Mom left without another word, and I answered the call. Five minutes turned into twenty, then forty-five, and by the time I made it downstairs, Mom had already left for the Christmas market. There was a note on the kitchen counter:Gone to set up the booth. Market opens at 10. Try to join us if work permits.
The guilt sat heavy in my stomach as I grabbed a piece of toast and headed out to find her.
The Pinewood Falls Christmas Market was exactly what you’d expect from a small Vermont town: white tents arranged in a neat square around the village green, the smell of cinnamon and pine needles in the air, and enough handmade crafts to stock every gift shop in New England. I found Mom at her booth, arranging Christmas ornaments with the kind of focus that meant she was still annoyed with me.
“I’m sorry,” I offered, approaching the table. “The call ran longer than I expected.”
She looked up, her expression softening slightly. “I know you work hard, honey. I just wish you could turn it off sometimes.”
“I’m trying,” I said, and I meant it. I slipped my phone into my purse and set it aside. “What can I do to help?”
Mom smiled and pointed to her ornaments. She would never admit it, but she was a master glassworker. People came from all over the state to get their hands on a Grace Hartwell original each year. I helped her arrange them so they caught the morning light perfectly.
For the next few hours, I actually managed to stay present. I helped customers find the perfect ornaments, made small talk with people I’d gone to high school with, and started to remember all the good things about growing up in a small town. The market was charming in a way that Manhattan never was—all warm lights and genuine smiles and the kind of community feeling you couldn’t manufacture.
I was just starting to relax when my phone started buzzing again. And again. And again.
“Ignore it,” Mom said firmly when she saw me glancing toward my purse.
“It might be important.”
“What could possibly be that urgent? You’ve been gone less than a day.”
She had a point, but the buzzing was driving me crazy. When a new text came through withEMERGENCYin the subject line, I couldn’t help myself.
“Just one quick look,” I insisted.
It wasn’t an emergency. It was Derek from the Morrison case being dramatic about discovery documents that wouldn’t need to be filed until January. But by the time I’d figured that out, I’d already answered two more calls and sent three emails.
When I looked up, Mom was gone.
I let out a long sigh, stuffing my phone aggressively back into my pocket. I walked back to the empty ornament booth, leaning over the table looking for her. Familiar faces milled through the market, but none were hers. I spotted Sarah again, toddler on her hip, and her husband’s arm around her waist as they shopped. The toddler was bundled in a puffy jacket that made her look like a marshmallow, and even my cold, lawyer heart had to admit it was adorable. Sarah said something to her husband, and he gave her a warm, loving smile before kissing them both on the forehead, and I could practically feel my ovaries vibrating.
Cut that out. It’s cute, but not that cute.
“Excuse me, how much is this?”
The sight of that little round toddler had distracted me so much I’d completely missed the stranger walking up to the booth—the very tall, absolutely gorgeous stranger.
I blinked, trying to regain my composure while taking him in. He had to be at least six foot two with broad shoulders that filled out his dark wool coat perfectly. A black knit beanie was pulled low over his forehead, but I could see strands of platinum-blonde hair—almost white—peeking around the edges. His face was all strong lines and high cheekbones, the sharpness softened by a prominent nose.
But it was his eyes that really caught my attention. Pale gray, almost luminous in the afternoon light—and there was something about them that seemed oddly familiar, though I couldn’t place where I’d seen them before.
“Oh,” I said, realizing I’d been staring. “I’m sorry, I was just—anyway, this is my mom’s booth, but she stepped away.”
His mouth quirked up in a half smile, and I caught a glimpse of a scar running across his cheek and over the bridge of his nose. The roughness beneath those soft eyes only made him more intriguing.
“That’s alright,” he replied, and his voice was exactly what I would’ve expected from someone who looked like that—low and smooth, the kind that would sound absolutely panty-dropping when he laughed. “I was just admiring the craftsmanship.”
He gestured to one of the more intricate ornaments, a delicate glass reindeer that caught the light beautifully. His fingers were long and elegant, but marked with small scars along the knuckles—the kind that told stories.
“My mother makes them herself,” I explained, moving closer to the table. “She’s been doing it for years.” I paused, unabashedly looking him up and down again. “Are you visiting for the holidays?”
“Something like that.” There was something evasive about the way he said it, though his attention stayed fixed on the ornament. “You’re not from around here either, are you?”
“Actually, I grew up here. Just moved to Manhattan for work.” I tilted my head, studying him. “But I don’t recognize you—and in a town this size, I usually know everyone. You seem awfully familiar to me…”
“Maybe you’ve seen me around,” he said, a playful note in his tone. “Sometimes people see things without really noticing them, if you know what I mean.”
