Chapter 1 #2
She’s standing nose-to-nose with someone, and it appears the target of her wrath is Buffy—the aforementioned newly discovered sister who’s been nothing but delightful since she arrived in Cider Cove with her labradoodle and her infectious smile.
Unlike Macy’s dance club attire, Buffy is wearing a cozy Christmas sweater with dancing reindeer and has the kind of relaxed, approachable vibe that makes you want to invite her over for hot chocolate and gossip sessions that last until dawn.
Buffy looks just like me—same medium-length dark hair, same denim blue eyes, and same knack for inadvertently prying into gray matter.
Only her extraterrestrial skills seem to be limited to the furry among us—a blessing in disguise if you ask me.
They always seem to have better things to say than humans.
But much like me, she keeps her talents under wraps.
Only a few people know that I can read minds—Buffy, Emmie, her husband Leo who also shares the gift or curse as it were (depending on the day and what people are thinking), Georgie, and, of course, my handsome hubby Jasper—who happens to be on his way here and I can hardly wait to see him.
“I need to go shut this down before Macy goes full Frosty with a vengeance,” I say, power-walking toward the escalating drama, and what looks like the opening scene of a holiday horror movie.
As I get closer, I catch fragments of their conversation, and surprise, surprise—the tussle seems to be about business. Because everything with Macy eventually comes back to dollars and more often than not, no sense.
“It’s a completely inappropriate holiday display strategy—” Macy says with a smile so tight it could crack a candy cane—and probably a few teeth.
“I was just trying to create a welcoming atmosphere,” Buffy replies sweetly, like she hasn’t just been verbally mauled by someone in designer clothing.
“Macy!” I call out with a voice so chipper that I deserve a medal. “Enjoying the festivities?”
“Bizzy,” she snips. “Perfect. I was just explaining to Buffy here about proper business protocol during the holiday season.” I’d like to push her into that punch bowl and watch her perfect hair get soaked and maybe fall out.
That would really teach her a lesson, Macy thinks to herself as she broadens her smile in Buffy’s direction.
Oh wow, I’d better stage an intervention.
“I’m sure Buffy is thrilled by the unsolicited mentorship,” I say with a sugary smile.
Buffy shoots me a grateful look that suggests she’s been wanting an escape route for the past ten minutes. Her denim blue eyes—so remarkably similar to my own that it still catches me off guard—sparkle with relief.
“You would take her side,” Macy huffs my way like a dragon with indigestion.
“But I’ll have you both know, some of us care about maintaining standards in this town,” she snaps, then stalks off in the direction of the exit, her heels clicking against the floor with the staccato rhythm of an angry woodpecker with a serious attitude problem.
Buffy exhales. “Well, that was about as fun as hugging a cactus in a snowstorm.”
“Sorry about her,” I say with a painful smile. “Macy’s got all the Christmas spirit of the Grinch with a hangover. I keep hoping she’ll come around, but so far, she’s been about as welcoming as a blizzard in July. And like I said, I’m sorry about it, too.”
“It’s not your fault,” Buffy says, reaching down to give Skittles a gentle pat. “Honestly,” she says, stroking Skittles’ ears, “Huxley’s been so warm and welcoming. It’s nice to have at least one sibling who’s not plotting my social demise. Well, two counting you.”
“I am officially forever on your side. Just don’t tell Macy,” I say, and we share a quick laugh.
This is exactly why I adore Buffy and exactly why Macy’s behavior makes me want to shake her until her perfectly styled hair falls out. Our brother Huxley embraced our newfound sister with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever meeting a new playmate,
while Macy’s been acting like there’s a limited number of sibling spots open and she’s not about to give up hers without a fight.
“I’ll figure out a way to bring her around,” I promise, although honestly, I have about as much chance of changing Macy’s mind as I do of teaching Fish to play fetch.
Bizzy!
I turn toward the familiar voice and spot two adorable furballs racing in my direction.
Jellybean, Matilda Westoff’s black and white spotted cat, launches herself into my arms with her perpetually cheerful expression, while Fudge, a West Highland White Terrier, follows close behind with enough energy to power Santa’s sleigh.
“Well, hello there, beautiful,” I coo to Jellybean, giving her the kind of scratch behind the ears that makes her purr like a tiny motor. “And you, too, handsome,” I add, bending down to give Fudge his required pat before he starts plotting his furry little revenge.
“There you are, my darlings.” The voice behind me sounds like silk-wrapped steel with a sprinkle of frostbite.
I look up to see Matilda Westoff approaching with the kind of presence that makes rooms fall silent and lesser mortals check their posture.
She’s tall, statuesque, and radiating the kind of executive-level poise that suggests she could run a Fortune 500 company before breakfast and still have energy left over to conquer a small country.
Her auburn hair has a distinguished silver streak that she wears like a crown, and her burgundy velvet dress coordinates perfectly with pearl accessories that probably have their own insurance policy.
” And she happens to be sporting a glare that could defrost a turkey.
Not only does she own and run a successful blueberry farm that happens to have a chocolate factory on the grounds, but the woman is a legend in the lifestyle world.
She’s been on every major network dispensing wisdom about everything from holiday entertaining to home organization with the kind of authority that makes Martha Stewart look like an amateur who’s just figuring out how to boil water.
In her arms is her granddaughter, baby Matilda—Hammie Mae’s six-month-old daughter, who apparently inherited the family genius genes and is already making the rest of us look intellectually challenged.
Rumor has it, little Matilda hasn’t been leapfrogging over her growth milestones, she’s been pole-vaulting over them and into the next galaxy.
“They’re right here causing no trouble, as usual,” I tease the woman, gently setting Jellybean down while giving Fudge one last scratch.
But Matilda isn’t looking at me or her pets. Her attention is focused on something—or someone—behind me, and her expression has shifted from politely social to the kind of dangerous that usually precedes either a boardroom takeover or a declaration of war. Possibly both.
“Balthasar Thornfield? What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps, and the venom in her voice could melt the snow outside.
I turn to see who’s captured her attention and spot a man dressed as Santa Claus—though this is no jolly old elf from the North Pole. He’s tall, distinguished, with silver hair and a beard that look natural rather than fake.
The red velvet Santa suit is clearly custom-tailored, and he’s carrying a large gift bag that looks stuffed with presents.
But there’s something about his steel blue eyes that makes me pause.
They look sharp enough to cut steel and filled with the kind of condescending arrogance that makes you want to check your wallet and your dignity.
This guy looks like he was hired to scare elves straight.
Matilda growls out a laugh in the man’s direction. “Calling you Santa is like calling a shark a goldfish—technically accurate in the most ironic way possible.”
A round of gasps circles the vicinity as the crowd grows by the second.
“Matilda,” he says with the kind of oily charm that makes my skin crawl. “How delightful to see you at this... quaint little gathering.”
The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees, and I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with the December weather outside.
This is about to get interesting, Fish mewls from her window perch.
Define interesting, Sherlock barks back nervously.
The kind of interesting where Bizzy finds another body, Fish says with what sounds suspiciously like anticipation. Here we go, she mewls. Holiday smackdown, the deluxe edition.
Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed—a showdown with Santa while I’m trying to host the social event of the season.
“Balthasar,” Matilda says, and she manages to make his name sound like a particularly unpleasant medical diagnosis that comes with a pamphlet and a really expensive treatment plan. “I thought I made myself clear about your presence at community events.”
“Now, now,” Santa says, still smiling that shark smile that makes me want to check for missing limbs. “Surely, we can be civilized during the holiday season? After all, ’tis the season for forgiveness and goodwill toward men.”
“Not toward men who—”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” I call out with my fake cheer turned up to eleven. “The evening’s festivities are just getting started!”
But even as I’m speaking, I can feel the tension crackling between these two like electricity during a thunderstorm. Whatever history they have, it’s about as friendly as a cage match between hungry wolverines.
And something tells me this Christmas is about to get a lot more complicated than velvet bows, holiday desserts, and Georgie’s quest for seasonal romance.
Told you it was going to get interesting, Fish purrs smugly.
My cat is never wrong.
Merry Christmas to me.