Page 110 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“I’ll think about it. That’s all I can offer right now.”
“It’s all I ask.” Leaning in, he presses his lips to mine in a kiss that tastes nothing likegoodbye.
Maybe this isn’t how it ends.
Perhaps this is how it begins.
Thirty-Two
Isla
Thereissomethinglawlessabout the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.
Days blur, seconds stretching and sprinting in the same hour. Pajamas qualify as business casual. Calories don’t count. How can they when most meals consist of scavenged leftovers and stale cookies that never made it to Santa?
It’s cozy limbo. A glitter-dusted fever dream, shifting between harmony and melancholy in equal measure.
And it all comes to an end in a few hours.
The Sugarpine Springs Town Hall resembles a snow globe someone shook too hard. Packed with revelers, vibrating with music, lit up by what feels like thousands of candles in mason jars. They line the perimeter of the space, flames playing dangerouslyclose to old wood. Thankfully, every off-duty firefighter in town appears to be in attendance this evening.
An assortment of scents wafts through the air. Sweet. Savory. Spiced. Every year, the local businesses turn the event into a catered potluck. Holly brought cinnamon rolls the size of my face. Spoon & Sliceprovided enough chili to feed a small army.
Pride flickers in my chest when I notice the restaurant is using the menu cards I designed. They feature QR codes that can be scanned to read each dish aloud, along with a friendly font that still pops under dim lighting. It’s clean, accessible, and thoughtful.
Exactly the kind of designer I strive to be.
The live band drops the tempo, abandoning the dance music for a cover of “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?” A few notes in, and my brain queues up a full-blown movie montage starring me, Theo, and a whole-ass mountain of regret.
“Hey.” A nudge to my elbow pulls my attention to Willow’s soft gaze. “You look like you need something warm,” she says. “Hug or cider?”
“How about both?”
Before I even finish getting the words out, she has her arms around me. She’s also managed to concurrently press a drink into my hand.
“You okay?” she mumbles against my shoulder.
I nod. “Just a bit tired. It’s been a busy week.”
I cleaned my new place from top to bottom at least three times. Then I refreshed the paint and took on the aged carpet stains. Sugar—late Grandma Hazel’s evenlaterPomeranian—is forever immortalized by the mural on the bakery’s wall. The dog’s incontinence, however, has been permanently sealed into the apartment floors.
Somehow, I also managed to get a bit of work done. Much of it was theoretical in nature—sketching a logo, mapping out a plan for building my social media presence, fiddling with my new website design, mocking up brand kits I dream of pitching—but it still counts. My biggest win? Linking a new accounting software to my bank account. The stupid thing only took three tries and one breakdown to load properly.
“You worked miracles in the time it took me to finish off a tin of fudge.” Willow pulls back and flashes a bright smile. “Sugarpine Springs is lucky to have you back.”
Asher slips into the gap between us, holding a plate stacked with two cinnamon rolls and what can only be described as chili doing unspeakable things to mac and cheese.
“Come dance with us.” He nods toward the far side of the room where Sienna sways near the bandstand. “I hereby grant you both permission to hit me over the head at the first sign of feelings.”
“As much as I’d enjoy inflicting blunt-force trauma,” his sister shoots back, “you’re already too far gone for the violence to be any fun.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You do remember you’re off to her honeymoon in a couple of days, right?”
Asher winces. “Hadn’t totally thought that move through, huh?”
“Do you ever think anything through?” Willow pokes her index finger into the center of his forehead.
“Nope.” He swats her hand away, then reaches for one of the rolls. “Our big brother does enough thinking for all of us,” he says around a bite.
