Page 4 of Holly Ever After

Something akin to guilt burns in the pit of my stomach. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You were in the city living the dream. You know Sean will look out for her.”

I nod. He might be an asshole, but he’s an asshole who loves his mother.

As if on cue, Rachel's eyes widen. “Baby's kicking! Mark, do you want to feel?”

While Mark rushes over, awed by the sensation of his unborn child moving, I realize just how much I've missed this—my overwhelming but loving family. For all their quirks and invasions of personal space, they're mine. And right now, that means more to me than any well-decorated, sweet-smelling home ever could.

The door closes behind them, leaving me in a mess of luggage, scented candles, and leftover familial warmth. With a sigh, I pick up my phone and delete another text from Adam. His digital footprint is fading, but the emotional one? That's going to take some time.

I contemplate going back to my laptop to write but know it’s going to be a wasted effort. I haven’t written a creative sentence since my breakup. Instead, I grab the cleaning supplies I bought on the drive here, light some candles, and get stuck in, all the while hoping I don’t hit off something that will cause the entire house to crumble down around me.

Two

Three paint cans, two nervous breakdowns, and one impulse scarf purchase later, I finally emerge from the labyrinthine aisles of the home goods store.

It’s Pine Falls in December, a magical little snow globe where Christmas spirit blasts through outdoor speakers like some North Pole version of Big Brother. It’s cold enough to freeze a snowman’s butt off, yet I’m sweating like a turkey on Thanksgiving Eve. Must be all that stress-induced cardio from dodging small-town gossip and inquiries about my love life. Or lack thereof.

I stagger towards the Falls Cafe, my arms weighed down by home improvement supplies, my mind weighed down by the creeping realization that my humble abode might require the skills of someone more qualified than a romance novelist with commitment issues.

I push open the café door, immediately greeted by a gust of warm air that smells like fresh coffee and cinnamon. “You made it out alive!” Molly, the owner, calls out from behind the counter.

“Do I look that bad?” I ask, easing my armload onto a table and collapsing into a chair.

She winks and slides a creamy concoction across the counter. “On the house. You look like you could use it.”

“Is it laced with something stronger than espresso?” I sip the frothy beverage. It’s like a Christmas hug for my insides. “Maybe you could ask your husband to slip me something?”

Molly’s husband Archer owns the bar next door, aptly named Molly’s, which is nauseatingly cute considering he named it after her.

“Don’t tempt me. I have a stash of Irish cream for emergencies,” Molly replies. “What's the deal? You look...”

“Like shit?”

“A little tired.”

I take a deep breath. “The cottage. It’s going to need some work.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Why don’t you just ask Sean?”

“Why is he everyone’s answer?”

“Because he’s got his own business doing exactly what you need. I assumed he would be the obvious choice.”

Sean freaking Colson. The only human being capable of making me consider bodily harm as a viable communication tool. “I'd rather remove my own spleen with a spork.”

Molly laughs. “That bad, huh?”

“Let's just say, the less I see of Sean, the better it is for public safety.”

Sean has been a part of my family since… well, forever. My parents treat him like the other son they never had. I get it. He didn’t have the best family life growing up, but it doesn’t mean I have to like him. I swear, he goes out of his way just to piss me off.

She pushes a plate toward me. “Well, this won't fix your house problem, but it will fix your hunger problem. Welcome home.”

On the plate is one of Molly’s famous Christmas pastries—flakey, buttery, and shaped like a Christmas tree. It's nostalgia and home in every bite.

Maybe I could do this. Fresh paint, a few repairs, and I'd have a writer’s haven, a sanctuary. All without any interference from irritatingly talented carpenters who have known me since I was in braces.

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