“It’s a long story,” Hannah adds quickly. “I’ll tell you later.”
Her father’s smile turns soft, watching Hannah. “Your mother would’ve loved this. The chaos, the absurdity. She always said the best stories come from the strangest circumstances.”
Hannah’s expression shifts, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Yeah. She would’ve.”
We’re climbing higher into the mountains now, Whispering Grove fading behind us, replaced by dense forest and winding roads. Snow is heavier up here, coating everything in white.
I’m watching Hannah and her father banter, and I feel something twist in my chest. Something that’s not quite envy but close to it. I never had this with my parents. Every conversation ended in arguments, slammed doors, them telling me I was throwing my life away with bad choices and worse friends. I brought cops home more times than I could count as a teenager from fights, stupid shit I did because I was angry and didn’t know how else to be.
When I left at eighteen, they were relieved. I saw it in their faces. And they’ve never reached out since. No calls. No messages. Nothing.
Chris and Kane became my family. The only family that matters.
But watching Hannah with her father, seeing this easy affection, I can’t help wanting that. Wishing I’d had it.
“Your mom would be proud,” her father says quietly. “That we keep the tradition alive. That we still show up even when it’s hard.”
Hannah reaches over to take his hand. “She always said showing up was an act of love.”
“She had more patience than all of us combined.” He grins and clears his throat. “You two got my stubbornness, unfortunately.”
The road curves, and suddenly houses start appearing through the trees. Big houses. The kind with circular driveways and landscaping that requires a full-time staff.
Then number thirteen comes into view. Martha’s house sits at the end of a long driveway, and I actually slow down to process what I’m seeing.
The house itself is a Victorian mansion, three stories of white-painted wood with green shutters and a wraparound porch. But that’s not what catches my attention.
It’s the decorations.
Every single window glows with colored lights that make the house resemble a stained-glass cathedral. The gutters drip with icicle lights, thousands of them, bright enough that I’m surprised passing planes don’t mistake it for a landing strip. The lawn is covered with inflatables, but these aren’t normal snowmen. These are life-sized carolers with moving mouths and blinking eyes, arranged in perfect choir formation.
“Oh, geez.” Hannah’s voice is strangled. “She’s upgraded since last year.”
The neighboring houses are visible through the trees, equally large, equally expensive, but their decorations look almost restrained in comparison. Tasteful wreaths. Simple white lights.
“Did she hire a theme park crew?” I ask jokingly.
Hannah’s father chuckles loudly from the back seat. “I think she became one.”
“I’m counting eight—no, ten—new animatronic reindeer.” Hannah sounds genuinely disturbed. “And is that a nativity scene made of holograms?”
I park behind a row of luxury cars. Mercedes, BMW, a Porsche, all of them pristine.
Her father whistles low. “She put a projector on the roof.”
It kicks on as if on cue, casting a twenty-foot glowing Santa waving across the yard. Music blares from the speakers with “Jingle Bell Rock” at a volume that could damage hearing.
“Is that a snow machine?” Hannah is still staring, transfixed by the show.
Her father sighs. “Welcome to the family, Noel.”
We climb out of the truck, and I immediately move to Hannah’s side. She’s wearing a dark green dress that hugs every curve, hits just above her knees, paired with black tights and heeled boots. Her hair is down in waves, and she looks gorgeous and nervous and like she’d rather be anywhere else.
I take her hand, threading our fingers together.
She resists slightly, trying to pull away. “Noel?—”
“Relax,” I murmur. “We’ve got this.”
