop for him.
His silver eyes scan the room briefly before landing on me, and a slow, infuriatingly confident smirk spreads across his lips.
Even in the soft light, he has that prowly elegance—like a wolf who learned table manners and now critiques cutlery.
And naturally, because the universe hates me, he looks completely unfazed by the cold, the chaos, or life in general.
“Speak of the devil,” Marcy murmurs as he saunters toward the counter. “The staggeringly, stunningly gorgeous devil.”
The snowflakes surrender on Nick’s shoulders, and he dusts them off with theatrical care, the way some men check a watch they don’t actually need.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” I hiss, already regretting every life choice that’s led to this moment.
But Marcy just sips her mocha, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who, me? I wouldn’t dream of it.”