I finished bandaging his leg as best I could, noting that he held perfectly still through the entire process. Either he was in shock, or he was the most well-behaved wild animal in thehistory of the East Coast. The bandaged drooped, and there was no tape in the kit to secure it.
“Great planning, guys,” I muttered to no one in particular. The deer cocked his head, as if in question.
“Guess I’ll just have to MacGyver this.” I pulled loose the red ribbon I’d use to tie back my blonde hair. “I put this in to be festive—guess it wasn’t a bad idea.” If a deer could give me an unamused look, he was. I ignored it and tied the ribbon around the bandage, holding it in place. The pressure had slowed the bleeding, and I could be happy about that.
“There,” I said, sitting back on my heels. “That should hold until…well, until you can manage on your own.”
The deer struggled to his feet, favoring his uninjured leg but clearly mobile. He stood there for a moment, those strange pale eyes fixed on my face, and I had the weirdest feeling he was trying to memorize my features.
“Well,” I blurted, suddenly feeling awkward under that intense stare, “I guess this is where we part ways. Try to stay out of traffic, okay? And maybe avoid whatever gave you that scar—it looks like it had anger management issues.”
I started to turn back toward my car, then paused. “Oh, and if you really are one of Santa’s reindeer, could you put in a good word for me? I’ve been mostly nice this year. Themostlypart involves some creative interpretations of billable hours, but I think that falls under professional necessity rather than actual naughtiness.”
The deer made a sound that might’ve been a snort—or maybe deer laughter, if such a thing existed. Then he turned and bounded into the forest, moving with surprising grace despite his injury.
I watched him disappear into the trees, feeling oddly melancholy. There had been something almost human about theway he’d looked at me, something that made me think of old fairy tales where magical creatures rewarded kind humans.
“God, I really do need to get laid,” I said to myself, trudging back to my car. “Because that’s exactly what my life needs right now—magical thinking.”
I got back in the BMW, turned the heater up to max, and spent ten minutes coaxing it out of the snowbank, all while trying not to think about how those pale-blue eyes had seemed to see right through me. By the time I got back on the road, the snow was falling harder, and I’d missed any chance of making it to the Christmas market before it closed.
Which meant I was going to face my family stone-cold sober.
“Definitely should’ve stayed in Manhattan,” I muttered—but for some reason, I kept glancing in my rearview mirror, half-expecting to see those silver eyes watching me from the darkness.
Chapter Two
Sylvie
By the time I pulled into my childhood driveway, the snow had stopped falling—but my mood definitely hadn’t improved. Through the front windows, I could see the warm glow of string lights and what appeared to be roughly half the town of Pinewood Falls crammed into our living room.
Perfect. Nothing saidrelaxing holiday homecominglike a house full of people eager to ask why I was still single, why I worked so much, and whether I’d gained weight since last year.
I sat in my car for a moment, watching the silhouettes move inside. Mom had clearly gone all out this year—there were enough decorations visible through the windows to stock a small Christmas store. I could practically hear the questions waiting for me:How’s the big city treating you? Meet any nicemen? When are you going to settle down and give us the next Hartwell generation?
My phone buzzed with a text from my mother:Where are you? Mrs. Patterson brought her famous mulled wine!
Mrs. Patterson. I vaguely recalled her. She’d moved to Pinewood Falls sometime after I left for college, but Mom had mentioned her in passing during our monthly calls—something about how she’d become the unofficial drink coordinator for every local gathering. My kind of lady.
I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and trudged through the snow to the front door. Before I could even reach for the handle, it swung open to reveal my mother—still looking exactly like she had when I was sixteen: messy blonde hair pulled back in a bun, a smudge of icing on her cheek from the hundreds of cookies I was sure she’d made, and a smile bright enough to power the Christmas lights.
“Sylvie! There you are!” She pulled me into a hug that smelled like hot cocoa and powdered sugar. “We were starting to worry. How was the drive?”
“Long,” I replied, stepping into the warmth of the house. The living room was indeed packed with people I vaguely remembered from high school, plus a collection of what appeared to be their spouses and children. Everyone was holding steaming mugs and wearing the kind of aggressively cheerful expressions that only existed at small-town gatherings.
Grandma Rose was holding court in the dining room, all the town’s older ladies hanging on her every word. She was the opposite of my mother, her white hair pulled into a perfect chignon, not a strand out of place. Despite her age, she was sharp everywhere, dressed in a Dior pantsuit more suited to the courtroom than a family holiday party.
“Hi, Grandma,” I said, trying to give her a hug. She didn’t even pause her deposition, barely acknowledging me. Classic. I wasn’t about to fight for her attention—not anymore.
“You look tired, sweetheart,” Mom noted, taking my coat. “And thin. Are you eating enough? The city isn’t working you too hard, is it?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” I plastered on my professional smile, the one I used for difficult clients and opposing counsel. “Just busy with work.”
“That’s right, you do something with…computers?” asked a woman I thought might be Sarah Fletcher from my high school chemistry class. She was holding a toddler who was systematically destroying a Christmas cookie.
“Not computers,” I replied. “I’m a lawyer.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up with the kind of interest that made me immediately regret being honest. “Oh, like on TV? Do you do murders and stuff?”
