Cookies & Claws (Cozy Christmas Collective #2)

Chapter 1

HAZEL

“Fake it till you make it, Hazel.”

That’s what Dad would tell me if he could see me right now.

I tighten my grip on the handle of my beaten leather suitcase until my fingers ache, the brass key warm in my palm like it’s daring me to use it. One deep breath, and I look up at the little cottage in front of me.

“Well, Pretzel,” I whisper to the hedgehog nestled in my coat pocket, “this is home now.”

He chitters, unimpressed, poking his head out as if to take in the peeling paint and the shutter dangling from a single hinge. Okay, so it’s not exactly a gingerbread house—but it’s ours. I knew what I was getting into when I called the realtor after seeing the photos and description online.

The winter wind nips at my cheeks, whipping strands of blue-and-blonde hair across my face. Pretzel ducks back into my pocket and curls into a ball. My fingers tingle from the cold and the tension in my grip. I need to keep moving before I lose sensation entirely.

“Don’t worry, it just needs a little TLC.

We’ll fix it up. Paint it. Maybe string some Christmas lights.

Set up a tree to cozy the place up. You’ll see.

” Once I’m settled into my new job and the winter storms calm down, I’ll make this place my own.

As long as it keeps the elements—and the beasts—out, it’ll do.

I push open the door, and the first thing that greets me is the smell of dust and disuse. The place isn’t perfect. But as dim light filters through the French doors overlooking the forest, I can’t help thinking this place chose me. And maybe—just maybe—I chose right.

I wanted a fresh start; I needed one. The job listing in Pinetop appeared in my inbox the same day my world was falling apart, and I didn’t think twice before applying.

My parents had spent their winter honeymoon in the magical small town of Pinetop, a place mostly inhabited by the paranormal.

They’d always talked about going back and taking me, but they never got the chance.

Trip after trip, I unload boxes from my tiny yellow car, stacking them into neat little mountains: living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom.

My entire life, packed and labeled, starting over in one small house a week before Christmas.

My parents would’ve laughed at the sight—another “fix-me-up” project.

I was always finding things to mend and restore.

New hobbies. Things to heal. I couldn’t help it; my magic sings in my veins when I create something.

They would’ve helped me move, hugged me tight, and told me they were proud despite my ambitions.

My first house.

Alone.

I blink hard. Not now.

The sound of laughter startles me. I look over just in time to see the neighbor’s door fly open. A plump brunette chases two boys, maybe four and six, who shriek with joy as they dart into the cold air, scarves trailing behind them. The sight tugs at something in my chest, bittersweet and warm.

She catches them with the ease of a practiced mother, then looks over with a smile. “You must be the new tenant.”

I juggle the last box and shake her hand, feeling the faintest zing of magic hum between our palms.

“Hazelmarie Tolbert,” I say.

Her eyebrows lift. “Tolbert—bright valley. And a witch. Well, it’s been ages since we’ve had one move into town. I’m Marygold. My husband runs the brewery, and I keep busy with these two whirlwinds.”

“Nice to meet you.” I smile, a little shy but grateful. “Fresh start for me. New job, new house… figured it was time.”

“Fresh starts are the best kind of magic,” she replies warmly. “If you need anything, just holler. Though we’re off visiting family for Christmas break starting tomorrow, I’ll bake you a pie when we’re back.”

My heart clenches. Mom was always baking for those in need. The neighbor’s kindness nearly undoes me, but I keep my smile steady. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”

Marygold waves her boys toward the car. “One tip before I go—stock up on firewood. Storms can be tricky up here. Nothing a cozy fire and mug of cocoa can’t fix, though.”

And just like that, she’s gone, leaving the air filled with echoes of children’s laughter.

I turn back to my house and square my shoulders. “See, Pretzel? We’re not alone. We’re going to make this work. We’ve got friendly neighbors and a roof over our heads.”

Inside, I tear open boxes until I find my great-grandmother’s cast-iron kettle. It takes a couple nervous clicks, but the stove lights, and soon the sound of bubbling water fills the quiet house.

“Now for the real work.” I sneeze as I start wiping dust from the cabinets and countertops.

Opening a door in the kitchen, I find an old broom.

It doesn’t take long to sweep—the floors are all wood except for the tiled bathrooms. I sigh, leaning on the broom and wiping sweat from my forehead just as the kettle begins to whistle.

I pour steaming water over the chai tea bag in my snowflake mug, drizzle in honey, and sink into the pile of blankets I’d unboxed on the floor, Pretzel perched beside me.

I couldn’t afford to move the heavy oak furniture, and the new owner bought most of it when they purchased Mom and Dad’s house.

It isn’t the first time I’ve slept on the floor with just a sleeping bag and blankets.

My eyes catch on the box labeled Christmas decorations, and I settle my resolve. I’ll look for furniture in town later this week and make plans to get a bed and couch—but first, I need a tree. We always had one, no matter what.

I glance around the small living room and kitchen. It’s not the family home. It’s not perfect. But as the tea warms my hands, I feel it—that fragile, flickering spark of hope.

Maybe this Christmas won’t be so lonely after all.