Chapter 19 Iris
IRIS
The town unfolds like a pop-up book in the fading sun, each storefront a perfect miniature trimmed in garland and golden lights.
This was all Collin and Julie could talk about this morning.
The Mackinac Christmas Stroll. Music drifts from hidden speakers, mixing with laughter and the smell of fresh snow.
I watch him move through the crowd with easy familiarity.
It’s the most mesmerizing thing to watch, the way he seems to know everyone, to belong so completely to this place.
He catches my eye and smiles, that devastating half-grin that makes me smile back, and he leads us to a small booth at the head of the street, where a woman in a red scarf is handing out bright silver buttons, each bearing a different number.
“Part of the fun,” he explains, picking up two and turning them over in his hands.
His eyes glint with mischief as he holds them up to the light, examining the numbers.
“Every shop has a winning number hidden somewhere inside. Match your button, win a prize. It’s basically a Main Street scavenger hunt. ”
“Let me guess... you’ve never won,” I tease, and his mock-offended look makes me laugh.
“I’ll have you know I won a hand-knit sweater when I was seven,” he says, stepping closer.
“Bright red with white reindeer. I wore it until my mom had to steal it to wash it.” His fingers brush my curls over my shoulder as he pins one of the buttons to my green coat, I still, suddenly aware of how close he is.
“Number eight-forty-seven,” he murmurs, finger tapping against the pin. “Could be your lucky number.”
“What’s yours?” I ask, hoping he can’t hear how my voice wavers. He grins and attaches his own button.
“Seven-sixteen. Ready?” The first shop smells of cinnamon and wood smoke, warmth wrapping around us as we step inside.
Christmas music plays softly—something instrumental and sweet that makes me want to linger.
I watch Collin scan the walls and shelves, looking for posted numbers while pretending not to.
“Aren’t you supposed to shop?” I ask, peeking at him with a small smile.” Not just hunt for numbers.”
“Multi-tasking,” he insists, but he lets me draw him toward a display of hand-blown glass ornaments.
Each one captures some piece of island life—tiny lighthouses, sailing ships, snow-covered pines.
Anything you can imagine, it can be found here.
“These are special,” he says, reaching past me to lift one carefully from its hook.
It’s a delicate sphere with a winter scene inside.
“Mom collects them. She’s bought one every year since she moved here.
” His arm brushes mine as he holds it up to the light, inspecting it more closely.
That simple touch alone is enough to make my heart stutter.
“She says they’re like memory catchers. Each one holds a piece of the year it represents. ”
The ornament sends tiny rainbows dancing across his face, and I find myself studying his profile.
The strong line of his jaw, the way his dark curls fall across his forehead, how his whole expression softens when he talks about Julie.
He’s standing close enough that I can smell his cologne.
His gaze lands on mine again, and I shift my eyes back to the ornament he’s still holding up. I groan inwardly. Stop staring at him.
“And you? What do you say?” I ask. Collin sets the ornament down, a soft smile spreading across his face.
“Some years,” he says quietly, “are worth remembering.” He looks in my direction—or at least, so I think—but in less than a second, I realize he’s staring at the shelf behind me.
“Aha!” He points to a small tag tucked behind a display of carved wooden angels. “Three-ninety-two.” His face falls. “Not our lucky number.” He sighs dramatically. “Guess we’ll have to keep looking.”
“Oh, no,” I murmur just as dramatically. “How unfortunate...” I give him a teasing nudge, then we proceed to move from shop to shop, and I find myself falling in love with the easy way this town celebrates.
“All right.” His voice drops to a soft murmur as we pass by one of the wooden stands that contains a big sign saying Oh, fudge!
The concept of the stand is pretty self-explanatory and I can’t help but smile, especially as he looks at me.
“This is one question you need to know the answer to.” I arch my brow.
“Okay?”
“Which of the Carlson sisters do you think makes the best fudge?” I blink once, confused by his question.
“I... uh, I’m not sure.”
“That’s not an acceptable answer,” he responds seriously, as if we’re discussing politics, and not the best fudge in town. I bite back a smile and nod in return.
“You have to tell me the truth, then,” I tell him. “I have to know.”
“The correct answer,” he whispers conspiratorially, leaning close as we pass the second stand, too, “is Margaret. But if anyone asks, I never said that. Emily makes the best snickerdoodles on the island, and I’m not willing to lose those privileges.”
“Secret’s safe with me,” I assure him, making a zipping motion across my mouth.
Another grin spreads across his face, and instantly my knees feel like Jell-O.
The growing effect he has on me is... a little too strong for comfort.
No one should be allowed to have this kind of power over another person.
It should be illegal. He clears his throat, looking slightly more serious.
“One more thing you need to know... it’s about our bakery’s annual gingerbread house competition.
We have a strict ‘no architectural support beams’ rule.
” My brows shoot up in surprise, and I can’t help but stifle a laugh.
Architectural support beams? How did it even get to that point?
Collin shrugs. “We had some... ambitious entries last year. We had to put a stop to it all.”
“All right. Duly noted.” I nod seriously, as he holds the door open for the next store, watching me walk past. The bell chimes softly as we step into Harrison’s, warmth thawing my cold fingers as the door closes behind us.
The store is a treasure trove of local artistry.
Its shelves stacked with leather-bound journals, handwoven blankets in rich colors, and delicate pottery glazed in shades of blue and green.
An older woman with honey blonde hair emerges from the back, her face lighting up with recognition.
“Collin? Is that you?”
“Mrs. Harrison.” He grins, meeting her halfway. She pulls him into a hug that he returns easily, and I’m struck by how young he suddenly looks—like the teenager he must have been when he first left home for juniors. “How’s the hip?”
“Better now that I’ve got that trainer you recommended.” She pats his cheek in a familiar gesture. “Though I miss my skating partner. Remember when you used to help me clear the pond for the kids’ lessons?” I raise my eyebrows at this, and Collin catches my look. A faint flush colors his cheeks.
“I needed volunteer hours for school,” he explains, but Mrs. Harrison waves this off.
“Oh please. You were out there every weekend, long after you’d gotten your credits. This boy”—she turns to me, her eyes twinkling—“would spend hours teaching the little ones how to stop properly. So patient with them, even when they’d crash right into him.”
“Which was often,” Collin adds dryly, but I can see the fondness in his expression.
“And now look at you,” she says. Her eyes shift to me, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “Though I have to say, when Margaret told me you’d brought a girl to the island, I almost didn’t believe it. Had to see it for myself.” Collin’s cheeks redden. “So, is this the lucky girl?”
“Mrs. Harrison—”
Neither of us has a chance to respond before she continues, “Oh hush, you can’t blame us for being curious.
All these years coming home alone, and now here you are with this pretty thing.
We’re all so happy for you, sweetheart.” She gives me a warm, conspiratorial look.
“The whole island’s been buzzing about it.
You should hear the theories at bridge club. ”
“Bridge club needs a new hobby,” Collin mutters, but I catch the way his lips twitch, fighting a smile.
“Watch your mouth, young man.” She laughs, shaking her head.
It’s hard to pull back from Mrs. Harrison.
After all, I’m curious to hear everything she has to say—eager to know everything there is to know about Collin, but it only lasts for a few more moments before we’re already on our way out.
“I better see you around with your girl again soon,” she calls out as we head outside.
“Of course!” He waves her off, but doesn’t correct her.
Your girl. Collin’s girl. The stupid part of my brain wants to giggle at the mere thought of it.
We step back into the crisp evening air.
Collin’s still a bit flushed, and I can’t help but smile at how this NHL star who faces down the press without flinching can be so thoroughly disarmed by one shopkeeper’s knowing looks.
“So,” I say, bumping his shoulder lightly. “The whole island’s buzzing, huh?” A wide grin splits my face as he turns a new shade of red. He groans, but there’s no real discomfort in it.
“Mackinac’s got its own laws of physics.
Gossip moves faster than the speed of light.
” We walk in comfortable silence for a moment, our shoulders brushing occasionally.
The street is filling up now, families and couples drifting between the warmly lit shops.
A rich, chocolate scent drifts toward us on the winter air, and Collin’s whole face lights up.
Without warning, his hand finds my elbow, steering me toward a cart wreathed in steam.
“You have to try this,” he says, “Mr. Lewis makes the best hot chocolate on the island. Real chocolate, not that powdered stuff.”