The Crush of Christmas Past

One

Isla

“ N othing says holiday cheer like a Christmas vacation turned hostage situation!”

“You’re not a hostage, Isla. You’re just—”

“An unwilling accomplice in your rom-com con?” I grumble as Asher’s vintage clunker throws a tantrum down the winding road. “Even your car wants out of this unhinged plot.”

Lifting one hand from the wheel, he waves me off with a flick of his candy cane. “Oh, come on. Fake dating is festive fun.”

“More like a festive felony . Forcing your best friend into staged mistletoe makeouts and casting your parents as the marks? That’s criminal behavior. The start of your villain era.”

“Look,” he says with a sigh. “I know it’s a big ask, but Mom’s been waterboarding me with concern since Sienna and I split. If I don’t distract her with something sparkly, she’ll spend our entire vacation micromanaging my mental health.”

“A full-blown avalanche of glitter won’t fool Evangeline,” I counter. “She’ll clock the lie as soon as I open my mouth.” My lackluster acting skills are no match for her bullshit detector. Calibrated on five strong-willed hell-raisers, it’s basically military-grade at this point.

“Even with your heart permanently stitched to your sleeve and those big, golden eyes broadcasting every emotion in high-def, my family is bound to buy the illusion. They’re desperate to believe I’m okay. As long as I keep smiling, no one will bother to dig past the pretend.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because being a Thorne means believing in love. Betting big on forever. That’s just how we’re wired.” He scrunches his nose. “Well, except for the wildcard, of course.”

I flinch. “ Wildcard ?”

The only wildcard we have in common has spent years dodging this annual tradition.

Theo Thorne.

Too cool for tinsel. And me.

Not that I care.

That ghost of Christmas past isn’t allowed to haunt my present.

“Dear old brother is the only one prickly and perceptive enough to be an actual threat to our fictional affair,” Asher mumbles around a mouthful of red-and-white-striped sugar. “Don’t worry, though. The Grinch won’t show. He’s allergic to eggnog. And emotions.”

With that assurance, he reaches for the radio, twisting the dial in search of something more festive than static fuzz. His battle for reception is no match for the car’s antique antenna, sentencing us to a quiet ride along the tree-lined road leading toward his childhood home.

The town spills into the valley ahead like a set designer’s dream of winter. White-quilted rooftops, chimney smoke curling into the sky, and glinting icicles form the perfect opening shot.

Throw in twinkle lights, miles of lush garland, plus snow-people with better wardrobes than I’ll ever own, and the whole place looks staged for a holiday movie.

Behind it all, the mountain commands the horizon, serving pines, powder, and peak drama with full-on main character energy.

December in Sugarpine Springs is the definition of postcard porn.

Never one to sit in silence for long, Asher clears his throat. “Don’t be mad at me, Lala. I just need to prove I’ve moved on.”

Great .

Now he’s weaponizing puppy-dog eyes and childhood nicknames.

Classic guilt-trip combo.

“Besides, we only have to fake it until Christmas Eve. Then Sienna marries her billionaire prince and everyone can quit treating me like a nuclear threat.”

“For what it’s worth, there’s no way the guy is actual royalty,” I soothe. “And let’s be real—he’s probably only a millionaire.”

“Doesn’t matter.” With a deep groan, Asher adjusts his Santa hat over a thick mass of blond hair. “I’m still a liability.” I had no idea his face was capable of such a deep frown. “My family lives for this week. I don’t want to ruin the vibe.”

Reaching across the console, I give his forearm a gentle squeeze. “You went through seismic heartbreak, Ash. Emotional aftershocks are normal. So is the urge to blow shit up. ”

Sienna and Asher’s three-year relationship didn’t crumble over petty drama. It shattered under the weight of real trauma. Though he stays tight-lipped about most of the story, the pieces he’s shared are sharp enough to hurt by proxy.

“Don’t worry. I’m all healed. Everything’s fine. Perfectly fine.”

The love of his life is marrying another man, and my masochist of a friend RSVP’d to the live premiere of their happily-ever-after just to prove he’s over her.

The lack of fine in this situation is colossal, but it feels cruel to call out the obvious.

So, instead, I relent.

“All right. Okay. I’ll be a merry little elf and go along with your ridiculous charade.”

It’s not like I have better plans. Unemployed, evicted, emotionally and financially overextended—I’m a free agent in the most pathetic sense of the word.

After two and a half years of bleeding my creativity dry, the company I sold my soul to kicked me to the curb. A few days later, my landlord followed suit. This all hit right as my savings account started firing off SOS flares.

The magic of the season isn’t quite… magicking .

Being my best friend’s emotional support human is the closest thing I’ve got to purpose right now. Helping him cope also distracts me from my own problems, putting off my inevitable I’m failing at life breakdown for at least a few more days.

“Thank you.” Asher cracks a smile, letting out a relieved exhale. “Truly. This is gonna be great.”

“ Great might be pushing it. Have you thought about what our breakup will do to my relationship with your parents and siblings? Am I—” My fingers knot in the coppery mess of my bangs as I try to breathe through the tightness in my chest. “Are they going to cut me off?”

When it comes to family, the Thornes are all I have left. We may not be bound by blood, but their love keeps my heart beating. Losing them wouldn’t just hurt—it would destroy me.

“We’ll cite creative differences,” Asher says breezily. “Tell them we split amicably and reverted to bestie mode. Worst case? I take the fall and you get full custody of my parents.”

“This is going to cost you.” I slump down, thumping the back of my head against the seat. “Big time.”

“I know. All-you-can-eat cupcakes for life. Frosted with eternal gratitude.” He nudges my shoulder. “I appreciate you, Pinecone Princess.”

“No way.” I swat at his elbow. “This charade is tacky enough. We don’t need cheesy nicknames.”

“I see your no way and raise you a hell yeah . Nicknames sell the narrative.” He wields his candy cane like a wand, pointing it at me. “Sugarplum Sweetie,” he says before turning it on himself. “Sexy Santy.” Swirling it in the air, he adds, “ Boom . Christmas couple goals.”

Eye-rolling isn’t really my thing, but around Asher it practically turns into a trademark. “Keep pressing your luck, Creepy Claus, and I’ll be forced to break out that oversized nutcracker riding in the trunk.”

“Careful,” he teases. “My jingle bells might interpret that as foreplay.”

“And my ears interpret that as assault.”

Thanks to a soulmate-level friendship between our mothers, Asher and I grew up with a sibling-like bond. We’ve supported each other through a lifetime of ups and downs. Pride. Pain. Puberty. Twenty-five years later, we’re permanently locked into another P-word: platonic .

Though my heart adores him, my body has never even flirted with the idea of interest.

It doesn’t help that my bonus brother is equal parts overbearing, oversharing, and obsessed with anatomical innuendos. Decades of dodging dick jokes have done their damage. One more pun about his North Pole might be the end of me.

The universe takes that as a dare.

Tires screeching over ice, the car lunges sideways, whipping us into a fishtail that slams me into my seat belt.

“Ash!” I scream as the world outside blurs into a swirl of white.

The candy cane flies from his hand. “It’s okay,” he pants, fighting to regain control of the wheel. “We’re okay. I’ve got it.” His words, taut with panic, are far from convincing.

My heart lodges in my throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact.

Thankfully, it never comes.

The tires catch, and the car jerks back onto solid road with a teeth-rattling thud.

Asher blows out a sharp, relieved laugh. “See?” he croaks. “All good.”

“ Uh-huh .” The only reason my breakfast hasn’t ended up on my lap is because my stomach is knotted too tightly.

Noticing my white-knuckled grip on the side of the seat, he gently pats my hand. “Breathe, Candy Cane Cutie.” The nickname lands flat, his usual charm dulled by the tremor threading through his voice. “I’m sorry, Isla,” he adds, guilt tugging at the edges of his words. “I’ll drive more carefully.”

History hovers between us, but my friend knows better than to exhume the memory of the crash that cost me everything.

As we crawl along the road, I focus on the basic rhythm of inhale, exhale .

Eventually, my lungs restart.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

Everything will be fine.

When we reach our destination, the sun dips behind the mountain, casting a golden halo across the sky.

Two massive stories of wood, stone, and cheerful charm greet us. I have a special connection to the house that has gifted me some of my brightest days and sheltered me through the darkest, but it’s the vast property behind the chalet-style home that triggers an onslaught of memories.

Late nights singing off-key around the fire pit, cheeks flushed and voices hoarse.

Hockey games on the frozen pond, won by whichever team had fewer icicle toes.

The infamous Mega Snow Maze and its twisted mess of tunnels.

We were once trapped for so long, Asher’s dad had to rush to our rescue with a shovel in one hand and a thermos of hot chocolate in the other.

At this time of year, the place is a scene straight out of a snow globe. My sanctuary where the disorder of the outside world melts away, leaving only comfort and peace.

Too bad today, I’m the harbinger of mayhem.

Somewhere between the gate and the garage, I start reevaluating every bad decision I’ve ever made.

Top of the list? Agreeing to this farce. Close second? Being Asher’s bestie.

“Time to deck the halls with deceit,” I mutter .

Asher pulls up directly in front of the house and kills the engine. “Relax, Lala.” He taps the furrow between my brows. “Just pretend we’re starring in a Hallmark movie. The Christmas Charade . Or maybe Mistletoe Match . Ho-Ho Hoax has a nice ring to it, right?”

“Last month’s marathons finally make sense.” I shake my head and groan. “You’ve spent weeks indoctrinating me with a fake love agenda wrapped in flannel propaganda.”

“Sentimental scams take commitment. And research. I’m pulling out all the stops. We’re gonna sell this so well we’ll get canonized in carol form.” As he puffs out his chest, the silver bells on his aggressively festive reindeer sweater jingle.

“What other tricks are you hiding up your sleeve?” I ask, stepping out of the car. The temperature has tanked, and I shiver despite my long coat. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. The less I know about this crime of passion we’re about to commit, the easier it will be to claim plausible deniability.”

“Did I mention how grateful I am for you yet?” Asher slings an arm around my shoulder and tugs me against him. “You’re officially off the hook for a lifetime of presents. Helping me get through this week without drowning in pity is the best gift you could ever give me.”

“And our breakup will be the best gift you will give me ,” I shoot back.

“Always so feisty, Tinsel Treasure.” He tousles the top of my hat-covered head before dragging me onto the porch. “Come on,” he says, swinging open the front door. “Showtime.”

As soon as we enter, I’m wrapped in warmth.

It seeps through the wool of my coat, sinking into my skin.

It’s not just the heat, though. The feeling of comfort lives in the sounds and scents infusing Evangeline and Graham’s place in December.

Crackling fire, laughter spilling from the living room, kitchen clatter in full swing.

The air is steeped in baking spices and fresh pine, with a softer, sweeter note threading through it.

Love .

My muscles loosen instinctively, tension surrendering to holiday spirit. This is familiar. Safe. It calms the still-panicked parts of me caught in a tug-of-war between fight and flight.

Maybe everything will be fine. It’s only a week, after all. Seven days of sugar, sparkling lights, and seasonal cheer. I simply need to play up the festive vibes and lean into the company of my favorite people.

Pretending to be in love with a best friend I adore should be easy.

What could possibly go wrong?