Chapter 1 #2
"We're getting an elephant?" Teddy asks hopefully. "Because I've been saying for years, that nothing says Christmas like exotic animals."
"Metaphorical elephant, Teddy."
"Oh." He deflates slightly. "Less exciting."
"Specifically," Delia continues, "the lack of proper decoration coordination. Wren, dear, you're heading up the vintage decoration subcommittee again, right?"
The vintage decoration subcommittee consists of me, myself, and my growing sense of existential dread, but Delia likes official titles.
"Absolutely. The subcommittee is ready for action. All one of us."
"Wonderful. And will you be bringing... assistance this year?"
Here it comes. The annual ‘Wren needs a man to carry heavy things’ conversation, disguised as concern for my spinal health.
"Finn usually helps—"
"Oh, Finn." Delia's tone suggests Finn ranks somewhere between a helpful golden retriever and a reliable piece of furniture. "How lovely that you have such... supportive friends."
June perks up like a bloodhound catching a scent. "Speaking of support, I heard, your ex, Malcolm Conway is back in town. Recently divorced. Very successful orthodontics practice in Burlington. Spectacular teeth."
The table erupts into what I can only describe as competitive matchmaking. It's like watching a nature documentary where all the meerkats suddenly start shouting about eligible bachelors.
"—really should consider the impact on your business—"
"—can't run a family establishment without a family—"
"—Malcolm has all his original teeth—"
"—drives a Mercedes now—"
"—I heard he does CrossFit—"
"That's a red flag, not a selling point," I mutter, but I'm drowned out by Mrs. Patterson suggesting I could double-date with her and her husband, which is sweet but also assumes I want to watch Mr. Jackson fall asleep in his soup again.
Delia raises her hand for silence, and the committee immediately quiets because Delia has dirt on everyone from their children's elementary school years.
"The point is, Wren, that perception matters. The loan committee consists primarily of traditional family men who value traditional family values."
"Traditional meaning outdated, or better yet, archaic?"
"Traditional meaning influential over your financial future."
She's right, and I hate that she's right. In Snowfall Creek, who you are matters less than who people think you are. And right now, people think I'm a quirky spinster playing shop owner until a man comes along to give my life actual meaning.
Never mind that I've kept this place running through a pandemic, a recession, and that unfortunate incident with the possessed Easter bunny display. Now, we don't talk about the Easter bunny display.
"But Wren's so young!" Teddy protests, bless his candy-cane-striped heart.
"She's twenty-eight," Delia counters.
"That's barely out of diapers!"
"Teddy, when you were twenty-eight, you already had three children."
"That was different. There was no Netflix. We had to make our own entertainment."
"TMI, Teddy," June mutters, though she's definitely writing it down.
I escape as soon as humanly possible, bursting out of The Daily Grind like I'm fleeing a crime scene. The cold air hits my face, and I take a moment to appreciate that at least hypothermia is free.
The town square is already transforming for tonight's tree lighting. The massive spruce waits patiently, probably the only thing in this town not judging my relationship status.
I detour to the shop to grab the box of vintage ornaments I donate every year.
It's good marketing, I tell myself, though really I just can't bear the thought of Christmas without contributing something beautiful.
Even if I'm personally contributing to the statistics on ‘sad single women with dying businesses’.
The box is heavier than I remember, or maybe I'm just weaker from stress-eating nothing because I can't afford stress-eating. I'm struggling down the front steps when a voice comes from the shadows.
"Need help?"
I nearly drop the entire box, which would be the perfect end to a perfect day—thousands of dollars in vintage glass exploding like my hopes and dreams.
A man steps into the streetlight, and my brain short-circuits momentarily.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black wool coat that's seen better decades—much like my will to live.
His dark hair looks like he's been running his fingers through it in frustration, which is relatable.
His jaw has that perfectly imperfect stubble that suggests either careful grooming or complete indifference to grooming.
But it's his eyes that stop me—gray like winter storms, like bad moods, like the color my soul turns when I look at my bank balance.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, though the box is already slipping and my arms are apparently made of overcooked linguine.
He moves forward anyway, taking the weight from me with an ease that makes my arms feel insulted. How dare they be shown up by a stranger's superior musculature.
"Doesn't look fine," he says, and his voice is like gravel that's been to therapy—rough but trying to be better.
"Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving. I look like a functional adult, for instance."
One dark eyebrow rises slightly, and something that might be amusement flickers in those storm-cloud eyes. Or it could be pity. Hard to tell in this lighting.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Town square. The gigantic tree that's impossible to miss. Unlike my ability to make good life choices, which is apparently invisible."
He walks without another word, carrying my box like it weighs nothing, like he's not transporting several thousand dollars' worth of antique glass through icy streets. I scurry after him like some sort of festive duckling who's made poor financial decisions.
"You're new," I observe, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter is on vacation.
"Observant," he says, and I genuinely can't tell if he's being sarcastic or just stating facts.
"It's a small town. New faces are notable. We actually had a newsletter about it once. 'New Face Spotted: Town Adjusts Accordingly.'"
His lips twitch slightly. "Was there a committee?"
"There's always a committee. We have committees for everything. The committee committee meets Thursdays."
"Sounds exhausting."
"You have no idea. I'm Wren, by the way. I own The Jolly Trunk."
"The toy shop?"
"You've heard of it?"
"Hard to miss. The window display with the train set is impressive."
"Thanks. Most people just snicker at toy shops these days. People snicker at everything when you're slowly going bankrupt."
Why did I say that? Why am I telling a stranger my financial woes? Next, I'll be showing him my stress rash.
"I'm Holden," he says, saving me from further over-sharing anymore. "Holden Clark."
"Well, Holden Clark, welcome to Snowfall Creek. Try not to let the aggressive cheerfulness scare you off. Or the committees. Or the fact that everyone will know your business within twenty-four hours."
"Noted."
We reach the square, and I have to direct him to the decoration station while trying not to notice how he handles the vintage ornaments with unexpected care, like he understands they're not just decorations but pieces of history.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it as he places the stuff down. "That was really—"
"WREN!" Teddy's voice booms across the square. "Come meet the new fellow! He's single!"
I want to die. Not dramatically, just a little bit. Just enough to escape this moment.
"That's my cue to disappear," Holden says, already backing away.
"No, wait—I mean, you don't have to—Teddy's harmless, mostly—"
But he's already melting into the crowd, leaving me to face Teddy's matchmaking enthusiasm alone.
"Who was that handsome stranger?" Teddy asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that should be illegal.
"Someone with excellent timing and even better escape skills." I mutter.
"He looks interesting."
"He looks like he is better at planning exit strategies than I am."
The tree lighting continues around me, but I'm distracted, scanning the crowd for a black coat and storm-cloud eyes. It's ridiculous. He's just some random guy who helped with a box. Probably a serial killer. Or worse, someone with good credit who makes sound financial decisions.
As the tree blazes to life and the crowd cheers, I make a decision. Three weeks to save my shop. If I need to find a fake boyfriend to do it, then that's what I'll do. How hard can it be to find someone willing to pretend to date me in this town?
Don't answer that, Universe. You've been really clear about your opinion of my life choices already.