Merry Kissmas, Baby (Seasons of Sizzle #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

DAHLIA

By the time I turn off the highway and onto the snow-packed road that leads into the town I used to call home, my fingers are cramped around the steering wheel.

“You’ll be fine. Everything is going to be fine,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just home.”

Except it hasn’t been home in a long time. Not really.

I’m just coming home from Christmas. It’s no big deal.

It just feels like a big deal because of certain… recent events.

The welcome sign looms ahead. It’s the same hand-painted mountains and spruce trees with the same cheerful slogan about adventure calling. Someone has added a string of battery-operated lights around the edges so the whole thing blinks red and green.

It’s adorable in a painfully earnest way this town has always specialized in.

My throat tightens anyway.

I left this place with my entire life crammed into the back of a hatchback and a promise that I was never coming back for more than a quick visit. Then years went by where I didn’t come back at all.

It was easier to send gifts, excuses, and carefully cropped photos than to stand here and feel like the girl who never seemed to fit.

But when Molly called last week sounding completely exhausted, the words tripping over each other as she said things like “I’m fine” and “I’m just tired” and “we already promised both sides of the family we’d host,” I heard the truth in her voice.

She needed me.

So here I am, rattling into town with a trunk full of presents, my suitcase, and exactly zero idea what I’m doing with my life.

Molly’s little A-frame house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac looking like it belongs in a Hallmark movie.

Every roofline is trimmed with twinkle lights.

Someone has a blow-up penguin in a scarf waving cheerfully in the middle of their yard.

There’s a fresh coating of snow that muffles the crunch of my tires as I pull up in front of my sister’s place.

Her porch light clicks on. The front door opens before I even shut off the engine.

Molly steps out onto the porch, wrapped in an oversized sweater and leggings, her pale green eyes framed by dark half-moons. She looks exactly like herself and not like herself at the same time.

I shove the car into park and climb out, the cold air cutting through my travel-stale clothes.

“You look like a Christmas marshmallow in all that,” she says, opening her arms.

“You look like you haven’t slept since July.”

“It feels like it sometimes.”

I cross the shoveled walkway and hug her tight. She feels smaller, bonier under my arms, and for a second I want to shake her and then wrap her in bubble wrap.

She squeezes me back, then leans away to study my face. “You made it.”

“Of course I made it.” I try for breezy. “Did you really think I was going to miss watching you orchestrate the Great Christmas Peace Summit?”

“That is not what we’re calling it.”

“We should. It sounds more impressive than ‘everyone’s coming and half of them barely speak to the other half.’”

She winces. “You’re not wrong.”

Inside, her house smells like pine and cinnamon and the faint trace of whatever candle she forgot to blow out. The tree in the corner is lit but undecorated.

The rest of the living room looks like the aftermath of a tinsel bomb.

There are open boxes, half-strung garlands, and three rolls of wrapping paper leaning against the couch.

I toe off my boots and hang my coat. “So, how bad is it?”

Molly sinks onto the couch like someone pulled her batteries. “Define bad.”

I wince. “That good?”

She drags her hair into a messy knot and stares at the coffee table, which is currently hosting a planner, an empty mug, and a crumpled list that looks like it’s been written and rewritten half a dozen times.

“Okay,” she says eventually. “Logistics. Both sets of our parents get here tomorrow afternoon. Bradley’s grandma and some of her friends are driving up from the senior center the day after. Don’t even get me started on the cousin situation.”

I arch an eyebrow. “What’s the cousin situation?”

She grimaces. “I’m hoping it’ll work itself out.”

I pull a face. “And you promised Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas morning brunch.”

“I know. I’m an idiot.”

“Plus stockings, plus carols, plus the magical small-town holiday experience.” I look up from the list. “Forget being an idiot. You’re insane.”

“In my defense, I was feeling very optimistic when we agreed to this.” Her smile flutters, then falls. “I had more energy.”

There it is again. That careful phrase.

I sink onto the cushion beside her. “You still haven’t told them?”

“Not yet.” She presses her palms over her eyes. “It’s too early and I don’t want to jinx anything, and what if something goes wrong?” She releases a shuddering breath. “I can barely convince my own body to stay awake right now, let alone deal with everyone’s questions.”

My chest softens. “Then we get through it. We smile. We make sure you rest. And I run interference until you’re ready.”

Her hands drop and she gives me a watery grin. “You came home to run interference.”

“I came home because you’re my sister.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “The interfering is a bonus.”

She laughs quietly, then lets her head fall back against the couch. “I’m so tired. I get up, I give Pigeon her fluids, I answer a few emails, and then I need a nap. Bradley keeps telling me we can cancel Christmas, but Mom already bought matching sweaters. You know how she gets.”

I do. Our mother and her damn traditions. She wields them like a weapon.

“Then we adjust,” I say. “You don’t have to cancel Christmas. You just have to outsource it. Lucky for you, I happen to be very skilled at bossing people around.”

Molly turns her head and studies me for a long moment. “You’d really take over?”

“I’ll cook, decorate, coordinate, and run interference. You rest, smile, and eat whatever smells good. When you get tired, we blame jet lag. Or altitude. Or the fact that you spent the last year running your own business and planning a wedding.”

She blinks fast, eyes bright. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Please. I tell you where to hide your good chocolate when you visit me. We’re even.”

She snorts again and swipes under one eye. “Okay. Deal. I’ll let you run the show. Just, if Mom starts asking why I’m not pouring wine, step in before she remembers what happened the last time she suspected I was pregnant.”

“That was once,” I protest.

“She bought a onesie before I even took a test.”

“Fair.”

Her phone buzzes on the table. She glances at it and grimaces.

“Speaking of invitations to chaos, Angela and Heidi are trying to put together a girls’ night cookie exchange in a few days. They want to know if we’re free.”

“Girls’ night,” I repeat, a flicker of warmth lighting in my chest at the names. “Tell them you’re not. Tell them I might be.”

Molly opens the text and frowns at the screen. “I’m just going to say I’m wiped right now and see if they’ll let me send you as our representative.”

“Glad to be the emissary of sugar and gossip.”

She taps out the message, then drops the phone again. “God, I’m exhausted just from talking.”

“Perfect, because I need your grocery list.”

She groans. “I should come with you.”

“You should not.” I stand and snag the crumpled paper from the table. “You should nap. I will brave the wilds of the holiday grocery rush alone.”

“You don’t know where anything is anymore.”

“I have muscle memory. Also, I have a phone. I can text you if I get lost in the baking aisle.”

Molly sighs, then slumps deeper into the cushions. “Fine. Wake me up if the house catches fire.”

“I’ll consider it.”

I grab my coat, boots, and keys. At the door, I pause and look back. She is already half-asleep, her hand resting on the curve of her stomach in a way that makes my throat tighten again.

For a long time, I thought Molly’s life was the default setting. She stayed, she built the excursion business, she made this town work for her. I was the one who needed to leave, to see if I could be a person somewhere else.

Except “somewhere else” turned out to be a series of apartments in cities that never felt like home and jobs that treated me as replaceable while demanding unbridled loyalty.

Now I am back in the place I swore I’d outgrown, grocery list in hand, about to host a holiday I didn’t plan.

It should feel like I’m back with my tail between my legs.

Instead, oddly enough, it feels like a second chance.

The town grocery store is busier than I remember, carts crowded with people grabbing last-minute boxes of stuffing mix and cranberries.

The Christmas playlist piping through the speakers hasn’t changed since we were teenagers.

I could probably still sing every harmony line of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” from memory.

I steer a cart through the chaos, checking Molly’s list. Potatoes, green beans, cream, butter, rolls, enough pie ingredients to feed an army.

The practical part of my brain starts building a timeline: what needs to be prepped tonight, what can be done tomorrow, how early I’ll need to get up on Christmas Eve. The rest of me drifts.

Past the bakery display, past the stack of pre-made cheese balls. Past the display piled high with peppermint hot cocoa tins.

I am halfway to the refrigerated section when my spine prickles.

No.

The universe cannot be that cruel.

I slow, telling myself it’s nothing, just the cold air from the freezer cases hitting my sweat-damp neck. I turn the cart down the next aisle.

And there he is.

Cyrus.

He stands in front of the refrigerated case, one hand on the handle, wearing a dark beanie and a flannel that has no business molding his chest that well. There is a dusting of snow still melting on his shoulders and a shadow of dark scruff along his jaw.

He’s wearing an expression that says he would rather be anywhere else than in the middle of this store surrounded by holly jolly chaos.

He looks exactly like he did the last night I saw him.

Which is unfair, because I have spent months trying to forget.

He hasn’t spotted me yet, thank God. He frowns at the shelves, then bends to grab a carton of heavy cream. The movement pulls his flannel tight across his back.

My mouth goes dry.

Turn around, a sensible voice in my head whispers. Pivot. Escape. You can fake a grocery run at the gas station if you have to.

Instead, my cart betrays me. The front wheel wobbles at the wrong moment and bumps the corner of the display beside us, rattling a stack of whipped cream cans.

He straightens and looks up.

Our gazes collide.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

I watch recognition flare in his dark eyes, followed by something I’m not going to name. His fingers tighten around the cream carton.

“Dahlia.”

My name in his voice is exactly how I remember it, low and rough around the edges. My stomach flips hard enough to make me grip the cart handle.

“Hi.” Well, done, Dahlia. Great start. I clear my throat and try again. “Hey. Long time.”

He blinks once, slowly, like he’s rebooting. “Yeah. Guess it has been.”

We stand there in front of the dairy case like two strangers who absolutely are not strangers, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Someone squeezes past us, muttering an apology.

I force myself to move, nudging my cart farther into the aisle so I’m not blocking traffic. “I… didn’t know you’d be here.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to point out how stupid that sounds.

“Local grocery store. Week of Christmas.” He lifts one shoulder. “Everyone is here.”

“Right.” Heat creeps up my neck. “I meant… I didn’t know you still…” I trail off, because what am I even asking.

Exist?

Live here?

Own the bar where my sister’s friend fell headfirst into love at Halloween?

His brows draw together. “Still what?”

“Never mind.” I wave a hand, then realize I am gesturing with the list and nearly smack a passing shopper. “I’m here helping Molly. She and Bradley are hosting Christmas, you know.”

His expression softens a fraction. “She doing okay?”

“She’s tired.” The word carries more weight than I let myself put in it. “But she’ll be thrilled to know you asked about her.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “She’s a good egg.”

I wish I could say that about him.

I focus on the case behind him, grabbing a carton of half-and-half I don’t actually need. “So. Big plans for the bar this week?”

He shrugs. “Locals, tourists, ugly sweater contest. Bradley has ideas.”

There is affection and exasperation twined together in the way he says his brother’s name. That part, at least, is familiar. “We’ll see who actually shows up with this weather.”

I nod, clutching the carton like a lifeline. There is a question burning on my tongue. Something about why he slipped out of that hotel room before the sun came up. Why he never called. Why I never did either.

Instead, what comes out is, “Do you know if there’s any chance of getting a fresh turkey that doesn’t require me to brine it for three days and sell my soul for oven space?”

His brows rise. “You’re cooking?”

“Yes, Cyrus. Believe it or not, I can operate more than a microwave.”

He huffs out a breath. “That’s not what I meant.” His gaze flicks over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin buzz. “Just didn’t peg you as volunteering to host a stampede of family drama.”

“Desperate times.” I fold the list in half and shove it into my pocket. “Molly needs help, so I’m helping. This is what sisters are for. Emotional support and mashed potatoes.”

“Right.” His fingers tap the cream carton against his thigh. “If you strike out on turkeys here, ask at the Elk Shack. Last I heard, they were stocking some in their giant refrigerator for people who always forget until the last minute.”

“Good to know.” I hesitate, then add, “Thanks.”

His jaw flexes. For a moment, something unguarded flickers across his face. “Yeah. Sure.”

Silence stretches between us again, filled with all the things we are refusing to acknowledge. The way his hands felt on my hips. The way he said my name against my throat. The way I woke up alone to a cold dent in the mattress and a note that said nothing at all because there was no note.

My chest feels tight. I adjust my grip on the cart and take a step back. “Well. I should, uh, finish this before the shelves get cleared out.”

He nods. “Yeah. I should get back too.”

We stand there for one more absurd beat. Then I force myself to move, steering my cart around him and down the aisle.

I can feel his gaze on my back for several steps.

When I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding, my heart is beating too fast, my palms are damp, and my brain is a loop of unhelpful commentary.

I came back to town to help my sister. To save Christmas.

I did not come back to remember how it felt when Cyrus kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.

I definitely did not come back to wonder what it would be like to bump into him under some mistletoe. Which can definitely never happen.