The Christmas Door

Chapter 1

Amayah Harper angled her phone toward the front door, watching as the tripod holding it sank into the thin, powdery snow on her sidewalk.

The pale blue paint on her door wasn’t fresh, but she loved that distressed look.

The door had depth and history and reminded her of the Christmases she’d spent at her grandmother’s house, curled on her threadbare sofa, listening to hymns hum through the place as if they were prayers woven into the walls.

She reached up and brushed her fingers over the wreath she’d made the night before, pine sprigs still fragrant despite the cold, dotted with dried orange slices and tiny cinnamon bundles tied with twine.

Still today, her hands were sticky with sap, and the scent lingered on her coat sleeves. All day, the aroma had reminded her that Christmas was only two weeks away.

She hit Record and turned to the camera with a smile. “This week, I’m sharing doors that have been decorated for Christmas. Doors that remind us of home. Of welcome. Of peace.”

Her breath fogged in front of her as she glanced at the wreath again.

“My grandmother used to say a front door tells you everything about the heart behind it. She painted hers a different shade of blue every year and hung a bell so the house would sing when someone arrived.” A faint smile touched her lips at the memory.

A year ago, when Amayah had seen this house with the blue door for sale, she’d felt it was a sign that this place should be her new home.

Everyone in her life had questioned her choice of moving to this neighborhood.

But she’d been sure this was where she was supposed to be—though she still wasn’t sure why.

She looked at the camera, about to continue, when she heard a thump inside her house.

She paused.

Had she been hearing things?

She waited.

That had to be it—it was just her imagination.

After several seconds of quiet, she continued.

“I know I’ve mentioned this before in my videos, but it was after the heaviest season of grief I’ve ever experienced that I realized how significant doors have been to me.

I then realized that doors could be significant for others also.

They represent opportunities. Changes. Memories.

They wait for you. They say you belong without speaking at all. ”

She rested her palm briefly against the worn wood. “Every time I come home to this one, something inside me settles. It’s like the world exhales.”

She shifted her weight, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in her chest. She only had a few minutes until a reporter from the local newspaper arrived to interview her.

Miranda Greene, her manager, had insisted Amayah say yes—had said it would be good exposure.

A heartwarming holiday story. It will give people hope.

Amayah prayed that was true. But she’d seen one too many times how reporters could use their own bias to shift a story the way they wanted.

After that moment in her life, the one she didn’t like to think about—she had trouble trusting journalists. That was why she liked having her own platform, her own voice. She didn’t have to depend on others to get her message across.

But Miranda said local stories like this created good engagement and they’d fit her brand.

Brand . . . Amayah had begun to hate that word. She’d never wanted to be well-known per se. She’d just wanted to make a difference and do what she loved.

Somehow, her popularity had exploded, and she’d practically become an overnight success as an online influencer.

Speaking of which . . . Luke Cross was the reporter she was meeting with today. She’d read some of his stories, and they were good. Heartwarming. Kind. Fair.

Miranda insisted he would be a great fit.

He was due to arrive in ten minutes. That meant she needed to hurry if she wanted to get this video done.

At that thought, a shadow moved at the edge of her vision, and she glanced up.

A man approached on the sidewalk, his hands tucked into the pockets of a black wool coat. Snow caught in his dark hair and clung to his shoulders. He walked with quiet, deliberate strides, his gaze steady and intent when he spotted her.

Her pulse gave an inexplicable hitch.

Her gut told her this man wasn’t a crazy stalker. She’d had one too many of those since her unexpected rise to fame. Her most recent had left her more on edge than she wanted to admit.

But this man wasn’t a fan.

He had to be the reporter she was meeting.

He was early.

And he was . . . unexpectedly handsome.

Broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, with storm-gray eyes and a strong jaw that suggested discipline more than vanity. There was an alertness in the way he moved—as if he noticed everything—yet something gentle lingered behind his serious expression.

Aware she’d forgotten what she was saying for her video and would need to resume this later, she took a small step toward her camera to stop recording.

As she did, her foot slid on the icy sidewalk.

A startled gasp escaped her as she windmilled, teetering backward.

Before she hit the ground, strong hands caught her arms.

“I’ve got you,” the man—Luke presumably—said, his voice low and steady and his brows drawn together in concern.

Amayah gave a slightly breathless laugh. “Guess that door almost claimed me as part of its history.”

His mouth curved faintly, though his gaze lingered as if assessing whether she was truly steady. “Would’ve been a dramatic origin story—for the door, not for you.”

She surprised herself with a chuckle.

His hands lingered a half second too long on her arms before he gently released her.

He straightened. “I’m Luke. Luke Cross. Sorry for interrupting. I didn’t realize you’d be filming.”

“That’s okay.” She brushed snow from her sleeve, her heart still settling. “I’m Amayah Harper.”

“I know.” A flicker of self-consciousness crossed his features, softening his otherwise composed demeanor. “I’ve followed your work for a while. The door stories. They’re . . . different. In a good way.”

Warmth touched her cheeks. “Thank you.”

Their gazes caught a moment until he glanced away and took a step back. “Anyway, sorry I’m early. I breezed through traffic. Had to park down the street, however. This one is crowded.”

“It’s only street parking in this neighborhood and, yes, it can be hard to find a space sometimes. I suppose that’s one of the downsides to this community. I didn’t realize how much I took driveways for granted.”

“It’s the small things, right?” He offered a lopsided grin.

“Anyway, as you know, I’m working on a holiday series about people quietly making a difference in their communities—stories of hope that maybe wouldn’t normally make the front page.

When I heard about the door project and what you’re doing here, it felt like something people would really connect with. ”

Her surprise shifted into a small, polite smile. “Yes, I’m thrilled you’re here. Why don’t we go inside and get out of the cold? I’ve been craving some hot cocoa. Days like today just call for it, don’t they?”

“I’d like that.”

She grabbed her things before turning toward her door. She unlocked it, stepped inside, and—

She immediately stilled.

Something was . . . different.

Her gaze scanned her small home.

That was when she saw it.

The back door standing slightly ajar.

Her stomach tightened. Maybe she hadn’t imagined that thump she’d heard earlier.

Luke noticed her sharp intake of breath. “Everything okay?”

“I . . .” She swallowed. “I’m not sure. I haven’t been inside since I got home—I ran out earlier for . . . well, for a special project I’m working on, and when I got back I jumped right into filming, knowing I didn’t have much time.”

She stepped farther inside and glanced around. A chair at the kitchen table wasn’t quite where she’d left it—perfectly aligned chairs around the table was one of her quirks. And . . . and the pantry door wasn’t fully closed.

Luke’s posture shifted, shoulders tightening. He scanned the room with a subtle sharpness. “Amayah?”

She shook her head and brought herself back to the present. “Sorry, it’s just that . . . something’s not right. Some of my things have been moved since I left.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You think someone has been in your house? I take it you don’t have a roommate?”

“No, no one else wants to live here.” She let out a weak laugh. “And I’m nearly certain I locked the back door when I left. I like to live by faith, but I still like to be smart.”

“Stay here.” Luke stepped in front of her. “I’d like to check out your place—if you’re okay with that. My dad was a cop and, well . . . he’s disappointed I became a reporter instead of following in his footsteps. But there are some things he taught me that I haven’t forgotten.”

Amayah nodded and pulled her arms across her chest, thankful for her cozy, oversized sweater. Somehow, the soft yarn soothed her. “Feel free.”

For a moment, self-consciousness hit. Had she left clothes all over her bedroom? And her makeup on the bathroom counter? Maybe even a towel on the floor?

It wasn’t the kind of impression she generally liked to make.

Luke disappeared, his shoulders seeming to broaden as he walked around her house. It was only one story with three modest bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, and a living area, so it wouldn’t take long.

He returned a few minutes later and paused in front of her. “I didn’t see anything—or anyone. Do you want me to call the police?”

Relief caused her shoulders to droop. “I don’t want to overreact. Let me look at things first. Now that I know no one is here, the thought of being inside my own place doesn’t freak me out as much.”

She moved cautiously through the living room then the small kitchen.

No shattered glass. No broken lock.

Had she left the door unlocked? It was very unlike her if she did—but not impossible.

Maybe a strong wind had pushed it open. That could also explain the chair and the pantry door, she supposed.

Maybe she was reading too much into this.

“I think everything is fine,” she murmured, rubbing her arms. “Maybe I’m overthinking things. Let me start that hot chocolate, and we can begin your interview. I’m sure you’re on a schedule.”

Before he could respond, she turned to open the pantry.

But again, she stopped in her tracks.

“Something else is wrong?” Luke moved closer.

She scanned her shelves. “Several cans of soup are missing. A loaf of bread. A box of crackers.”

“That’s it?” Disbelief edged Luke’s voice as his gaze landed on several items thieves might have targeted.

A mason jar full of coins sat on the countertop in plain sight.

Small appliances sat untouched. A set of keys hung on a hook just inside the door.

“Just food? Nothing else seems to be missing?”

She frowned. “I don’t think so. I know it sounds strange, but I’m certain someone’s been here.”

“You think someone broke in just to steal groceries?”

Her fingers tightened around the pantry door. “It’s not the first time something’s felt . . . off. But every time it’s been so subtle that I question myself.”

Familiar unease stirred inside her—memories of messages that had grown too personal, a name that lingered in her comments, a presence that felt less like support and more like surveillance.

There were downsides to success. Downsides like fans who became obsessed and didn’t respect boundaries.

Getting a security system installed had been on her to-do list. She’d actually called about it once, but the salesman had never shown up. He claimed he went to the wrong house. It seemed like one mishap after another had prevented that system from being installed.

Now, she regretted that.

As she turned, Luke studied her profile, concern etched between his brows. “You mentioned in one of your videos that you’ve dealt with obsessed followers before. Could it be one of them?”

“Maybe.” A shiver traced her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. “I’ve had a few who’ve ignored the boundary between admiration and intrusion.”

Luke looked at the back door again, his jaw tightening. Then he turned back to her. “You don’t feel safe here. It is a high crime area. And I’m surprised with your success you didn’t move somewhere more trendy or nicer . . . or safer.”

She hesitated and leaned against the wall. She’d gotten this question before—many times. “A lot of people don’t understand this, but I didn’t buy this place because I was looking for safety. I bought this place because I felt called here. Those aren’t always the same thing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, tension threading his voice as he asked, “Why here?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are we starting the interview?”

He took a step back and shook his head, some of his intenseness disappearing.

“No, not yet. But I just can’t stop myself from asking questions, I guess.

People say you’re worth a lot, but you bought a house in a rundown neighborhood with high crime.

Most influencers want to flaunt their success and move up in life. ”

She shrugged. “Then maybe I’m not most influencers. Maybe my goal was never money or positioning myself for success. I just wanted to tell stories and help people.”

He stared at her, an unreadable expression on his face, before finally nodding. “That’s unusual in today’s culture.”

She turned to face him fully, forgetting about the hot chocolate a moment. “God told me to be faithful. And faith doesn’t choose the transparent door—the one where you know what’s behind it.”

For a long moment, Luke said nothing. His gaze lingered on her, steady and contemplative as if her words had left him unsettled.

She stared back, taking in the easy lines of his face. The intelligent—but inquisitive—eyes.

Whatever passed between them in that silence felt like the beginning of something neither of them had named yet.