Page 3 of A Very Grumpy Christmas

I roll my eyes, but his words sink in deeper than I’d like to admit. Huxley’s always been the fearless one, the guy who dives headfirst into everything without thinking twice. I used to be like that, too, once upon a time. But that was before the attack, before everything fell apart.

Now, I’m just a guy who writes letters to a girl who doesn’t even know I exist.

But maybe... maybe I could change that.

"I’ll think about it," I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Huxley claps me on the back, his grin widening. "That’s all I’m asking, man. Just think about it. You never know—Christmas miracles and all that."

I huff out a laugh, but the knot in my chest tightens all the same. The idea of actually talking to Ginger, of seeing the look on her face when she realizes who’s been writing to her all this time—it’s terrifying. But it’s also tempting.

What if, just once, I let myself believe that she might want me too?

As Huxley rambles on about some plan to get me to the party, I glance down the road, imagining Ginger’s face as she reads my next letter. It’s a fantasy, I know that. But maybe it’s time to stop hiding behind words and start living in the real world.

I’ll talk to her,I decide, straightening my shoulders as we walk over to my truck.

Eventually…

TWO

Ginger

I wasn’t supposedto be the one getting the letter. That’s what I told myself when I found the first one.

It was a cold, rainy day in early September and I’d had one of those mornings where everything seemed to go wrong, the kind of day that makes you question why you even bothered getting out of bed that morning.

I was late opening the bookstore, spilled coffee on my favorite sweater, and locked my keys inside the car. I had to walk back to my apartment to grab the spare and when I got back, that was when I found it.

I almost didn’t see the letter tucked under my windshield wiper at first. I was rushing, trying to get back inside before the rain drenched me any more than it already had, but there it was—a folded piece of paper neatly placed under the wiper, its edges curling slightly from the damp air and drizzle.

I remember frowning, wondering if I had gotten a ticket or something, but then I opened it and saw that it was onstationery. Stark white with a heart with an arrow on it in the bottom left corner.

My first thought when I realized that it was a love note, was that it had been meant for someone else. Wolf Valley was small, but we weren’t immune to mistakes, and I figured someone had left it for the wrong person, that my car was common, and they had put it on the wrong windshield.

The words in the note were simple and kind. There was no name, no signature, just an anonymous message that made my heart race and my palms sweat for reasons I couldn’t quite explain.

But instead of feeling flattered, I felt confused. I almost left a note of my own, telling whoever it was that they had the wrong person. I didn’t get anonymous love letters. That sort of thing happened in romance novels, not real life. And certainly not to me.

Yet, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I didn’t leave a note. I tucked the letter into my bag, and that was that. A fluke, I told myself. Just some strange, one-off occurrence.

Then came the second letter.

I decided to leave that letter on my car and write my own note, explaining that it was my car and they must have the wrong person.

Then I got the third note, that one addressed to me, and I realized that it wasn’t a mistake. The letters were meant for me. There was no denying it anymore—I had a secret admirer.

It showed up a week later, tucked into the door of the bookstore this time. The stationery and handwriting were the same—careful, deliberate—but the words were different. This one was more personal, like whoever was writing to me knew me a little better now. They complimented me and told me that they used to love the color blue, but after seeing my eyes, it had changed to green.

By the time I read the fourth letter, I was hooked and starting to fall for him. Hard.

It’s funny how quickly your perspective can shift. One moment, I was convinced the letters weren’t meant for me, and the next, I was eagerly waiting for the next one, wondering what my mystery man would say. Every time I got a new one, it felt like a piece of a puzzle falling into place. I was dying to solve it and figure out who my secret admirer was. To tell him that I was obsessed with him too.

But there was a problem.

There was no pattern to the letters. Sometimes they’d show up at the bookstore or the bakery, whichever one of my sister’s businesses I was working at that day. Other times they were slipped under my welcome mat at home, or on my car, and once, even slipped into my mailbox. They came at different times, on different days, with no rhyme or reason. I never knew when the next one would appear, and it was driving me crazy.

I needed to know who he was. I needed to figure out who the man that I was in love with was.

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