Page 9 of Blood and Bells

“No one,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Not outright, anyway. It’s just… the expectations are always there. My mom built her career on events people still talked about years later, and I’m the one who set a town wreath on fire during last year’s Christmas festival.” I bury my head in my hands. “There’s a video. It has views. More views than this town has people.”

Marcy snickers, failing to hide her amusement.

“To be fair, the wreath was impressive,” Marcy says. “It’s more that wrapping it in enough fairy lights to illuminate an oil tanker with only one extension cord has consequences.”

She gets a look. It joins the pile of looks she’s ignored before.

“Exactly my point. People remember the disasters. And this gala is my chance to prove I have what it takes. That I can do this. That I can do something that matters.”

“I don’t think anyone expected you to proactively plan for a tree kidnapping by stray elves.”

“This is Willow Creek. Normal around here is what other people call a government inquiry.”

“This is just a small blip.”

It’s more than a blip to me.

It feels like everything.

Every late night spent poring over plans, using every ounce of energy to make this event perfect, it all feels like it’s teetering on the edge of collapse. And the worst part? If it does fall apart, I don’t know if I’ll be able to convince myself to try again. The gala was supposed to be my moment, my chance to show the town—and my mom—that I’m more than a backup plan. But all I’ve managed to do is make a mess of everything. And now a literal vampire wants to help, which is either fate being kind or fate being bored.

Marcy leans forward, her expression earnest now. “Holly, you’ve got nothing to prove. Anyone who knows you can see how much heart you put into everything you do. You’re not your mom, and you don’t have to be. You’re you. And honestly? That’s more than enough.”

I blink, her words catching me off guard. “That’s disgustingly sweet, Marcy. Are you feeling okay?”

She laughs, tossing her napkin at me. “Don’t ruin the moment, Frost. I’m trying to be a good friend here.”

I smile despite myself, the tight knot in my chest loosening a little. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself. But then the memory of the destroyed square and the missing tree flashes in my mind, and my shoulders sag again. This gala is supposed to make everyone feel like Christmas is magical, even after the awful year that Willow Creek’s had, and I can’t help but think I’ve let everyone down. Again.

Marcy reaches across the table, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. And if Nick Draven wants to help, let him. Even smug vampires have their uses.”

“Like driving me up the wall?” I mutter.

“Or driving you against a wall?” she adds, because friendship is suffering.

“Marcy!” I swat at her, and heat rushes into my face.

“Seriously, Holly,” she laughs. “Don’t let him distract you. You’ve got a town rooting for you, even if they don’t always say it. And if anyone can pull off a miracle, it’s you.”

I manage a weak smile, Marcy’s confidence in me a balm I didn’t know I needed. Her words sink in as I stare down at the remnants of my gingerbread latte, and it’s not like I haven’t heard similar encouragement before—my mom always tells me I have potential, that I’m capable. But potential is a nice word for not quite there yet. And that’s the weight I’ve been carrying for as long as I can remember: the need to prove I’m more than the quirky girl who makes mistakes. More than the daughter of the Hollywood event planner. More than the girl who thought she could make a flaming wreath work.

The bell above the café door jingles, and a gust of icy wind sweeps in, carrying with it the scent of snow and pine. I glance up and freeze as a familiar figure steps inside.

Nick Draven.

Of course.

What’s a peaceful morning without a dash of smug vampire to spice things up?

Snowflakes dust his dark hair and coat, the sharp lines of his face somehow making the cozy café feel like the wrong backdrop for him. His silver eyes scan the room briefly before landing on me, and a slow, infuriatingly confident smirk spreads across his lips. Even in the soft light, he has that prowly elegance—like a wolf who learned table manners and now critiques cutlery. And naturally, because the universe hates me, he looks completely unfazed by the cold, the chaos, or life in general.

“Speak of the devil,” Marcy murmurs as he saunters toward the counter. “The staggeringly, stunningly gorgeous devil.”

The snowflakes surrender on Nick’s shoulders, and he dusts them off with theatrical care, the way some men check a watch they don’t actually need.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” I hiss, already regretting every life choice that’s led to this moment.

But Marcy just sips her mocha, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who, me? I wouldn’t dream of it.”