Melanie
Christmas Eve
From the front window, the river looked like a ribbon of pewter braided through snow. The banks had puffed up overnight like frosted meringue mounds, and every branch on every alder wore a sugar crust so perfect it could’ve been staged.
The little rental itself leaned into the theme; it was the kind of cottage that made you want to curtsy when you crossed the threshold. White trim. Red door. Roofline like a child's drawing. If you told me a team of elves handled the original blueprints, I would’ve nodded and asked for their contractor’s card.
Inside, it was all cinnamon and soft lamp light and the quiet tick of the old wall clock over the mantle.
I’d gone slightly feral with the decorating—okay, entirely feral. The thrifted brass candlesticks from one of my shopping trips with Lydia glowed on the mantle between boughs of fir.
The stockings I’d found in a bin marked MISC HOLIDAY (99¢) hung on hooks shaped like little reindeer, one reading MERRY and the other HELLO in vintage chain stitch because apparently previous owners had had priorities.
A tiny ceramic village colonized the windowsill—bakery, post office, a skating pond with skaters perpetually mid-giggle. On the coffee table, a bowl of clementines and a plate of sugar cookies dusted with sanding sugar looked like they’d posed for a lifestyle magazine.
Christmas Eve.
My mother would be here any minute, which meant I’d arranged and rearranged every throw pillow in the house twice and was now aggressively fluffing the last one like it owed me money.
I checked the time again…ten minutes since the last time I checked it. The kettle purred on low on the stovetop, a pot of mulled wine simmered and perfumed the kitchen with cloves, oranges, and the kind of cheer you can serve in a mug.
The tree was a stout little fir we’d crammed into the corner and wore white lights and a tipsy star and a mishmash of ornaments that proved Lydia didn’t believe in minimalist anything. Every few seconds, the river’s hush found its way through the old windowpanes, like a breath I’d learned to match.
I smoothed a hand over my sweater again. It was ridiculous, how nervous I was to show my mother this place—the town, the life, the man. I lived in a city where noise hid your doubts. Here, the quiet asked you to be brave enough to answer yourself.
The doorbell chimed, a sound so bright and merry the cottage might have blushed. My heart did a ridiculous little stutter.
I opened the door and promptly forgot how to do sentences.
Drew stood on the step, green eyes connecting with mine as snow caught in his hair. He had a paper bag snug in his arm, and a grin so stupidly handsome I nearly shut the door just to squeal and then opened it again as if I’d started over.
“Hey, you,” I breathed, already smiling.
“Hey, yourself,” he said, and it came out a little husky like the weather had roughed him up and he was grateful. “Delivery from the North Pole.” He hoisted the bag. “I brought wine, rosemary rolls the size of your face from Mrs. Santos, and a suspiciously heavy tin that Riley swore at me not to open.”
“You had me at rolls the size of your face.” I stepped aside. “Come in before you freeze into a very attractive statue.”
He stomped snow from his boots, and the whole house seemed to lift its shoulders likeoh good, that one.He smelled like cold air and cedar and some possible aftershave I refused to identify. He leaned down to kiss my cheek and the tiny universe under my skin opened all its windows.
“You look like a Christmas story,” he said, eyes skimming over the sweater, the socks patterned with candy canes, the flour dust in my hair from the final batch of cookies that might have caught firea little.“Did you rob a set decorator?”
“I robbed Lydia’s attic,” I confessed. “Which is like robbing a seasonal department store that also sells Christmas chaos.”
He laughed, low and warm, and I wanted to catch it in both hands. He set the bag on the counter, produced two bottles of wine and with his usual efficient competence, found the drawer where I’d put the corkscrew like we’d lived here together for ten years. The kitchen—galley style, narrow, all butter-yellow paint and open shelves—made us stand close without trying.Our elbows bumped. Our shoulders touched. My pulse did new, unhelpful things.
“You nervous?” I asked, leaning against the counter, trying to sound casual and failing. “About meeting my mom?”
He looked up with a glint.“Would it help if I said no?”
“It would help if you said you were paralyzed with fear.”
He chuckled and pulled the cork on the white like a magician. The man had skills.
“I’ve served grumpy strangers on Thanksgiving in a snowstorm,” he said. “I can handle one mom.”
“You have never metmymom,” I said.
“True,” he conceded, pouring a splash for me to taste. I swooned from the competency alone. He lifted a brow. “Approved?”
