Page 6 of A Pen Pal for Christmas

I shifted in my seat, the weight of my experiences settling heavily on my shoulders. "Yep. I'm on leave for the holidays. Figured it was time to come home, spend some quality time with Aunt Ida before I start my new job Stateside."

"And I couldn't be happier to have him here. Though I do wish I hadn't converted his old room into a craft haven," Ida added with a rueful chuckle. “I was lucky to get him a room at the Inn. I was worried there wouldn’t be any left this close to Christmas.”

“I’m sure Nick and Joan would’ve figured something out,” Tommy said. “They always do.”

Nick Patterson had probably taken over the bulk of the work at the inn by now, as he’d always planned to. I was close with Nick when we were kids, but we’d drifted apart once I joined the Marines. It’d be good to see him, even if it meant staying in the overly festive inn rather than my childhood bedroom. I didn’t have anything against Christmas, but after what I’d been through lately, I wasn’t feeling very festive.

“I was in the Army before I joined the Philly PD,” Tommy offered, breaking into my thoughts. “Then I came here.”

“Nice. What made you give up the big city to patrol this tiny town?”

Tommy chuckled. “My buddy Jack—also a vet, and my former Philly partner—moved here and joined the Snow Hill PD to be closer to his family. Guess he just made it look like a good place to be, and I’m glad he did since I never would’ve met my wife if he hadn’t.”

Ida’s eyes sparkled as she tilted her head at Tommy. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that. That’s the thing about great love. When it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

I wanted to believe that. I really did. But life had a funny way of proving that love wasn’t always enough. People changed. Promises broke. And sometimes, the people you thought you’d spend forever with walked away, leaving you wondering if you’d ever let someone in like that again.

CHAPTER 3

Sofia

I tugged at my apron,fingers trembling slightly as I smoothed the fabric against my hips. The polished wood of The Hearthstone's bar gleamed under the warm glow of Christmas lights, so different from the sleek, modern surfaces of The Franklin—my old bar in Philly. The bar I’d always dreamed of owning one day.

I’d started by bussing tables, and then when I’d turned nineteen, I’d moved to serving the high tops before getting promoted to one of the coveted spots behind the bar. After that, it hadn’t taken long for me to become the daughter the owners never had. It had give them so much joy to teach me everything they knew about running a business—specifically, an upscale bar in a nice part of the city—in the hopes I’d be the reason they could retire someday.

It’d killed me to disappoint them.

But as I fidgeted with the strings of my apron, I couldn’t ignore the knot forming in my stomach. This wasn’t just a part-time job—it was my attempt at a clean slate. And if I failed here, what then?

I pushed the thought aside, willing myself to focus on the here and now. My gaze swept across the bustling bar, taking in the laughter-filled tables and the festive garlands wrapped around every available pole or post. I began wiping down the already spotless counter, paying attention to the drinks in front of the customers seated across from me.

Patrons at The Hearthstone were beer and wine folks. The basic mixed drinks were on the menu, but there were no trendy cocktails other than the two Christmas-themed ones that were usually only ordered by tourists—or so I’d been told.

Even the music and food were more relaxed and homey than at The Franklin. No carefully curated playlists or meticulously crafted small plates that looked better suited to a magazine spread than in one’s tummy. Christmas music softly poured from the jukebox, and the food menu boasted hearty comfort food that reminded me of Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s.

The Franklin had hummed with a different kind of energy—intense and electric. I’d enjoyed it for so many years, and I truly had seen myself as someone who fit there. My typically all-black wardrobe highlighted my love for all things dark and edgy, but it was weird to compare the monochromatic vibe of The Franklin to the warm reds and browns in here. And it wasn’t just the color scheme or the lighting that made everything feel slower, softer. Working at The Hearthstone just felt like less like a show, and more like a home.

The door chimed, admitting a boisterous new batch of customers. I straightened, plastering on my most welcoming smile as I prepared to face them.

"Welcome in,” I said as they settled in at the bar, placing coasters with various Christmas designs in front of them. "What can I get started for you?"

I listened to their orders, then prepared them with practiced ease, relaxing into the rhythm behind the bar. The twinklinglights reflected off the liquor bottles behind me, casting a magical glow over the space as I worked. A minute later, I placed my customers’ drinks in front of them with a smile before heading to the register to start them a tab.

A man in his mid-thirties approached the bar, taking off his coat and draping it over the back of the barstool to reveal a plaid flannel shirt buttoned up nearly all the way. I could see hints of dark tattoos on his neck and wrists that disappeared beneath the fabric, and his jawline was sharp, shadowed with just enough scruff to suggest he didn’t bother with a daily shave.

Ruggedly handsome, I decided, as he tossed me a grin that teetered between friendly and calculated. I sent him a nod to let him know I’d be right there, finishing up at the register with quick pecks on the screen.

Was he a local or a tourist? Unlike most small towns, Snow Hill wasn’t the kind of place where anyone would think twice about strangers passing through, especially this time of year. Here, Christmas season meant the population swelled. But the way his gaze roamed over the bar—pausing to smile faintly at the decorations or scanning the specials board—made me lean toward a tourist. Locals didn’t look at The Hearthstone like that. To them, it was a second home. A place where everyone knew where the squeaky stools were and which taps tended to foam.

The man had a wayward curiosity about him, like someone testing the waters of a town they’d heard about in passing. I tucked that observation into my mental notes as he slid onto his stool and rested his forearms on the counter, his tattoos peeking out again when he shifted his hands.

“What’s your poison?” I asked when I reached him, offering my default bartender smile—the one that said friendly, approachable, and absolutely not hitting on him.

“Surprise me. But make it festive,” he said, his grin widening slightly as if to challenge me.

Festive. Bingo. That was prime tourist behavior. Looked like my knack for guessing orders held strong, even in a new bar in a new town. “One ‘Snow Hill Sleigh Ride,’ coming right up,” I said, a wry smile.

As I grabbed the peppermint schnapps and vanilla vodka from the shelf, I felt his eyes on me, not in the way that made my skin crawl but in the way I was more than used to. Guys at the bar were just like that—moths to a flame. I didn’t mind, not really. Attention often translated into tips, and I’d mastered the art of letting it roll off my back while still keeping the register and my pockets happy. A little charm went a long way in this line of work.

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