Chapter 3
three
. . .
Tessa
If joy had a sound, it would without a doubt be the laughter and pure happiness echoing around Mistletoe Bay’s harbor front right now.
Pulling my scarf a little tighter and shifting my video camera strap higher on my shoulder, I take a deep breath. The scent of apple cider, hot chocolate, pine and wood smoke in the chilly evening air washes over me, bringing a wave of nostalgia.
I weave through the crowd as tiny children dart between legs in puffy coats, clutching candy canes and glowing wands tipped with tinsel. Parents sip cider and gossip with one another and boats glitter under red and green lights like floating ornaments in the water.
Everywhere I point my lens, there’s something worth capturing.
Emmy, the bakery owner, is handing out sugar cookies shaped like snowflakes.
Two retirees are waltzing near the docks to a Christmas classic.
Rhett Jenkins, everyone’s favorite handyman, is laughing as he pretends to juggle candy canes for a gaggle of kids.
It’s pure, small-town magic. The kind I used to roll my eyes at.
“Excuse me—sorry—just need to get a shot of this,” I murmur, squeezing past a group of carolers in matching plaid scarves. My breath fogs in the air as I crouch by the edge of the dock, zooming in on the reflections of the string lights rippling across the black water.
Through my viewfinder, the world looks perfect—framed, composed, shimmering.
And then my lens lands on him.
Even from this distance, I’d recognize that no-nonsense posture anywhere.
Nathan’s standing near the far end of the dock, directing traffic like the human embodiment of “rules and order.” His radio crackles at his shoulder, his jaw tight as he gestures toward a delivery truck that’s blocking half the road.
The camera slips a little in my hands.
Because what was once intimidating—the way he always seemed to catch me right in the middle of doing something I shouldn’t have, the way his eyes could pin you in place—now hits differently. He’s still calm, steady, in control…but the years have done something to him.
The faint streak of silver at his temples, a little more definition in his jaw.
And that scowl?
Still lethal. Just in an entirely different way.
Looking at Chief Hale, I can understand the appeal of a silver fox.
I can just imagine all the years of experience he has under his belt.
Shaking those thoughts from my head, I reach for my regular camera and snap a few photos before I can think better of it—his profile lit by the glow of Christmas lights, breath ghosting in the cold air.
The camera in my hand beeps. “Battery’s dying,” I mutter under my breath and look for a spot out of the way to replace it with a fresh one.
Once I’ve got a fresh battery on deck, I tuck my camera against my chest and push back into the crowd.
Someone nearby starts a round of “Jingle Bell Rock.” For a second, I’m sixteen again, watching the same parade of lights from the same dock, except this time I’m not in trouble for sneaking down here after curfew and getting caught by none other than Officer Nathan Hale.
I’m just starting to relax when a commotion near the end of the dock catches my eye—the kind of noise that sends the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up. I know that sound. A low hum cuts out, followed by the disappointed groan of a hundred people.
“Generator’s out!” someone yells the obvious.
Half the dock plunges into darkness.
Volunteers scramble, their phone’s flashes turned on, and I can already see the panic in all of the adults’ faces and the disappointment welling up in the eyes of the little kids.
Without the lights, Santa’s boat will be docking in near-blackness. Not great optics for a town that prides itself on Christmas spirit.
My brain kicks into production mode before my common sense can intervene. “I can help!” I shout, already moving toward the edge.
A few folks glance my way, but everyone else is too busy fumbling with extension cords. I kneel beside the small generator, brushing a dusting of snow off the casing, and start tracing cables like I have any idea what I’m doing.
Spoiler: I don’t.
But I do have a battery operated camera light in my bag—and I’ve fixed enough dying batteries in remote locations to at least recognize a bad connection.
“Tessa Pope,” a voice says behind me, low and rough, unmistakable even after all these years. “Why am I not surprised?”
I freeze, pulse stuttering.
Then I turn, slowly.
Nathan stands just a few feet away, the reflection of his cruiser’s spotlight dancing over his face. He looks bigger up close. Broader. And the look he’s giving me could curdle eggnog.
“Hi, Chief,” I say brightly. “Fancy seeing you again. Still saving the town from reckless delinquents?”
His brows lift a fraction. "Grown-ups usually have enough sense to stay out of trouble."
I grin up at him, unabashed. “What fun would that be? Besides, it’s not my fault the generator went out.”
He sighs that long-suffering sound I remember vividly and steps closer to peer over my shoulder. “Oh so you’re planning to fix this power problem with a camera light?”
“Hey, don’t knock the tools of the trade,” I shoot back. “It’s either this or everyone watches Santa dock in the dark.”
He mutters something under his breath about “drama in boots,” then crouches beside me, his gloved hands moving with infuriating precision as he checks the same connections I was pretending to understand.
When he leans forward, the brim of his hat nearly brushes my forehead. The scent of his cologne—clean, woodsy, maddeningly familiar—wraps around me, and my brain short-circuits for a half second.
“Here,” he says, straightening the wire. “Loose connection.”
“Ah.” I clear my throat. “Exactly what I was going to say.”
He looks down at me, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure you were.”
The generator hums back to life, and the crowd cheers as the lights flicker on again. For one dizzy second, I forget to move—and when I finally do, my balance tilts on the uneven dock.
Nathan’s hand shoots out, catching my elbow and pulling me into him before I can topple straight into the water. His grip is firm, steady, and warm through the layers of fabric.
“You never did know when to stay out of the way, did you?” he murmurs.
“And you never did know how to have any fun, Chief.”
Something flashes in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something heavier—and then he releases me like he suddenly realizes he shouldn’t be holding on.
Across the dock, someone whistles.
“Looking cozy there you two!”
Great. Nothing like the town peanut gallery to make a moment even more mortifying.
Nathan’s jaw tightens, and I can’t help the small laugh that slips out. “Relax,” I whisper. “I’m sure they’ll forget all about this before tomorrow’s gossip column prints.”
He exhales through his nose, muttering something about “Pope-level chaos,” and turns away, radio crackling at his shoulder as he strides off to corral another group of volunteers.
I watch him go, camera light still glowing weakly in my hand.
And maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the cold, or the fact that the man looks annoyingly good in uniform—but my heart’s beating just a little too fast.
When Cade Murphy’s lobster boat finally appears, decked out in twinkling lights, Santa and Mrs. Claus waving from the bow, the entire crowd erupts. And I’m immediately back in action, thoughts of Nathan Hale far from my mind, for a moment.
Kids shriek and wave their mittened hands, bells jingle, and “Here Comes Santa Claus” hums through the speakers with that slightly-warped, small-town charm. The whole scene glows—color, sound, joy—and through my camera lens, it’s magic.
Only it’s not really Santa.
It’s Mayor Emerson in a red velvet suit, with a fake beard that slips a little every time he laughs. Beside him, Jemma Price from Winterberry Farm makes the perfect Mrs. Claus—cheeks rosy, eyes bright and a wig that looks more Betty White than Santa’s wife. But it works. Perfectly actually.
The two of them look adorable together. Like they were meant to be.
I remember my mom and dad talking about them once. How Charlie and Jemma dated back in their high school days. I’m not sure what happened or why they broke up then, but judging by the look on both of their faces, I think it’s safe to say there’s some unresolved feelings in the air.
Maybe, under the right lights, and with enough tinsel, anything can feel possible again.
I can’t help smiling behind the camera. This is exactly what I came home for—the laughter, the nostalgia, the whole town showing up for something so wonderfully, ridiculously festive.
The cheers rise as the boat eases against the dock, lights shimmering across the water like spilled glitter.
I pan slowly, catching every moment—the little boy perched on his dad’s shoulders, the high school band playing slightly off-key, Mayor Emerson booming a jolly “Ho, ho, ho!” that makes even the teenagers grin.
As the boat docks I spot Nathan again.
He stands a few yards back from the dock, radio in hand, scanning the crowd with that same focused precision that is probably how he managed to find teenage me in the middle of trouble every time.
The soft glow of the Christmas tree lights catches on the edge of his jaw, highlighting the sharp lines, the faint furrow between his brows.
I adjust the camera lens on him without meaning to.
Focused. Steady. Alone.
He looks… tired. Like a man who carries this town’s weight quietly on his shoulders and never complains about the load.
Nathan’s gaze catches mine and his expression changes to something unreadable before he raises a brow, almost daring me to get into some kind of trouble.
I look away first, just as snow begins to fall. Soft as powdered sugar, it clings to my lashes and the edge of my scarf.
I focus my lens on the crowd again—anything to busy my hands—but the viewfinder trembles just slightly. My pulse doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not seventeen anymore, but this man is still the stern officer who dragged me home after I “borrowed” a nativity sheep on a dare.
The brass band kicks in, blaring “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” with all the gusto of what sounds like a hundred trumpets and one slightly off-key trombone, and the crowd surges forward, clapping and cheering.
Kids in mittens spin in circles, and parents hoist little ones onto their shoulders as Santa and Mrs. Claus step off the dock, waving to the crowd like royalty greeting their subjects.
Mayor Emerson and Jemma look perfectly paired—like holiday magic made flesh—and I can’t help but smile at how effortlessly they embody the season.
I lift my camera instinctively, trying to capture everything—the laughter, the twinkle lights bouncing off the snow while my small production crew blends into the background, no doubt doing the same.
I pan back to the square just in time to see the mayor reach the tree switch. With a flourish, he presses it.
The lights explode in a riot of gold and green, bouncing off the lightly fallen snow like thousands of tiny stars. The crowd erupts—cheers, clapping, whistles—and for a moment, it feels like the whole town is wrapped in a single, sparkling heartbeat.
There’s a round of Christmas carols. Santa takes his seat on the red velvet armchair, and kids climb into his lap to share their Christmas wish lists while their parents take photos.
I try to snap as many as I can while my crew keeps filming.
Later, I can put these together and send them to the parents, somehow. A nice little holiday surprise.
Eventually, the crowd begins to thin, kids bundled into arms or bundled in strollers, parents waving goodbye with rosy cheeks and tired smiles. The band packs up. Snow continues to drift down in lazy flakes, settling on twinkling branches.
I tuck my camera under my arm, letting the moment sink in—the smell of hot cocoa and warm apple cider.
The feel of the crisp winter air, and the faint hint of peppermint from the bakery table.
I spot Emmy Alder behind the very same table, handing out peppermint cinnamon buns and candy cane shaped cookies.
Behind her, Hayes Thatcher keeps close watch, completely unbothered by the cheer and excitement around him.
And then Nathan is suddenly at my side, as if he’s materialized out of the falling snow. His coat smells faintly of pine and wood smoke, and I resist the urge to lean just a little closer.
“You survived,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. “No sheep went missing, and you didn’t trip over the cord this time.”
I grin, brushing a stray snowflake from my scarf. “I’m full of surprises, Chief. Maybe next year I’ll make it even more interesting.”
He lets a slow, amused smile tug at the corner of his mouth but doesn’t say anything.
For a heartbeat, we just stand there, the glow from the tree reflecting in his eyes, the snow settling on his shoulders, and the world around us shrinking to just this quiet, shared space.
The spell is broken when Hayes and Emmy’s laughter echoes into the air, drawing my attention away.
She smacks him lightly with a napkin, he pretends to scowl—but there’s a hidden warmth in his eyes.
A sweetness that reminds me that Mistletoe Bay isn’t just magic in the air. It’s magic you find in people.
Nathan clears his throat, breaking the reverie. “Come on, Pope. I think it’s time to get the rest of your crew safely off the dock before I have to call in the cavalry.”
I roll my eyes playfully, but the heat in his gaze lingers as we walk side by side. And even as the crowd disperses, even as the lights twinkle and fade in patches, I feel it—the faint, thrilling spark that tells me this is just the beginning of something unexpected and extraordinary.