Chapter 1
Chapter One
Winnifred
There’s always a black sheep in the family.
Always.
The one who somehow still manages to trip over the bar—even when it’s basically a speed bump? Yeah, that’s me. The human equivalent of a group text typo. The walking “we still love you, sweetie” at family dinners.
Yeah, I’m that person in the Wolfcraft family. They love me, sure. They also pity me. The worst part is that they try to fix me—all the time. As if I’m some sort of community service project wrapped in glitter glue and too many stories they don’t want to hear.
I’m the cautionary tale for my nieces and nephews. My siblings? They are out there achieving great things and collecting accolades like Pokémon. Me? I’m still trying to figure out how to file my taxes without crying because I hate numbers.
According to my accountant, it’d be so much easier if I had a system to pay my bills—and maybe fewer jobs.
I’m a consultant. A baker. A caterer. A freelance pet psychic once, but that was a weird week. I’m . . . versatile. That’s what my résumé says—in Comic Sans.
Look, I don’t want to blame my parents for my so-called life—but they definitely nudged me in that direction. Don’t believe me?
Who calls their child Winnifred Wendolynn Wolfcraft?
That’s triple alliteration. Triple trauma.
I was called the World Wide Web in middle school—WWW for short. It wasn’t funny—not to me. Instead of Winnie, everyone calls me Fred or Freddy. Why? Because there are way too many Winnies in the world. Why can’t they call me Winnifred? Win?
Nope, let’s call her Fred.
Why do people have to use nicknames to shorten every name? That’s just my pet peeve, of course.
But it’s fine. I’m in my early thirties. I’m. . . thriving-adjacent and this year? This is my year to win the holidays at the Wolfcraft family get-together.
Sure, Trish, my oldest sister, just made a partner at her firm.
Liz had baby number two with her trust-fund husband.
Ken got engaged, and—what did Glenn do again?
Buy a house? No, that was last year. A car?
A boat? Something with four wheels or zero.
Honestly, I don’t keep track. The point is that they’re all overachievers.
I’m what we call in the family a barely-chiever.
Yes, it’s a term at the Wolfcrafts’. It was created during one of our “friendly” game nights.
Not to worry, though, this year I might be on their overachiever list—or what Mom calls The Wolfcraft Howler, which is just the holiday letter that goes to all our family and friends.
“Who are you talking to now?”
I jump, nearly spilling my coffee. Soren Thorn, my not-so-charming, curmudgeonly, and highly irritable neighbor, glares at me from the side of his fence like he’s auditioning for the role of HOA President in a post-apocalyptic drama.
“If you must know,” I say, gesturing to the kennel beside me, “Skylar is right here.”
He lets out a groan that sounds like it’s aged in bourbon. “You’re back to pet-sitting?”
“You sound just like my mother.”
“No, I sound like a concerned neighbor who doesn’t want to lose another succulent.”
I glance at the other side of the fence. His deck doesn’t have any plants. There’s some xeriscaping on the front porch. I don’t think he knows what a succulent is, but he has to bitch about everything.
“You have, like, one plant. And it’s not a succulent. That’s a plastic aloe I got you from the grocery store.”
Please don’t ask me why I got him the plant because I don’t remember.
I had to make up for something. Soren Thorn and I have a very complicated relationship.
Too complicated. I should be thankful that, like me, he doesn’t get along with his family, or he’d be telling them everything that I do. Everything.
Or maybe we have this silent agreement where whatever happens in Colorado stays here and doesn’t go back to Winterberry Cove.
In a world where you can run away from your past, there’s always one person from that miserable small town who follows you because karma likes to screw with you. For me, that’d be Soren.
And the worst part is that we can’t get along. We’re like frenemies, neighbor edition. He likes order, and according to him, I’m some kind of punishment. I mean, he didn’t say that literally, but one time, he was like, ‘What did I do to deserve you as a neighbor?’ So it’s the same thing, right?
“Even if it’s plastic, it’s still a plant in spirit,” he argues.
“You’re thirty-eight, and you complain like you’re pushing eighty.” I cross my arms. “And for the record, none of my clients have ever damaged your plant.”
“Lucy,” he fires back. “She demolished my lemon balm, chased the squirrels into oblivion, and knocked over the birdbath.”
Should I remind him that he hated the lemon balm and the birdbath was mine?
No, I’ll let him sit on that one. Lucy? Lucy was a Great Dane with the personality of a wrecking ball.
When I was puppy-sitting for her, she saw a squirrel and launched herself like a furry missile, and the rest is horticultural history.
If anyone asks, it’s totally the landlord’s fault.
The fence between Soren’s townhouse and mine is a proud three-foot-tall—basically a knee-high encouragement for dra-maaa.
But you won’t hear a peep from me because they haven’t raised my rent since I moved in.
Either they’re benevolent angels sent to protect me .
. . or they’ve completely forgotten I exist. Honestly, I’m not taking any chances.
I’m keeping my head down, my mouth shut, and my rent exactly where it is.
One complaint and they might remember I’m here—and I’m not emotionally or financially prepared for yet another issue in my life story.
“And I learned my lesson,” I say, holding up a hand. “No dogs over fifty pounds. Or with revenge in their hearts.”
“She was a horse.”
I give him an unamused glare. “She was a dog. Do we need to pull out the classification book again, Soren?”
He narrows his eyes. “Do not distract me. Why do you have a cat in your house?”
“As I mentioned, her name is Skylar. She’s not just a cat. And if you keep glowering like that, I’m going to start calling you that curmudgeonly guy who happens to live next door.”
He lets out a world-weary sigh that probably echoes into the next time zone. Look, I don’t try to get under his skin. I truly don’t. But on days like this, it feels practically therapeutic. It’s so easy to fluster him.
Also, distracting him is key before he calls the landlord and gets me evicted for harboring a cat.
Skylar is my cousin Aiden’s pet—her emotional support gremlin.
She had to visit her bestie in Birchwood Springs, and I was the only one not bound to a real adult schedule.
So here I am, caretaker to the feline princess.
“Winnifred, I swear to—”
“Watch the language,” I cut in, pointing at the cat. “She’s impressionable. If she starts swearing, Aiden’s gonna blame me, and we both know therapy for cats is not cheap.”
His arms cross like he’s about to stage an intervention. “Your cousin?”
“Yes, Aiden. You’ve met her. Remember? She brought those cupcakes you refused to eat because they had glitter on them?”
“The one who taught you how to bake?”
I nod with a proud smile. “Exactly. So, really, you owe her. Without her, I’d still be pet-sitting full-time, and you’d still be passive-aggressively reporting me to the condo board.”
“What?”
“I sacrificed for you, Soren.” I let out a sigh that deserves its own slow-motion montage. “I gave up my furry clientele, my beloved side hustle, for the peace and tranquility of your fake aloe plant. The least you could do is let this cat exist in peace for the next few days.”
“You should’ve been a lawyer,” Soren mutters like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I still haven’t figured out how to win an argument with you.”
“Well, yeah, but then I’d be copying Trish,” I say, shuddering dramatically. “And that’s a huge no-no in my family.”
He tilts his head. “Why?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a Wolfcraft secret. I can’t divulge private information. It’s not as if you start giving me Thorn secrets to form an alliance.”
“Our families aren’t enemies.” He glares at me.
“They’re not close either. Not since your brother broke up with Liz . . . remember that?” I smile proudly because, unlike him, I do keep up with what’s happening between the Thorns and the Wolfcrafts. See, this is precisely why we’re frenemies. We never stood a chance.
He rubs his temples with one hand while probably doing those breathing exercises I taught him last year when he was stressing out about everything.
“That was almost twenty years ago, Fred. You have to move on,” he tries to use his best ‘I’m fucking calm’ voice. “Plus, whatever happens in Winterberry Cove is none of my business.”
He’s right. We have an agreement, and he doesn’t get along with his family.
“If you must know, my parents have this . . . let’s call it a ‘competitive parenting kink.’ It’s like Olympic-level one-upping.
‘I’m better than you,’ meets ‘this child must be better and completely different than the others.’ As you’re aware, I’m the youngest, so I’m pretty fucked. ”
Soren stares at me for a beat, then lets out a snort. “They really set you up for failure.”
“Right?” I throw my hands up. “Honestly, I’m just grateful I made it to adulthood with minimal therapy and only a mild addiction to cake frosting.”
“Should we talk about your chocolate habit?”
I gasp, hand over my heart. “Are you shaming my chocolate consumption, Soren? That’s . . . you’re being hurtful.”
He shakes his head with a smirk. “Obviously not. I’m just bringing up—”
“Don’t. It’s a coping mechanism, not a crime.”
Soren lifts a brow. “So tell me, how are you planning to claw your way onto this year’s prestigious Wolfcraft family nomination board?”
“Ah, the annual Hunger Games of the holiday season,” I muse. “So glad you asked.”