Tangling with the Christmas (Mistletoe Ridge #1)

Chapter 1

Rosemary

If panic had a smell, it would be burnt coffee and singed sugar cookies—the exact combination currently assaulting my nostrils in the Mercury Ridge town hall.

"It's fine," I say, mostly to myself as I try to salvage what's left of the holiday spreadsheet from a puddle of cocoa someone spilled. The paper's already warping, red and green ink bleeding together into a muddy brown. "We can fix this. We can absolutely fix this."

As the town’s Community Programs Coordinator, I organize everything from the summer picnic to the senior bingo night. If there’s a raffle, a bake sale, or a parade float involved, I’m the one holding it together with color-coded spreadsheets and a glue gun.

But the Christmas Festival? That’s always been different.

Every year the town hires an outside event planner, someone with “big city experience” and “corporate sponsorship connections.” Translation: someone who isn’t me.

I’ve been dying to prove I can handle it, but until now, nobody’s given me the chance.

The mayor paces the length of the hall, his dress shoes squeaking against the waxed floor.

He's clutching his Santa hat, the white trim crushed between his fingers.

Through the windows behind him, Main Street looks picture-perfect.

Vintage lampposts are wrapped in garland and shop windows glow warm against the early December twilight.

Everything's ready for our Christmas festival.

Everything except the actual plan to pull it off.

"We’ve lost our event planner," he says for the third time, voice climbing higher with each word. "Three days before opening weekend!"

I wince. “Technically, we didn’t lose her. She just decided to elope to Aruba with the guy who played Santa at the outlet mall.”

His groan could probably rattle ornaments off the tree. “This is a disaster.”

I slap a sticky note onto my clipboard—the fifth one in as many minutes—and paste on my brightest smile. “Lucky for you, Mayor, I thrive under pressure.”

He stops pacing long enough to give me a look that says he's seriously reconsidering the decision to let me take over. "You also said that during the Valentine's Day bake sale fiasco."

"That was one tiny electrical fire," I say cheerfully, waving my hand like I'm batting away smoke that's long since cleared. "Nothing Chief Griffin and the rest of the Mercury Ridge Fire Department couldn’t handle. Besides, this is Christmas. Nothing bad happens at Christmas."

He groans, and I swear I can hear his blood pressure rising. "You've clearly never met Rhett Walker."

The name sounds familiar, tickling the back of my mind like a half-forgotten song. "Who?"

"The tree farmer. We ordered the town's Christmas tree from him weeks ago." The mayor gestures toward the empty corner of the hall where a magnificent spruce should be standing. "He still hasn't delivered."

I plant my hands on my hips, chin lifting the way it always does when someone tells me something can't be done. "Then I'll go get it."

The mayor's eyes widen behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Up the mountain? In this weather?"

I glance toward the frosted windows. Snow's been falling since morning, lazy and glittery and gorgeous. It’s the kind of snow that makes everything look like a Christmas card, like the world's been dipped in powdered sugar. "I'll be fine. I've driven in worse."

"You drive a compact hybrid, Rosemary."

"Exactly," I say, already scooping up my bag and keys, mentally checking that I have my phone charger, the emergency kit my mother insisted I keep in the car, and the GPS unit that hasn't failed me yet. "Fuel efficient and festive."

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "funeral expenses," but I just grin and call over my shoulder, "Don't worry! This event will be filled with so much Christmas cheer that we’ll have to change the town’s name. Say goodbye to Mercury Ridge and hello to Mistletoe Ridge. Trust me."

The cold hits me the moment I step outside, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I pull my scarf tighter—the red one with silver snowflakes that I knitted last winter during a phase where I thought I might become a craft influencer—and make my way to my car.

By the time I reach the edge of town, snowflakes are falling thicker, like someone up there shook the world's biggest snow globe.

The last of the shops give way to open road, then forest. I crank the heater until my fingers stop feeling like icicles, blast my Christmas playlist, and hum along to Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree as I navigate the winding road.

I've got this.

I'm the girl who once organized a flash-mob caroling event in a blizzard. The girl who catered a wedding for two hundred with a broken oven and sheer determination. A little mountain snowstorm can't stop me.

But halfway up the ridge, the road narrows and twists, becoming little more than packed snow and wishful thinking.

Pines rise like dark sentinels on both sides, their branches heavy with snow, bowing under the weight.

The GPS loses signal, and the cheerful voice in my dash goes silent mid-direction, leaving me with nothing but the static hiss of lost connection.

"Okay, no big deal," I mutter, squinting through the windshield where the wipers are fighting a losing battle against the accumulation. "Left at the split. Or was it right?"

My headlights catch something—a flash of red half-buried in white. I ease forward, heart lifting. A mailbox. The faded lettering reads Walker Tree Farm, the paint peeling but still legible. "See? Easy peasy."

I press the gas, just a little, just enough to make the turn onto what I hope is a driveway. The tires grip, then don't. The back end slides, slow at first, then faster.

"No no no—"

The car fishtails, spins, and slides straight into a snowbank with a crunch that rattles my teeth and sends my phone flying into the floorboard. A box filled with Christmas decorations is thrown forward from the back seat, showering me in tinsel and mini candy canes.

For a moment, everything is silent except for the hiss of the heater and Bing Crosby crooning White Christmas like nothing's wrong. Like I'm not stuck on a mountain with night coming on fast.

"Well," I sigh, retrieving my phone and brushing a strand of tinsel from my coat. "That could've gone better."

A shadow moves outside my window, cutting through the swirling white. Tall. Broad enough to block out what little light remains. Wearing a flannel jacket dusted with snow and a scowl that could curdle eggnog.

He knocks on the glass, the sound sharp in the muffled quiet. "You trying to get yourself killed?"

I blink up at him, half dazzled by the way the dying light catches in his dark beard, half annoyed that my grand rescue mission has turned into me being the one who needs rescuing. "Depends who's asking."

"The guy who owns this road." He gestures toward the snowbank, toward my poor car buried to its bumper. "And the snowbank you just crashed into."

I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push open the door with more confidence than I feel. My foot immediately sinks calf-deep in snow, cold seeping through my jeans. "Perfect. Are you Rhett Walker?"

He folds those ridiculously muscled arms over his chest, and even through the thick flannel I can see he's built like someone who splits logs for fun. "Depends who's asking."

"Rosemary Green," I announce, tilting my chin up to meet his eyes—which takes more effort than I expected because the man is tall. "Event planner for the Mercury Ridge Christmas Festival. And you, sir, are late delivering the town tree."

He stares at me for a long moment, snowflakes catching in his dark hair, melting on his shoulders.

His eyes are the color of strong coffee, and right now they're taking in every detail: my snow-covered boots, the tinsel still clinging to my coat, the sparkle on my knit hat.

"You came up here in a storm to yell at me about a tree? "

"Well, technically, to collect the tree." I gesture toward my buried car. "But yes."

He exhales a long, frosty sigh that I can see in the air between us. His gaze travels from my impractical boots to my determined expression, and something shifts in his face. Not quite amusement, but close. "You're insane, aren’t you?"

I lift my chin higher, even as my toes start going numb. “I'm festive."

For half a heartbeat, I swear his mouth twitches beneath that beard. Was that almost a smile?

Then he turns, already trudging toward a cabin tucked in the trees, his footsteps leaving deep prints in the fresh snow. Over his shoulder, he calls, "Come on, Miss Festive. Before you freeze solid."