Page 1
CHAPTER ONE
FINN
Two weeks before Thanksgiving
I lean back in my chair and roll my shoulders. The kitchen table has become my second office over the past few weeks. Papers are spread across every available surface, along with three empty coffee mugs and leftovers from the takeout I had earlier.
The overhead light is too bright for this late at night, but I can’t be bothered to switch to the softer lamp next to the couch. If I move, I’ll lose momentum, and I’ve been trying to convince myself I still have momentum for about two hours now.
Sixty-eight vendor applications for the Christmas Festival market this year. Sixty-eight. Last year it was forty-two, and I thought that was pushing it.
Word must have spread on whatever underground network Vermont artisans use because I’ve got wreath makers from three counties over, a cider vendor from as far as New Hampshire, and someone from Pine Ridge, Colorado, who does hand-carved wooden ornaments. I want to say yes to the carver so badly I can taste it.
The problem is space. The market square in the center of Winterberry has always hosted the festival, and it’s the perfect location, but now I’m stuck trying to fit an ever-expanding festival into an ever-static footprint for the sake of tradition.
I pull up the map again and start moving vendor placements around like puzzle pieces. If I put the food trucks along Main Street instead of the square’s southern edge, that frees up space for four more stalls. But then foot traffic gets weird near the tree.
My eyes catch on the clock at the top of my laptop screen. Eleven-fifty p.m.
Fuck. I have a meeting at eight tomorrow.
But I can’t stop now because I need to figure out a solution to a problem that isn’t just about space.
The problem is me. I am the problem.
While my brother Bastian got the natural charisma and stage presence needed to be the lead singer of one of the biggest rock bands in the world, I got the small-town devotion. I don’t resent it, but I do occasionally resent that I can’t seem to say no to anyone who wants to sell handmade candles at a Christmas market. Especially when they send me samples with their application. The pine-scented candles are like Christmas with a wick.
I’m pondering the merit of a fourth coffee versus the consequences of a sleepless night when someone knocks on my door.
I check the time on the oven clock, and sure enough, it’s now midnight. Who’d be knocking on my door this late?
I get up, cross to the front door, and check the peephole because as safe as Winterberry is, I don’t want to end up in a true-crime episode.
Holy shit.
I unlock the door and open it. Foster Crue is standing on my doorstep in a black wool coat, snow melting in his silver-streaked black hair. The smile that makes my knees go weak is on his lips as he holds up a small sprig of mistletoe between us.
“Fox, what are you—”
He steps forward, and suddenly, I’m being walked backward into my own apartment. My back hits the bookshelf by the door with a soft thud, one of my paperbacks tips sideways on its shelf, and Fox’s mouth is on mine before I can say anything.
He smells like cold air and tastes like the apple-and-cinnamon chewing gum he loves. His hands come up to frame my face, his palms cold against my jaw, as he kisses me like he’s trying to make up for lost time. My hands find his coat, then the front of his shirt underneath, and I’m pulling him closer.
I’d forgotten. Well, not forgotten, exactly—I could never forget what kissing Fox is like—but I’ve let the memory soften over the last few months.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead is pressed against mine. His eyes are dark and amused.
“It’s not Christmas yet,” I manage, glancing up at the mistletoe he’s now holding above our heads.
“It’s almost Thanksgiving, so close enough.”
He kisses me again before I can argue with his logic. This one is slower, deeper, and his tongue dancing with mine makes me lose control of my hands. One of them ends up in his hair. The other finds the waistband of his jeans.
Cool air brushes my feet, and I realize with a slightly delirious laugh that my front door is still wide open. Anyone walking past on my floor could see us, which, to be fair, is unlikely at this hour.
“Fox. Door.”
He glances over his shoulder, but the only move he makes is to kiss along the side of my jaw.
