Page 6 of Mistletoe and Magic

Felicity's slender fingers glided over the smooth, worn grooves of the aged wood. With each touch, she could sense the stories and memories embedded within its grain, a testament to years gone by. The furniture exuded a sturdy solidity under her grasp, its varnish faded from decades of use. Her gaze drifted to the window, where she paused to take in the sight outside again. It remained as it had been since the night before—Christmas Valley, not New York City.

The village below was transformed into a winter wonderland, blanketed in a thick layer of snow that glistened under the soft glow of twinkling lights and festive wreaths. Smoke trailed out of chimneys from the houses that lay just beyond Main Street added to the picturesque scene, as if it had been plucked straight out of what was to be her debut novel. A sense of wonder and enchantment tingled through her veins, battling against the pounding beat of her heart. She leaned her forehead against the window, hoping in vain that contact with the cold window would restore her to sanity. When it didn’t, she ghosted her palm across the chilled glass as if testing its reality.

Despite her expectations, the scene remained unchanged, as real as the draft that tickled her skin through the edges of the window frame. She watched her breath fog up the glass before turning back to survey the room once more. Every step she took was cautious and deliberate, her senses heightened as she took in every detail— from the soft light filtering through the curtains, to the quilted bedspread and the rustic charm of dried herbs hanging from exposed wooden beams, and even the faint crackle of a fire burning somewhere downstairs.

And then with a blinding certainty, it hit her: somehow, she had stumbled into a world of her own creation. The world of her heroine who had an insatiable thirst for adventure and knack for stumbling into fantastical escapades across time and space. This was her bedroom in Christmas Valley, a place born from her own imagination yet now tangibly real.

She was Felicity, and her heroine Felicity was her; for now seemingly intertwined in this bizarre twist of fate. Her own name, shared with that of her heroine, was both an anchor and a lifeline and might hopefully keep her grounded in this strange new reality. No longer did she need to worry about awkwardly fumbling about, searching for an identity or stumbling over a different name.

A short burst of laughter bubbled up from her throat, tinged with equal parts excitement and disbelief. In a sudden moment of fear, she clamped her hand over her mouth, afraid that even the slightest acknowledgment of the absurdity would shatter the magic or jolt her awake from this dreamlike state.

She’d told Hattie many times that she wished she had her heroine’s fearlessness and sense of adventure. "Okay, Felicity," she whispered to herself, grounding her presence in the room. "It's time to figure out what comes next." For the first time since making the decision to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming a writer, she wished she was one of those authors who plottedevery scene. But she wasn’t, which meant that writing and/or living by the seat of her pants had just taken on a whole new meaning.

4

JACE

Jace drove back into town, parking his Range Rover at one end and getting out to reacquaint himself with Christmas Valley. His boots crunched rhythmically through the freshly fallen snow, each step an echo in the quiet morning. Around him, Christmas Valley stirred to life, shop windows flickering with warm light and festive melodies weaving softly into the crisp air from hidden speakers. Yet, the whimsy of twinkling lights on lampposts and wreaths adorning every door failed to lift the heaviness that sat like a stone in Jace's chest.

Tugging the brim of his knit cap down tighter against the biting wind, as if to shield himself not just from the cold, but from the thoughts swirling like a blizzard in his mind, Jace walked on, trying not to think of the deplorable state of the lodge. No wonder his uncle had been losing money. Jace felt guilty for not having known and offering his uncle some kind of support. He dismissed the idea as foolish as he wasn’t omnipotent, and he hadn’t spoken with his uncle in more than two decades.

The bank manager had agreed to meet with him to discuss the Northwind Lodge’s financial prospects. The meeting, anominous presence that seemed to loom overhead, blotted out the sun struggling to rise above the horizon.

Jace’s breath showed in the air as visible proof of life amidst the encroaching landscape of snow and dread. The Northwind Lodge, his unexpected inheritance and reason for leaving Boston behind, hung precariously at the edge of failure. But it was more than a business; it had been in his family for generations and was a bastion of memories and dreams. Now, it was balanced on the precipice of oblivion, desperate for salvation.

Muscles tensed beneath layers of flannel and down, Jace clenched his jaw, determination pulsing through his veins like fire. Today he noticed the various shops and businesses that were boarded up—closed for business. He hadn’t noticed them yesterday. He couldn't—wouldn't—let the lodge join them. The lodge and this village, with its pristine slopes, crackling hearths, and gingerbread trim was meant for laughter and love, not the hollow silence of abandonment.

As he strode through the awakening town, the mountain's silhouette loomed in the distance, its peaks crowned with white, like a promise of challenges yet to be conquered. Each step felt purposeful, a silent vow to breathe life back into the old lodge, to restore its walls and fill them once more with the warmth of guests and the glow of evening fires.

The thrum of his heart kept time with the crunch of snow beneath his boots, a steady beat that whispered of resilience and new beginnings. In that moment, Jace was not just a man weighed down by impending financial woes; he was a warrior bracing for battle, a guardian of traditions and joys yet to be kindled in the heart of Christmas Valley.

Oh god, he thought to himself,I’m beginning to sound like one of those cheesy holiday movies.

The cold snapped at his skin, sharp enough to slice through the fog of worry shrouding his mind. A siren song from hispast life in Boston tempted him with the ease of retreat, yet he banished the thought with a determined shake of his head. His gaze was steely, reflecting the green of pines blanketed in snow—a silent oath that surrender wasn't an option. The lodge's fate hung precariously, yes, but surrender?Not on my watch.

The world around him bloomed slowly to life, its colors muted but warm against the crisp whiteness. Jace's green eyes, ever searching for solace amidst the storm, found momentary respite as they spied Cozy Cravings. The bakery's awning, stripes of red and white, danced playfully in the wind, a beacon of comfort during Christmas Valley's waking hours. Its chalkboard, scripted with promises of sweet indulgences, teased his senses—gingerbread men standing guard over fantasies of peppermint and chocolate, hot cocoa a liquid hug against the chill.

That scent, cinnamon mixed with sugar, wove through the air, a perfumer’s dream distilled into a single, heartwarming note. Pine and clean, crisp air competed for attention, grounding the sweetness with their earthy tethers, each aromatic note striking against the heaviness he felt inside, coaxing it to unfurl like a flower reaching for the sun.

The unexpected indulgence, the dance of scents and sights, stirred something deep within him. It was a reminder, however fleetingly, that beauty persisted even when cloaked in adversity's harsh mantle. And perhaps, just maybe, this charm-laden valley held the key not only to the lodge's salvation but to mending the fissures in his own guarded heart.

Jace smirked—something he would never admit to—a solitary gesture that cradled the echo of laughter. Heather, with her no-nonsense brows and sharp wit, would have dismissed the festive storefronts and their saccharine promises with an elegant roll of her eyes. The memory of her—sharp as needles of ice on his skin—lingered, bittersweet and edged with what-ifs.

As the smirk faded, dissolving into the morning air as Jace's boots continued to map out the rhythm of his new life, Christmas Valley unfolded around him in a slow pirouette of light and shadow, whispering secrets of yesteryears wrapped in tinsel and twinkling bulbs.

He rounded the corner, the weight of the impending bank meeting and worries about the lodge tethered to his steps like a shadow. Then, chaos—sharp and sudden—clawed him back to the present. A clatter, a gasp, a cacophony of startled cries. His eyes snapped to the source, instincts honed by city reflexes springing to life.

The world narrowed to this unexpected break in routine, the heartbeat of the street skipping erratically as if jolted by a wayward current. It was life in a small town, raw and unscripted, unraveling before him in the spilled colors of gingerbread dreams and the shock of eyes meeting his own.

"Whoa—!" The sharp cry sliced through the frosty air, a thread of alarm woven into the fabric of Jace's morning.

He came to a halt, his boots crunching against the snow in abrupt punctuation. Up ahead, a woman's feet betrayed her as she danced across the icy sidewalk in a desperate pirouette. Her silhouette tilted—a moment suspended—as if deciding whether to succumb to gravity's cruel whimsy.

Jace's breath caught, his heart thrumming against his ribs as an echo of adrenaline surged through him. He watched, helpless but captivated, as she wobbled, the ballet of disaster choreographed on this frosted stage.

As her arms whirled, a tray of delicious-smelling gingerbread cookies arced skyward. For an instant, they seemed to be suspended in mid-air like stars flung from a careless hand against the canvas of a winter dawn. Then came an abrupt descent as an array of confectionery soldiers tumbled from their brief flight to the ground. Cookies collided with reality,some finding their end in soft thuds against the unforgiving ground. Others met the snowbank, a cascade of sugary artillery rebounding in sweet chaos.

Jace's pulse raced, his blood singing with a strange cocktail of concern and something else—something warmer, more exhilarating. Something he hadn’t felt since he and Heather had come undone. Witnessing the unexpected spectacle, there was a flicker of connection, a spark stirred by the sight of her distress.

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