“No! Not that one!” I gasped, laughing as it hit the floor with a soft thunk.
He looked up at me, wide-eyed and smug, as if to sayWho, me?
“Seriously?” I sighed, shaking my head as I bent to pick it up. “You have zero holiday spirit.”
He sat down with a dramatic huff, flicking his tail like he was offended by the accusation.
“Fine,” I said, placing the ornament back where it belonged—this time a little higher. “But if you’re not going to help, at least try not to sabotage the whole vibe.”
The playlist shifted to another piano melody, soft and slow. It filled the room like breath after a long run, mixing with the quiet rustle of garland and the lingering scent of dust and cinnamon.
Outside, the world stayed cold and gray.
But in here, light sparkled across the shelves. And for the first time in a long time, hope felt like it belonged again.
I pulled a few boxes from the back, eager to uncover the treasures tucked inside. Each lid creaked open like a secret too shy to speak first. My heart did a little skip as I sifted through the stacks, fingertips trailing over familiar spines like old friends come home.
“Ah, there you are,” I murmured, lifting out a rare copy ofPride and Prejudice.The cover was soft with age, corners worn, but the story inside still sparkled like frost in morning light.
I set it aside for the front display—right next to a row of winter mysteries, the kind that promised just enough danger to thrill, but still left you safe and warm on the other side.
The music swelled behind me, filling the shop like steam rising from a cup of tea. I hummed along, hips swaying gently as I arranged stacks of illustrated children’s books on the bottom shelf. Every cover shimmered with snowflakes, sled rides, and mitten-wrapped wonder. I pictured little hands reaching for them. Parents reading aloud with cocoa breath and soft laughter.
“This feels right,” I whispered to Marmalade, who’d claimed the highest shelf like a throne, tail twitching as he judged my every move.
He flicked his tail again—dismissive.
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” I teased.
Each book I touched—every poem about frostbitten love or snowfall epiphanies—carried something with it. A weight, maybe. A memory. This shop held my life in pieces, scattered like bookmarks between the pages. Sweet. Sad. Mine.
When I slid the final book into place, I stepped back to take it in. The display shone softly, a splash of color against the gray world just beyond the windowpanes.
And for the first time in years, I felt it again—that quiet hope, curling in my chest like the smell of fresh cookies sneaking out of the oven.
The bell above the door jingled—a sound that usually meant warmth, new faces, the promise of conversation. I didn’t look up right away, too focused on lining up a row of holiday books, making sure each spine stood straight and proud like little soldiers waiting for their stories to be chosen.
“Callie.”
That voice—familiar, sharp—cut through the cozy stillness like a cold blade. My hands stilled. My breath caught. The warmth of the room seemed to evaporate in an instant.
I turned slowly, heartbeat thudding in my ears.
There he was.
Leo.
Standing in the doorway like he owned it. Draped in a wool coat too perfect for this weather, that same effortless swagger in the way he stood—like time hadn’t touched him. The smirk tugging at his mouth made something inside me curl.
I flinched before I could stop myself. My pulse jumped, legs braced.
“Hey,” he said, smooth. Like we hadn’t spent years falling apart in silence.
“Leo.” His name tasted bitter. Familiar in the worst way.
“I heard you got the bookstore,” he said, stepping inside like it hadn’t once been sacred. Like he belonged here. Like he could just walk back in.
I swallowed. Took in the sharp lines of his jaw, his clean-cut hair, the eyes that once knew how to find all my softest places—and how to press against them. My stomach twisted, past and present blurring like breath on glass.
