Inn Love For Christmas

All she wants for Christmas is her ex back, 
Santa Claus has a different plan…

Lucy has a boyfriend. Or had one. When he dumps her just before Christmas, she follows him to Sugar Creek, Vermont on the romantic vacation they were supposed to take together. Only, Eric is determined not to let her back into his life. So Lucy recruits the—unfairly attractive—town Santa Claus, Torin, to help her become irresistible…again.

Recently widowed, Torin is back in Sugar Creek with his four-year-old daughter, struggling to keep the family inn afloat. His heart is closed for business, until Lucy literally falls into his lap and they stumble under the mistletoe. Now, Torin has a decision to make: take another chance on love or help Lucy get her ex back.

Love has the upper hand until he discovers who the ex is, and the decision is made for him…you don’t get involved with your brother’s girl.

As family gatherings at the Sugar Creek Inn force Lucy and Torin together, her Christmas list starts to change. But are angel kisses and snowflake wishes enough to save two bruised hearts this holiday season?

Chapter 1 - Lucy

Most people wish on stars.
They hold their breath as a star shoots across the sky or recite nursery rhymes about starlight. They wish on falling stars, evening stars, and the first star in the night sky.
Anyone can wish upon a star.
I wish on snowflakes.
My mother used to say that each snowflake holds a tiny bit of magic inside, and when the snowflake melts, it releases its magic. If you can catch a perfect snowflake on your skin and make a wish before it melts, your wish will come true.
Probably not the best thing to tell a kid if you want to keep them from getting frostbite. Since Arkansas tends to have very short winters, it was never much of a problem for me growing up. And on the rare occasion that snowflakes did fall, I’d be outside in my t-shirt and shorts, prancing around, counting the arms of every snowflake and making wishes just in case.
Of all my wishes, only one changed my life.
The year I turned eight, it snowed the day before Christmas Eve. As per usual, I had snuck outside in my summer clothes, dancing and making wishes while my parents argued inside.
I could still hear them fighting when a perfect, tiny snowflake fell on my finger. Maybe I’d been outside too long, and my skin was colder than normal, but I counted every arm of that snowflake without it melting. As I finished, something in the house crashed.
Please, let my parents stop fighting.
The wish burst out of me. I wanted it more than anything. As I blew on the snowflake, warm breath melted the flawless arms into a wish as it dissolved on my skin.
The wish worked. They stopped fighting. Then, the front door slammed, and my dad walked to his car and drove away.
I haven’t seen him since.
I cried a lot that Christmas. But my mother soothed my tears, holding me while I told her it was my fault and I’d never make snowflake wishes again. Of course, she made me promise not to let an angry man destroy my love of magic. Snowflake magic may have changed my life, but her magic made it all okay again.
I only got one gift for Christmas that year, a tiny silver snowflake necklace, so I could always make wishes.
***
I’ve used all my wishes. After almost twenty years of wishing with my necklace, the magic is all dried up.
It’s the only explanation for losing my boyfriend of five years. I wished him into my life and now after the magic is gone, so is he.
Bing! My seatmate jumps, knocking my elbow off the armrest between us as an announcement sounds on the overhead speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re making our final approach into Burlington, Vermont. Please stow your tray tables, put away all large electronic devices, and return your seats to their full upright position. We’ll be landing shortly.”
The older woman in the seat next to me grips the armrest. “Oh, my goodness. The landings are the worst. I’ve always heard the landings are the worst.” She’s wearing a bright red sweater with a light-up Santa brooch pinned to the lace collar. Christmas trees hang from her ears. I’d have thought I was sitting next to Mrs. Claus if her sweater wasn’t printed with an outline of Vermont beneath the quote, “Sweet as Maple Syrup”.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine. They’ve done this hundreds of times.” I don’t know if it’s true, but I try to reassure her anyway.
“You’re right, I’m sure. It’s fine.” The anxious woman pats my wrist and casually grips it. Her voice takes on an edge of panic. “Talk to me. Now, please. I need a distraction. Tell me anything. Why are you here?”
“Umm, I’m surprising my boyfriend.” Fingers crossed he’s still my boyfriend.
“That’s precious. How long are you staying?” Her eyebrows have taken up residence in her hair line. A permanent expression of surprise quivers on her face as she glances nervously back and forth from my face to the window.
“We’re staying till Christmas.” I’m not sure if she can even hear me as her holiday fingernails tighten around my wrist.
“What’s the occasion?” Would-be Mrs. Claus has closed her eyes, her face taking on a green undertone.
“He’s got a family reunion the first week . . .” I check the seat pocket for an air sickness bag while I keep talking, trying to accommodate the anxious woman. It will really put a damper on the trip if she gets sick now. Besides, I’m wearing the sweater Erik bought me. It’s fitted and low-cut, and I don’t have a secondary get-your-boyfriend-back outfit. “Then we’re supposed to spend the rest of the time at a little ski resort in Sugar Creek.”
There’s a slight wobble as the plane descends below the clouds and she’s now gasping and fanning her face. “Oh, my.” We descend past marshmallow fluff to where we can see land, and her gaze immediately zips back to mine. “I haven’t had a boyfriend in fifty years. How long have you two been dating?”
“Five years.” Five years, and he tries to break up with me over the phone. Not good enough, Erik.
“Oh, my. And you’re staying in Vermont for Christmas? How romantic. Is this engagement time? I bet he brought a ring with him.” She’s looking much more relaxed.
I laugh bitterly. Everything I’ve said so far at least has potential to be true, but the idea that I could come home from this trip engaged is too much to even pretend. “Considering the fact that he changed his flight to leave before mine, and he wished me Merry Christmas after his breakup text, I’m thinking a ring’s not in my future just yet.”
The holiday spirit drains from the almost Mrs. Claus’s rosy cheeks, along with all other color. “Oh.” She clears her throat. “My.”
I look away, leaning against the cold, oval window. Mountains and trees and picturesque villages dot the landscape as we glide toward the airport that will deliver me to my last hope.
The silver snowflake sprawls delicately beneath my fingers. It’s habit to play with it and offer random wishes.
Bring Erik back to me. Let us stay together.
All my wishes hurt right now, but they’re made, and I watch the snowflake closely as if it might melt away. It doesn’t. It still has six perfect arms. As fake as my wishes.
Love is either a gift or a scam. A beautiful, unpredictable moment bringing people together and making them better, or a convenience for the lonely who need a buffer from reality.
At the moment, I’m undecided on which is the truth.
“It’s all right, dear,” Mrs. Claus mumbles. “True love only has to happen once. You’ll find him.” Then she turns to the person on her other side and redirects her conversation. “What brings you to Vermont?”
The air over her shoulder turns cold, and I sigh. It’s probably for the best. I don’t know if I believe in true love, but Erik is as close as it comes for me.
From the time I was eight years old my mother’s revolving door of relationships kept a string of men in my life. At first, I thought she was trying to find me a new dad and I took every opportunity to connect, but eventually I stopped even learning their names. As I grew up, I started to recognize this as her version of love. Little did she know, her relationships gave voice to my unique dating list. Not a Find the Perfect Man list. It’s a list for me, to remind myself of the things I can control.
Atop the list: Don’t add to the parade of men in my life.
But Erik isn’t part of the parade. When I met him, he checked boxes all the way through my list . . . mostly. He was supposed to be The One.
I didn’t anticipate needing to wish our love back into reality.
My necklace glitters where I haven’t entirely worn the finish off. I rub the shiny pendant anyway. If it’s possible to have a true love, Erik is going to be mine. I force my skepticism away and think a new wish, for good measure.
Help me find my true love.
This is not a failed relationship. Wish or no wish, I’m going to prove it to him. My anticipation builds as the matchbox homes grow larger in the toy village below. Among white roofs and white yards, snow-kissed trees sport coats of even more white. Columns of smoke rise from the chimneys as the world shifts into life-size surroundings, and all of a sudden, it’s real.
I’m here. In Vermont. And I’m going to get my boyfriend back.
***
“It’s perfect.” The breathy words have no destination. I’m alone, looking up at the German-style ski lodge above Sugar Creek. Three stories of cream-colored walls rise behind dark wood beams, crisscrossing the eaves. It sprawls along the mountainside, Christmas trees climbing the snowy banks behind it. An array of vibrant skiers zip down the mountain, tiny dots of color leaving wakes of white spray behind them.
The postcard scene of tourists in bright, squishy outerwear is a little surreal. Picking my way across the parking lot to the front doors, I pull my coat tighter. It’s freezing. I didn’t know I’d need a snowsuit just for walking around.
Once inside, golden walls and natural elements of wood and stone welcome me. I can do this, I think, making my way to the front desk.
Find Erik.
Kiss him.
Celebrate Christmas together.
Three simple things. Easy.
“Excuse me? My name is Lucy Sweet. I’m checking in with Erik Nyström. He arrived yesterday, can I get my key?”
The girl at the counter smiles behind square, purple spectacles. “How nice, Erik Nyström, yes. I think he just went to the restaurant. Oh –” The card is already in her hand when she hesitates. I have to stop myself from grabbing the keycard from her. “Are you sure he’s expecting you?”
“Of course he is.” My hands shake along with my smile as I respond, my eye on the unmoving keycard. “Why wouldn’t he be?” Surely he didn’t tell everyone that he broke up with me.
“Well, it’s just . . . I can see that you were on the reservation, Ms. Sweet, but he left a note saying you weren’t coming.”
I force a laugh into the awkward silence. “Oh right, that makes sense. ’Cause I wasn’t going to be able to. But then I could.” My eyebrows have gotten expressive as I sell the narrative, and I take a moment to breathe. “So, I came. I wanted to surprise him, and here I am.”
The reception clerk sets the keycard down as she considers me, brow furrowed. “Maybe I should clear this with him first.”
“No, really!” I throw my hand out after the card, just short of ripping it from her hand. I give the counter a good-natured pat. “What if I check for you? You said he went to the dining area? I can surprise him there.”
The girl nods, looking nervously down the hall.
“Okay, I’m gonna leave my bag here and I’ll go talk to him. He can straighten this all out. I don’t need a key for that.” I swing a pointed finger at her and force a laugh. It’s almost as awkward as finger guns.
Don’t mind me. Just trying to sneak into my boyfriend’s room. I let my fake enthusiasm go and follow the polished-oak signs toward the dining area. Voices and the tangy smell of cooked meat and spices lead me to a room full of tables. Skiers and guests gather around.
The room’s vaulted ceilings and wall of windows create a massive space that overlooks the snowy mountains. A fire crackles in the large fireplace. A chandelier of woven tree branches sparkles with tiny lights, as if dozens of fireflies have been called to the fire and then caught in the branches above. It’s beautiful.
It doesn’t take long to find Erik across the room, standing at a tall table surrounded by other guests. I don’t know if they’re friends or relatives here for the reunion, but as I cross the room, the brunette talking to him notices me and steps closer till she’s touching him. Hesitation weights my intentions, and I pause briefly before tapping Erik’s shoulder.
I beam up at him, as he turns, waving me away. “Someone already got our order, thanks—Lucy?” he asks, recognition and confusion tainting his grin. “What are you doing here?”
Here’s my moment of truth. I lift a shoulder and smile flirtatiously. “This is our vacation, isn’t it?” Dropping my voice to avoid questions from the others, I lean in. “And we have a conversation to finish.”
His brow creases. Before he gives his excuse to the others at the table. Taking my elbow, Erik walks us a few steps away. “I said everything I needed to yesterday.”
“Don’t I get a say in this? I’m not ready to break up. Especially not over a text message. We love each other, and I want us to give things another chance.” There, that was almost exactly how I’d rehearsed it.
Only, in my head, Erik falls into my arms, kissing me and expressing his gratitude that I haven’t given up on him. In reality, his nostrils flare, and he sweeps an arm around my waist, ushering me from the room. He doesn’t stop until he’s got me boxed into a corner of the hallway.
With one hand on the wall and the other on his hip, he leans over me. His blond hair doesn’t fall forward thanks to his favorite pomades, but I can smell his fresh, outdoorsy scent. His face is tense as he shifts toward me, and I can feel the angles of his clean-shaven jaw without touching them. He’s really close, but it doesn’t look like he’s planning to kiss me. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Why not? You broke up with me through a text. It doesn’t work that way.” My fears reel up, battling with my courage. The two of us together makes sense—I have to make him see that. “Think of all the great times we’ve had. Just last week, you told me you couldn’t imagine life without me. What went wrong from then until now?”
“Nothing went wrong.” His voice grumbles low, through clenched teeth. “Your ad campaign got me promoted. I was feeling pretty good.” He glances over his shoulder and back in frustration. “But having you as a work partner is very different than having you as a life partner. I want to be with someone that excites me. I love you, but I’m bored, Lucy. This relationship is boring. I appreciate that you think you can save this, but trying to revive a stale relationship with more of the same thing doesn’t save it.” He hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “What happens when, one day, you or I find someone better? Then we’ll be over anyway.”
“That’s not going to happen.” It comes out like an echo, a terrible, painful echo of what I wanted.
“How can you know?”
“Because you’re the one I want to be with forever. It’s a choice, Erik.” Tears and frustration boil inside me. His pride won’t allow him to concede, but he knows I’m right. We deserve a chance. “I thought you loved me. Tell me you don’t, and I’ll leave.”
“I don’t love you anymore.”
My brain stumbles to a stop as Erik’s clipped words run in my mind. That’s not what was supposed to happen.
Cold shards of anger intensify his blue eyes, staring into mine. I know he loves me. He said he did, just seconds ago. I won’t let this man’s anger or pride ruin my shot at lifelong romance.
“I don’t believe you.”
I take his hand. He pulls back, and it’s as if a wall drops between us. He looks back toward the restaurant.
“Sometimes love isn’t enough.”
He turns down the hallway without another word.
“Love is always enough,” I whisper, willing him to turn back. Wishing for him to come back to me.
But he doesn’t.
I silently curse snowflake wishes and the blind hope that comes with them as Erik rejoins his table without me. Unclasping my necklace, I wrap it between my fingers and squeeze till it hurts. I want to drop it off a ledge or throw it into the mounds of snow outside. But I’ve worn it almost daily for more than a decade. I drop it in my purse instead.
“Love is enough,” I whisper after him. I just have to make Erik see it too.
An hour later, I decide I’ve officially been scammed, by love and the internet. After being told there were no rooms available at the ski lodge, I went in search of a new place to stay.
Outside the car, the gravel I hold up my phone screen to compare the pretty little hotel in the photo to the dilapidated Pine Tree Cottage where I just booked a room. Anger flares wildly under my carefully contained emotional state. Never has a picture told more lies than this one.
“Ya were gonna stay here?” Gary, my QuickLyft driver, shakes his head. His thick New England accent makes it feel like I’m even further from home, pushing me to the verge of tears. “This place has been abandoned for years.”
“Well, they should take down their website, then.” My shoulders sink even lower than my spirits as the truth of my situation weighs me down. “I have nowhere to stay.”
Gary approaches me from the car, and I fall into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Thank you. You’re so nice. I really needed a hug.”
“There, there,” Gary says awkwardly, head swiveling as if trying to create space between us. “My wife always says tears are made for cleaning the soul.”
It’s not till Gary clears his throat that I realize he’s not hugging me back. In fact, his hand is pinched over the handle of my suitcase, and I quickly connect the dots that he hadn’t meant to hug me at all.
As soon as I step away from him, Gary grabs the suitcase with both hands and reloads it in the trunk. “We’re gonna go get ya a New Englan’ grilled cheese. That’ll give ya somethin’ to smile about.”
When he pulls up in front of J’s Burgers, my stomach rumbles a greeting, the smell of buttery carbs flooding the street.
Gary pulls out my luggage, and I offer him a sad smile.
“Thanks,” I say as he pulls away from the curb. “Wait! My purse!” I call after him, throwing my arm up and waving to get his attention.
Gary screeches to a stop, and I open the door. Crawling to the opposite side of the backseat, I find it lodged between the cushion and the door. “Why can’t anything be easy today?”
I set my phone down and use both hands to yank it free. When the purse finally slips out, I tumble backwards, and my knee hits the floorboards with the sound of ripping fabric. I look down at my torn pants and have to hold back tears. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is just the worst day ever.”
As he drives away, it’s like I’m at the end of my own movie and my last chance just disappeared down the road. Roll credits.
I need to call Shaunda. Reaching for my phone, I find an empty pocket.
“No . . .” I gasp, giving myself a whole-body pat down to find it. “No, no, no! Gary!” I yell, trying to run down the road in my little, heeled boots. I’ll never catch him.
My one way to communicate—gone.
I should have guessed this would happen. I’m not that lucky.
Lucy will always be one letter off of lucky. It’s something one of my mom’s boyfriends told me when I was a teenager. I can’t remember his name, but the phrase stuck with me. Today, the distance between me and that K feels as big as the mountain I just left my boyfriend on.
Fighting back tears, I roll my shoulders and straighten my spine. I’ve lost my appetite. Finding a place to sleep tonight is more important than food anyway. Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I trudge along the slushy sidewalk, toward the end of the block where a massive Christmas tree glimmers. Its ornaments shimmer in the cold sunlight, calling me forward. Strings of unlit lights grace roof lines and windows on every shop along the street, but the scene feels hollow and empty. Even the tree decked in darkened lights is unaware that something’s missing.
Transfixed on the grand tree, my gaze tracks all the way up the branches to the top. I’m just like this tree. All day, the decorations think they’re good enough, not realizing everyone’s looking at them, wishing they were lit up. Not only the tree but the whole town square lies in wait, incomplete without its spark.
I’ve let my spark dim. Erik watched it go out. He was right, I have become boring. But I have spark. A lot of it. I’ve just waited too long to turn on the lights.


Chapter 2 - Torin

“I’m pretty sure Santa Claus doesn’t fix leaks,” I growl from the kitchen floor in my red velvet Santa pants and boots.
“Be careful with that suit, Torin. It belonged to my papa.”
“Yeah, Ma. That’s why I left the coat over there. At the moment, I need the pants.” I glance out from under the cabinet as my mother lays a towel over my legs.
“Just in case.” She backs away, giving me a stern glare. “You know we’ve had that Santa suit as long as we’ve had this Inn.”
After immigrating through Ellis Island, Dad’s grandparents settled in the maple-filled mountains of Vermont. Great Grandpa Nyström bought his dream plot of land near a creek, with a view of the lake bay. He built a home to last generations, and Great Grandma built family traditions to last just as long. Their first year in Vermont, she sewed a set of red velvet robes trimmed in white fur, for her husband to play Santa Claus at the Sugar Creek town square festivities. The Nyström men have been playing the jolly old elf ever since, or so the story goes.
Over the years, things expanded to become a full Santa’s Workshop event sponsored by the Sugar Creek Inn, though everyone just knows us as the Nyströms. It’s expected. And today, because my dad got hurt, I’m wearing an old Santa suit and fixing the old plumbing in an old house.
I lean into the wrench, twisting it around the sink drain. With a pop, the wrench slips off the pipe and I slump against the wall of the cabinet. “I’ve got to finish this.”
“Daddy!” Alice appears in the doorway, the strings of two star-shaped paper lanterns in her fists. “Look at my pretty stars!” Both her pigtails have come undone, leaving her fine golden hair sticking out on the sides of her head.
“Hey, sweetie, where did you get those?” It takes a second to slide out from under the sink without damaging the sacred Santa pants. “Daddy spent the last two days hanging them.”
Despite the staples and Christmas lights holding them in place, the roof of the wrap-around porch is apparently short a couple of star lanterns. Alice giggles and twirls, holding the stars out to her sides as they fly around her.
“Oh, sötnos,” Ma says, calling her by the Swedish term of endearment and taking the lanterns from her hands. She sets them on the counter and taps Alice’s forehead. “You are mischievous.”
Alice looks at me, scrunching her nose adorably. “Why is Daddy dressed like Santa?”
“Because Gramma’s very determined.” I wink at my little girl with my arm stretched behind the sink disposer. It’s harder to reattach the drain line from this angle, but when Alice is around, she never fails to command every ounce of my attention.
My mother narrows her eyes at me, then bends down to Alice’s height. “Your Daddy is dressed up to be Santa’s helper. Isn’t that nice?”
“Uh-huh.” Alice watches me and turns back to my mom. “Gramma?”
“På Svenska?” she asks Alice. In Swedish?
Even though I only know en lite grann, a little bit, of Swedish, my mother has decided it’s time to start teaching Alice.
Alice’s face squishes in worried concentration before her eyes light up. “Farmor?”
My grin swells when she finds the Swedish word for Grandma, but my mother is the one who sweeps her up in a tight snuggle. “Mycket gott, sötnos.”
Very good, sweetie. I like the phrase almost as much as Alice, who giggles in my mother’s arms.
As I adjust the clamp on the drain line, Alice plays with my mother’s apron strings. Her bright green eyes match mine. They’re the only feature I can really claim. Her blonde curls and button nose are just like her mother’s. When she smiles, Corrine smiles up at me through her.
Teasing Ma with her apron strings, my dad hangs on her shoulder. Ma waves him off. “Go bother Torin, I’m helping my Alice.”
“What do you want, en söt?” Dad calls Alice by his pet name for her, sweet one, trying to sneak her away.
“Why does Daddy need to help Santa?”
My dad’s eyes go wide, and he steps back. “Childhood trauma is your territory, min älskling?” My dear. His sweet nothings don’t do much for Ma and she rolls her eyes before speaking to Alice.
“En söt. Remember when Farfar dressed up as a helper Santa?” She points at my dad to help Alice recognize the word for Grandpa.
Alice nods. “He fell down by the big Christmas tree.”
I snort a laugh as I tighten the clamp on the reattached garbage disposal line. “Now I get to do all Farfar’s chores.”
“I sprained my wrist. I’m not useless,” Dad says. “I can fix a leaky drain in my sleep.”
“We know, älskling.” Ma turns back to Alice. “Well, because Farfar is hurt, your Daddy gets to be one of Santa’s helpers.”
“We could ask someone else this year,” I offer helpfully. “Where did I put the screwdriver?”
“Santa asks our family to be the helpers,” my mother says firmly, and my dad puts the screwdriver in my hand. “And today is the first day that Santa gets to come to Sugar Creek and find out all the kids’ Christmas wishes, so your Daddy has to go be the helper.”
“Is Daddy an elf or Santa?” she asks, swinging her feet over the edge of the counter.
“Neither.” I slide out from under the cabinet, stretching as I stand. “But today I’m pretending to be Santa. Is that okay? It’s like playing dress up.”
Alice gets a big grin on her face. “I like to play dress up too. Can we be princesses tonight?”
“If I get a crown.” I kiss my little girl and set her on the floor. “Why don’t you go play?”
Alice bounces from the room. We don’t need to keep talking Santa with my four-year old.
There’s a towel on the counter and I wipe my hands on it, nodding toward the sink. “Try it out, Ma. I think we’re good.”
She turns on the sink, and I instinctively pull back, flinching against potential water shooting from the pipe joints. Nothing happens, and relief soothes the tightness of my neck and shoulders.
“Thank you, Torin.” She turns the water on and off happily.
Drip.
My head snaps to the sound. Drip. Somewhere a joint isn’t completely sealed.
“Let me look at that. I’ll take care of the problem.” Dad leans over the sink, subsequently knocking his sling against the counter. He flinches, hard.
“No,” my mother and I say in unison.
“Why not?” he grumbles. “A kitchen sink is easy. I learned to repair plumbing lines in skyscrapers.”
“Is that when you built the Empire State Building? Or the Chrysler Building?” I’m not sure I’ve got the brain space to revisit my dad’s questionably accurate stories about his glory days in New York.
“Watch your tone. I didn’t build them, I’m not that old, but I’ve worked on ’em both. There’s nothing like walking the scaffolding five hundred feet in the air without a tether.”
“Maybe I should call a plumber.” Ma looks my dad over, adjusting his sling.
“No. To both of you.” I lean back under the sink, searching for the leak. Adding the expense of a repair man to the already tight budget shoots my heartrate up. I haven’t talked to them about how bad the finances have gotten since Corrine died, and I’m dreading the conversation. My parents never had a mortgage on this place until my wife’s medical bills were due. It’s the reason I came home after she died. They refinanced their inn to help me, and now I’m trying to help them.
Trying to lighten the mood, I wink at Ma. “I’m not plumbing a historic building, but I’m doing my best. How will I ever find a woman as great as you if I can’t prove I’m as good as Dad?”
“And who are you trying to win over?” She doesn’t seem amused. Considering she’d like me to find a romantic partner, it may not have been the best joke. “Mmhmm. Well, your sarcasm isn’t going to win you any points.”
Dad’s face appears next to me. “Is it working? Check the P-trap, it’s always—”
“Don’t pester him.” Ma pulls Dad back by his good arm.
“Ingrid,” his voice has gone pleading. “I don’t pester. I’m supportive. Trust me, mitt hjärta.” My heart. My dad can even make home repairs flirtatious.
“Let him finish,” my mother says, unimpressed.
The pipe is damp along the back of the sink flange. I extract myself from the cabinet again. “I’ll stop by the hardware store on my way home. I don’t have time to fix it now.”
“Oh, it’s almost time for Santa’s workshop to open. Wally, go get Alice for me,” she says. He kisses her cheek before heading to the stairs after Alice.
“Why do you need Alice?” I ask, putting the Santa coat on. It’s hot and the fur itches my neck.
“So, you can take her to daycare for a few hours. I have a Sugar Mamas meeting this afternoon, so I booked her a spot at the Happy Play Daycare.”
“Daycare?” The word is a rock in my throat. “I thought you’d be keeping her?”
“She’ll be fine.” Ma hands me the belt and pats my shoulder. “You look very nice. Are you ready? It’s almost time to go meet Blaire at the workshop.”
“Blaire?” She lives next door and has taken to ambushing me whenever I go out, whether it’s grocery shopping or the playground.
“Yes, she offered to be an elf, isn’t that sweet?”
“Or devious.” Now, she has an automatic excuse to be with me every day.
“You’re being silly. You know that, right?”
“She cornered me last week, talking about a problem with her fireplace for almost two hours while Alice had a playdate at the park.”
“Well, you did say your home repair skills would help you find a good woman.”
“Blaire is probably ten years older than I am. It’s not gonna happen. Besides, Corrine’s only been gone two years. I’ve got time.”
“Time,” she tsks, “is a selfish sailor. Bringing in the haul only when he’s ready and keeping your boat ’til the day is gone, and the fish are stinking.”
I look down at my outfit rethinking my agreement to take on Dad’s Santa duties. “I know you want me to do this, but I have a lot going on right now.” It’s only the first of December. It’s going to be a long month if I have to be Santa with Blaire every day. “Can’t we get one of your Sugar ladies to find someone? Why don’t you ask one of their husbands to be Santa?”
Planting her hands on her hips, she falls into her full Swedish accent. “Torin Alik Hugo Walfrid Nyström, our family has a responsibility to this town. We are the Santas. The other Sugar Mamas have their own responsibilities. This is ours. You wouldn’t let your mother down, would you?”
Never in my life have I wanted to go head-to-head with my mother, especially over Christmas. Only moments ago, she’d seemed all sweet and happy. Now, she’s gone fierce. The steel of her spine magnetizes the air and, somehow, she’s grown taller during her lecture.
I shrink a little, persisting in my argument. “I work here all day and with my Seattle office all night. I can’t. I’m trying to pay back a loan. I’m not retired.”
“What do you do? Look at your computer and tap the keys a few times a day. Go be Santa and tap later.”
I may be a full foot taller than her, but I’ve never felt as small as when my sixty-year-old mother puts her hands on her hips and points out my inadequacies.
“I don’t just tap keys. I’m a finance manager. You know that. And frankly, I’m lucky to still have a job. When I came home, I told them it was temporary, and it’s been two years. I’m sorry Ma, but I’ve got things to do. I can’t.”
“Oh, so no Santa for us. Nej. Will you be the one to tell Alice that Santa forgot to come to Sugar Creek? And what about Alice and the other children? They want a Santa.”
Alice is my weak spot, and she knows it. “Come on, Ma. What if Dad just does it some of the days?”
“If you want him in a cast by New Year’s.” Sass and guilt are my mother’s secret weapons.
“Of course I don’t want that.” Maybe if I give Dad time to heal, he’ll be able to help around here again and things will be less stressful. Not that it will fix the real problems. Things were bad before Dad hurt himself. If Ma wants me to play Santa a few hours a day, I should help her out.
“I’ll be home before five,” I promise, giving her a quick squeeze and a kiss on the forehead.
***
Taking Alice into the Happy Play Daycare dressed in full Santa gear wasn’t my first mistake, but it was a big one.
I became an instant celebrity the moment I walked through the door. Kids wanted hugs and asked questions about the reindeer or Mrs. Claus. My favorite was the little girl who wanted to confirm her place on the nice list while ensuring her brother got coal.
Finally, back in the car, I shake off the jitters from my preschool preshow. It’s three minutes after twelve. Santa’s Workshop should be welcoming visitors right now. The square is only a few blocks away. Relax.
I’m turning the corner toward Main Street when my phone rings, lighting the screen. The call picks up on speaker and I greet my friend enthusiastically. “Max! You called back.”
“Of course, man. I’m Max Crew, your real estate guru.”
“You know, I’ve never heard a more annoying slogan,” I grumble as I turn another corner.
“Then you shouldn’t have come up with it.”
“It was an accident. There’s a reason I didn’t go into marketing.”
“Your parents wanted a finance guy?”
“Well, yeah, pretty much.” Pausing at a four way stop, my gut tugs with nostalgia as a young couple pushes a stroller toward town square. I ignore it and pull through the intersection. “Hey, I wondered if you’d had a chance to look at my parent’s property analysis.”
“Right, cause you’re selling. I forgot,” he laughs. I don’t say anything else, and the line goes quiet. “Wait, you were serious?”
There’s a parking spot right behind the little red and gold building where I’ll be spending the next four hours. I pull in and thump my head back against the headrest. “Yeah, I was thinking about getting it on the market before Christmas, if my parents agree.”
“Oh, dang. I haven’t even looked. I’m sorry, I thought you were joking.”
I close my eyes. “I wish I was joking. Hey, I’ve gotta get going. I’m supposed to be Santa today.”
“I’d totally tease you about that except that I’m trying to wrap my brain around you selling your place.”
It’s not quite twelve-ten. I’m already late – a few more minutes won’t hurt. “It’s my parent’s place. And don’t reach out to them about it yet, okay? We haven’t talked about it. I want to find out some details and see what selling looks like first.”
“Aw, man. I’m terrible at keeping secrets.” Max drops his voice. “Is it really that bad?”
I nod in the empty car, the question squeezing my chest. The inn used to pay for itself, but with the refinancing and a business mortgage and high interest rates, our sporadic guests don’t cover our expenses. We’re not making it.
“It’s bad.” I failed them. “We’ve got maybe a month or two before things get dicey, but that still gives me time, right?”
“Not much time.”
I slam the car door and lean against the frame. There are plenty of visitors already out and about. Thankfully, most of them are hanging out at the firepits and the Main Street shops on the other side of the block. It’s quiet here. I try not to let my emotions go crazy.
“I know, but they’re in this situation because of me. Two years of trying and, instead of fixing it, we have to sell. I should have things together by now. I should—”
“Hey,” Max interrupts my rant. “This is not your fault. You’re doing your best. Your wife died, Torin. Nobody expects you to have everything figured out. Corrine was special to all of us.”
His comment isn’t completely out of the blue, but it still shocks me. I didn’t intend to turn Max into my therapist, but my failure at the inn is pulling out a lot of stuff.
“Thanks,” I mumble numbly. A wave of missing Corrine washes over me.
“Look, I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to be out there wrangling a bunch of snowy toddlers already. I’m sure Blaire’s tired of waiting.”
“Blaire . . . Thomas? You’re joking.”
“Don’t ask.” Fielding a few minor jabs, we say goodbye and hang up as I cross the sidewalk and garden at the back of the workshop.
The whole town square is bordered by a sidewalk. Santa’s Workshop sits kitty-corner just inside it, facing the large Christmas tree at the center. The miniature plywood building was built by my father, from the displays of elves in the windows, to the gold curls on the bold red walls. It’s very Christmas, but it’s not perfect. The hinges are old, the supports need to be replaced, and the doorknob is starting to stick. Just like the inn, it’s showing its age.
It does the job, though. Designed to go up and down quickly with the town’s Christmas decor, it stores the loose decorations and supplies. I try not to think about what it will cost to replace when it finally breaks.
Circling to the front of the building, I find Blaire, waiting in the Santa chair.
“Torin!” She jumps up quickly. “I would have set up already, but I don’t have a key. I put the sign out, though.” Like a gameshow model, she holds her hand out to the Santa’s Workshop Is Open sign.
“Thanks,” I say, and she grins. “Maybe next time you can wait until I’m here, but I appreciate the effort.”
“Oh, of course. That was silly. I was just trying to impress you. You know. Our first day and all.” She turns away, flustered.
With Blaire and I working together, it only takes a few minutes to finish set up. Eventually, she positions herself at the head of the line, where a queue of kids is forming.
Blaire lets the first child past the candy cane ropes, and he climbs into my lap. I find out he’s three and wants a truck with big wheels. I pose for a picture, give him a candy cane, and repeat.
An hour into the process my phone rings. By a stroke of luck, I’ve just sent the last kid in line to Blaire for a candy cane. I mime a telephone up to my ear with one hand and sneak out of my chair, heading inside the Santa’s Workshop building. It’s tiny and doesn’t offer much privacy.
When I finally manage to get my phone out, I’m ready to shut the ringing block of metal off completely. Until I recognize the number.
The daycare.
“Santa needs a minute,” I call to Blaire.
I can just see her through the opening of the door, and she nods as a little boy grabs one of her long braids and pulls it.
“Hello?” The girl on the other end of the line greets me when the line connects. “I’m looking for Mr. Nyström.”
“That’s me.” I turn around, facing the splintered plywood wall. “Can I help you?”
“Uh—” the girl drags the silence out like an old carpet, thin and worn. “You need to come pick up your daughter.”
“I can’t.” I glance behind me at Blaire and the little boy out front. “I’m sorry, I’m working. Is there any other option?”
“Not really.” This time there’s no hesitation. “Alice is coughing on the other kids and it’s scaring them. She needs to go home.”
Denial breeds quickly. I knew daycare was a bad idea. “Alice is perfectly healthy.”
“I’m aware. I heard the kids talking about her mother. Someone teased her about not having a mom, which was wrong, but Alice responded that her mother died of pneumonia and if she coughs on them, they’ll get pneumonia and die too. Now half of the kids think they’re going to die. You need to come get your daughter. Have a talk with her before she comes back, too, please . . .” She waits a moment and raises her voice. “Mr. Nyström? Did you hear me?”
“Yes.” I blink at the wall, not sure what to do. The daycare is only a few blocks away, but it might as well be Burlington. “Yes, I did. I still can’t come right now. Is there anything else I can do? Can I come in an hour?”
There’s another shriek in the background of the daycare and a giggle makes me drop my head. I know that giggle. I’d recognize Alice’s laughter anywhere.
“Mr. Nyström? I—”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say. A sound of exasperation slips from my throat in a short breath. “Blaire?”
“I’ll get her.” Standing behind me, Blaire answers the question I didn’t ask.
Turning around, I realize how small the workshop really is. Big enough to hold Santa’s chair and decor items in the off season. Not big enough to maneuver around another adult without touching.
Her lips twitch up into a brief smile. “I came in to get candy canes. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I’m happy to help.”
Taking favors from Blaire seems like the wrong move. “You don’t have to do this. I might be able to call—” I draw a complete blank. “Someone —”
I’m sure I look more desperate than ever. I don’t have another choice.
“It’s fine,” Blaire laughs. “Santa can’t leave the workshop when he has guests. You can’t leave Alice either, so I’ll get her.”
It’s fine. She’s just doing a favor. That’s all it is. I ignore the sinking pit in my stomach as her hips swing all the way out of the workshop.


Chapter 3 - Lucy


When Erik said to pack snow boots, it didn’t occur to me that they’d be different from my regular winter boots. But as I walk down the sidewalk over chunks of rock salt and dirty slush, it’s become very clear that my faux-suede, moderate-heeled, Florida winter, ankle boots are not real winter boots.
Sidewalks merge with gutters under low mountains of dingy snow. It’s not pretty, or picturesque, or anything like the snow globe world I was promised. At the end of the block, the large Christmas tree dominates my view. It’s got to be more than twenty feet tall, sitting in a large town square type of area. It isn’t far to the tree, but I’ve already slipped three times crossing this icy gauntlet of a sidewalk.
Why didn’t Erik suggest hiking boots? Or tennis shoes, at least?
Probably because people who aren’t from Florida understand what snow boots means. Or maybe because he knew he was gonna break up with me, so he didn’t care. The thought comes with sniffles and more tears.
I breathe deep and slow like I’m in a frozen yoga class as a couple walks past, holding gloved hands. Thick bundles of bright-colored knit hug the woman’s neck. The scarf pairs with a matching hat that has a fist-sized, fur pouf perched on top. She looks decadently warm.
I’ve never been so jealous of clothing.
For a second, I can feel the heat of the fireplace from the resort. I’m supposed to be there with Erik right now, cuddling by the fire. The thought sends my spirits spiraling.
I just want him back. Out of habit, I reach for the silver snowflake at my neck to make a wish, but it’s not there. Right. I’ve given up on snowflake wishes.
Past the mucky piles of slush, I reach the corner, faced with the overly festive town square. A scene of nutcrackers stands guard over the fire pits and carolers in Santa’s village, in addition to the giant tree at its center. I’m in no mood to appreciate the overall feeling of jolliness, and I almost turn back, but I still don’t have a place to stay. Praying for a kindhearted soul to let me borrow their phone or give directions to a hotel, I tiptoe across the street.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa Claus’ laugh startles me as I make my way around the town square.
Nestled in the corner of the snowy venue, a large sign proclaims I’ve made it to Santa’s Workshop. A pair of sentinel nutcrackers flanks the small red structure while a procession of bouncing toddlers waits in an impatient column outside the plywood building. Snow lines the roof in evenly spaced mounds, like frosting on a gingerbread house. Golden swirls painted around the windows give the childlike workshop a magical quality. Without warning, my eyes burn with tears as I remember the days when snowflakes and Christmas wishes held all the magic I’d ever need.
Despite the adults keeping them in check, rowdy boys and girls dance and weave around the ropes and giant nutcrackers. Santa Claus sits on a large throne at the head of the tiny hordes. No elves, assistants, or awkward teens step up to help.
When I’m close enough to hear a little girl offer a plea for a Mini Me doll, I pause. I designed the marketing campaign for the doll she’s requesting. It’s good to know it works. The little girl isn’t as young as I originally thought, but the doll is her only request and the sweetness of the interaction tugs at my heart. I’ve been that little girl, sitting on Santa’s knee with a simple plea. At heart, I might still be that little girl.
“Billy, get back here!”
The shout draws my attention. A panicked mom reaches out for her son, who is careening toward one of the nutcrackers.
I rush forward, catching the boy only a few paces from knocking the larger-than-life soldier on top of Santa.
“Careful.” Trying to soften the reprimand, I smile down at him. Then he jerks out of my grip, knocking me off balance. In my already treacherous shoes, I stumble, catching my foot on the red carpet in front of Santa’s chair and tripping right into Saint Nicholas’ red velvet lap.
I look up into Santa Claus’ shocked face. “Are you alright?” Then, correcting his tone, he laughs in a theatrical Santa Claus voice for the kids. “You’re a little old for visiting Santa, aren’t you?”
Behind his white beard, pale green eyes transition from shock to concern. This man is not a grandpa. I climb quickly out of his lap, and he stands, helping me to my feet.
“I’m so sorry.” Glancing at the little boy reunited with his grateful parents, I brush myself off and shake my head. “I was just trying to help.”
“I can see that.” His cheek bones lift above the beard, his smile crinkling lines at the corner of his eyes.
They’re captivating. A crown of peridot green surrounds his pupils, bursting pale lime striations out to a ring of deep moss. A fairy garden of green I can’t stop staring at.
I drop my gaze to the ground. Guilt tightens my body from shoulders to toes for even noticing this man’s beauty. His very solid biceps are thick under my clenched fingers when my awareness returns.
I let go quickly.
“Well, that’s not embarrassing at all.” Stepping back, my heel catches a stray spot of ice and I slip, fear washing over me. In a wild search for stability, I reach out to grab hold of Santa once again and something snaps as the magical Christmas land blurs to red.
Face planting into Santa Claus’ chest wasn’t on my Christmas list, but maybe it should have been. I’ve now fallen into this man twice in two minutes. I can confirm, this Sexy Santa is entirely lacking the traditional milk-and-cookies belly. A blush of heat burns my neck and face.
Peeling myself off his velvet suit, there’s something white and fluffy in my hand, but I can’t place it. I straighten, fixing my sweater and brushing my hair back blindly. I’m preening, and it annoys me.
I look up to explain, but he takes my arm, quickly walking me toward the exit.
“Let’s get you on your way,” Sexy Santa says. Keeping his face turned to the building behind us, he lowers his voice. “So, can I have my beard back?” His voice has a deep familiar quality, sounding even less like the holiday icon, now that I’ve had such an up close and personal exploration of him.
He glances down at me, confusion in those beautiful green eyes. I’ve taken too long to respond, and I force myself to gather words . . . and thoughts. “I don’t—um—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Next time, I’ll gather thoughts first.
Dark hair peeks out from under his fur-edged hat. Just a hint of stubble covers his square jaw. He looks like he belongs in the mattress ad campaign I’d been working on before I left Florida. We could easily cover 70-80% of the market, luring the entire female population and a good chunk of the not-so-female population to try out any bed he was lounging on.
“My beard. It’s a family costume, so I need it back. Please?”
It takes a moment for his question to sink in. He’s missing his beard.
“I don’t have it.” I sound a little defensive, and when he glances down at my hands, I follow his gaze. Sure enough, tucked into my folded arms is a pile of white curls. “Oh!” I hold it out, feeling like a fool for the third or maybe twenty-third time this morning. “I’m so sorry—again.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He laughs, discreetly taking the beard back. His smile crinkles the corner of his eyes, coaxing my own smile forward.
He’s easily six inches taller than me, and when he laughs, the smell of peppermint fills the air like he’s been sneaking candy canes. Facing away from the kids, he reattaches the long white beard. Or tries. He pulls the costume piece away, examining the back of the beard.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
Sexy Santa’s green eyes focus on the damage, and his smile transitions to a perceptive frown. “I think it’s broken.”
“Can I see it?” I know as soon as he hands it to me what’s wrong. The elastic snapped. “Shoot.”
My worry returns in full force. I feel sick. Sneaking a glance behind me, I point to the workshop. “I might be able to help. Go back there, behind the building. I’ll meet you in a second.”
He cocks his head as if he’s weighing the options, but based on the whining starting up behind me, I don’t have time to explain.
“Please? Trust me,” I say, steeling myself for an argument, but he nods and leaves. Back with the crowd of children and parents, it takes a sharp whistle to get their attention. But when they all face me, I offer a bright smile. “Hi everyone. Santa is feeding the reindeer, but he wants me to tell you he’ll be right back. If you’re really good while you wait, Santa will have two candy canes for each of you when he gets here.”
There are only a few whimpering children when I leave. I grab my suitcase and hurry after Sexy Santa.
I’ve got to stop calling him Sexy Santa.
Santa’s Workshop backs up to the sidewalk that runs around the edge of the square. The red building is a bold accent to the snow-covered garden plots. Standing near a little archway lined with greenery and ribbons, Sexy Santa completes the holiday decor.
Dang it. Santa! Santa. Not Sexy Santa.
The very handsome Santa Claus man completes the holiday decor.
“I hope you have a plan,” Sexy Santa says, “because it sounds like you’re promising my candy cane supply if I don’t make it back quickly.”
“Oh, you misheard me. I promised double candy canes, regardless of when you get back.”
He leans his head back and groans.
Peppermint tangles in the air between us with something else. Eucalyptus or evergreen, maybe. Something fresh and spicy. It’s nice. It reminds me of Erik. Memories fill my head. Erik’s scent brings everything from laughter and sunny beaches to arguments in a snowy lodge.
“Hand me the beard.” I pull my travel sewing kit out of my bag, as Sexy Santa holds out the damaged costume. Taking it, I put the elastic back in place and start stitching.
“Are you any good at this?” He sounds nervous. “That’s a family heirloom.”
“I’m good enough, but thanks for the added pressure.” Looking up, a laugh almost escapes, but my breath catches. We’re almost nose to nose before he pulls back, watching me. Warmth rises through my neck, heating the skin below my jawline. It’s a struggle to finish the stitches and tie off my thread, but I finally manage to trim it and hand it back. “Here,” I say. “It should be fixed.”
He keeps his distance, and the air cools as he looks over my work. “That’s perfect, thank you. You may have just saved Christmas.”
“Nothing that dramatic.”
He holds up the beard. “Pretty close.” His eyes drift over me, and fire flares in my gut. “You blush pretty easily, don’t you?”
I take a deep breath and release it slowly, focusing on the snow. The very cold, icy snow. I have to relax. I can handle this. Prepared with a calm smile, I look up. “It’s not that bad. My mother was the same way.”
“So, it’s genetic?” He smiles.
My body temperature rises. If he wasn’t so good looking, this wouldn’t be such a problem. I may have just broken up with my boyfriend but I’m still a fully functioning, grown woman. Fully functioning, I think. That’s the problem.
“You should thank her. It’s cute.”
I scoff and turn away. “That’s the first time anyone’s ever told me that.” Erik used to point out my flushing skin every time it happened, but it was more of a request to chill out than a compliment.
“I should get back to work.” Putting the beard on only partially covers his face. His eyes are still a problem. “How do I look?”
“So good.” I breathe. He quirks an eyebrow at me and doesn’t even try to hide his grin. I catch myself and adjust my tone. “Good! Good. Great.” My inflection changes on every attempt to recover from sounding so besotted. “You’re very . . . merry.”
He narrows his eyes, like he doesn’t believe me. “My beard is crooked, isn’t it?”
“A little. Do you care if I fix it?” I reach for the side of his beard, hesitating.
“Please,” he says, leaning forward.
It’s unexpectedly intimate, and I can’t quite fix it. I give up with an awkward apology, and he pulls the beard off, revealing the full force of his smile. Those lips.
My stomach flips.
“Mommy, are they gonna kiss?” A little voice asks behind us.
We were supposed to be hiding from the children, but on the snowy sidewalk surrounding the square, a little girl and her mother walk past in thick coats and hats.
“Of course, honey. They’re under the mistletoe.” The mother keeps walking, unconcerned with Santa’s romantic life.
Mistletoe? I look up in shock. We’ve moved under the garden arch, and above us is a bundle of white-berried mistletoe.
The girl stares back at us and Sexy Santa pulls his gaze from her to me. “Should we?”
I blink at him. Did he really just ask me that? “Umm, I—”
“It’s just a kiss.” He bends close, whispering, “A mistletoe kiss.”
“Oh—” I shrug, my mouth open in surprise. “Yes—umm, okay. It—umm— it is . . .” It is mistletoe. That’s what I’m supposed to say. But he’s grinning and I’ve lost my voice. I suddenly feel very dry.
His eyes drop to the movement of my tongue as I lick my lips and he pulls me close. Brushing his lips against mine, there’s only the pressure of a brief kiss before I pull back.
The fleeting warmth is shocking. It’s just a kiss. I shouldn’t like the feel of his lips on mine, shouldn’t feel anything at such a quick, nothing of a kiss.
“Is everything okay?” His hands have found their way to my back, fingers pressed into my body. He looks down at me, letting his gaze glide over my skin and end back at my lips.
His mouth moves as he says something else and waits for me to respond. Unable to take my eyes off his lips, I nod. I have no idea what he’s said. Voices and Christmas music have morphed into vague, white noise, buzzing in my mind. When the corners of his lips turn up in a grin, longing tingles over my skin.
This time, when Sexy Santa pulls me closer, I go willingly.
It’s just a kiss. A mistletoe kiss.
Our lips meet again, and my thoughts meld into the press and pull of his mouth. Heat dances through my body, and it’s nothing for my hands to find their way up his chest to the back of his neck. Pressing my fingers into his skin and hair, I push his Santa hat askew with one hand and grip his velvet sleeve with the other. His hands answer me, sliding across the back of my waist and up my spine. Intoxicated by the gentle force of his lips, I let him lead me deeper into his embrace until the connection breaks.
The kiss is over.
There’s no need to pull back.
Green eyes rove my face. We’re separated by nothing but panting clouds of peppermint white breath. He strokes a thumb down my cheek, leaving a line of fire.
Desire rushes through me, sucked into my hollow chest like opening the window on a burning building.
That was not just a kiss.
***
I’ve never kissed a stranger.
I’m not like that.
Apparently, I’m boring.
Take that, Erik. I don’t even know his name, and I kissed him. Not so boring now! Heat spreads across my neck and shoulders as the memory of Santa’s kiss rolls through me.
I just broke up with Erik. How could I kiss another guy so soon? Even if it wins the title of sexiest kiss of all time. . .
No, I tell myself. That was not sexy. It was bad. I was lured onto the naughty list by Santa Claus himself.
Kissing that man is dangerous. Erik is safe. Slow burn versus wildfire. Compared to that kiss, kissing Erik was like kissing a brother. Not that I’d know, but . . . Wow. I should have gotten Santa’s number. No, it’s good that I walked away. I couldn’t handle being around him any longer.
Rule number two of my dating list: I will not date a man based on attraction alone.
My suitcase bumps off the slushy sidewalk, tipping and jerking me to the side as it falls.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” My anxiety ratchets up as I step into the snow-crusted street to retrieve my suitcase. “Where am I?” I can still see the town square in the distance behind me. But somehow, I’ve made it to a residential area.
Yup. Way too much attraction to be clearheaded.
I’m supposed to be looking for a place to stay. But pretty houses,
woodsy-smelling smoke, and holiday decor are not good indicators of hotels in the vicinity.
Jerking my suitcase up onto the sidewalk, I pick up my pace. A sign hangs in a yard up ahead. I take a few steps forward. Please, let it be somewhere to stay and not a lawyer’s office or funeral home. When I’m close enough to read the scrolling letters carved into the rough wooden surface, tears prick my eyes. The Sugar Creek Inn.
My bag has somehow gotten heavier, and I pause on the front walkway to compose myself. I’m breathing heavy, and I’m ready to collapse in the snowy front yard. Even so, if they’ve got open rooms, I just might kiss another stranger smack on the mouth.
It’s a beautiful Victorian home. A Christmas tree glows in the window. a sea of white paper stars dangling from the roof of the wrap around porch. The most beautiful thing of all is a little sign hanging near the front door that reads Vacancy.
It’s going to be all right.
That simple thought seems to bring the day crashing down on me. Everything that’s gone wrong is suddenly too much, from the breakup to losing my phone, and then getting stranded without anyone to care. Tears catch in my throat, but there’s still no one to notice them. Pushing the door open, I stuff my emotions down and call out, “Hello?”
Golden plank floors and warmth welcome me inside. The check-in desk stands to the left with a bell on its dark wooden counter. It matches the rest of the trim boards, decorated with greenery swags and woven, paper hearts. A woodstove burns in the corner and my heart does a double step. The smell of smoke is light and delicious. It’s like I’m in a gingerbread house, or a woodland cottage from a hundred years ago. Or I might be in heaven. Except that it’s empty.
“Hello?” I feel a little like Goldilocks, ready to investigate the beds of the three bears. Scents of cinnamon and ginger mingle with something savory, pulling me past the entry hall.
A bustling sound comes from around the corner and an elderly man with his arm in a sling appears.
“Ja? Hallo?” speaking in a heavy Scandinavian accent. His wrinkled frown turns up when he sees me. “Ah, welcome to the Sugar Creek Inn. Do you need a room?”

★★★★★ Joyce, Book Reviewer - Well written story with strong and believable characters.