Page 1 of Christmas By Lamplight
Chapter One
Carrie Watson was in love with a voice.
Not in love, she corrected herself, steadying the stepladder against the memoir shelf. That would be pathetic. She was . . . objectively appreciative of rich vocal resonance, evocative delivery, and impeccable pacing.
The earbuds delivered another line of honey-dark baritone directly to her limbic system, and she forgot what she was supposed to be shelving. Always chapter twenty-nine, when he confesses, “I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her simply because I found her irresistible,” and that velvet-dark voice made the word irresistible sound like a sin and a promise all at once. “I loved her against reason,” the voice said, “against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”
Carrie’s eyes fluttered shut, with one hand pressed against her sternum, where her heart was performing acrobatics that would raise a cardiologist’s eyebrows.
The bell over the door tried to ring, got stuck, then surrendered with a grunt.
“Oh, no. Let me guess. Chapter twenty-nine?” Shannon Wade walked in, wielding two coffee cups like weapons against the December cold. “It really should come with a black box warning: Do not operate heavy machinery or climb ladders with Tanner Blake narrating Great Expectations in your ears.”
Carrie yanked out an earbud so fast she nearly toppled off the ladder. “It’s inventory assessment.”
“Mm-hm.” Shannon set the coffees on the counter and assumed her classic position of elbows down, chin in hands, and maximum mischief in her eyes. “The part of the inventory where the hero says he loved her ‘with the love of a man’? Brr!” I don’t know about your assessment, but mine is?—”
“Romantic!”
“Oh, yeah! And hazardous. That voice could read a grocery list and cause a soccer mom carpool collision.” Shannon slid a cup over. “Speaking of hazards, did you see the email from the landlord?”
Carrie’s stomach performed an unpleasant flip. “I saw it.”
“Lease renewal: five thousand by December 27, or . . .” Shannon winced.
“I know what ‘or’ means, Shannon.”
“Do you? Because I think ‘or’ means Ahab Coffee moves in and turns your charming, independent bookshop into franchise number thirteen twenty-seven. And that’s just on this block.”
Carrie climbed down from the ladder and wrapped her hands around the coffee cup. The shop stretched around them—exposed brick she’d scrubbed herself, mismatched vintage fixtures she’d found at estate sales, and the beautiful old shelving that had come with the space when she’d bought it from the previous owner’s bankruptcy sale. Everything had a history. She’d turned someone else’s failure into a warm and inviting space, proving she could see potential where others saw loss.
She just hadn’t proven she could make it profitable.
Shannon’s voice softened. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” Carrie admitted. “I’ve got a shop full of inventory and no advertising budget. No one knows we exist.”
“Well, no, but you’ve been building your dream.”
“I’ve been proving a point.” The words came out sharper than intended. “And now Dennis gets to be right about his predictions.”
Shannon’s expression darkened at the mention of Carrie’s ex. “Dennis is an insufferable ass who told you you’d fail because he needed you to fail. Don’t give him that satisfaction.”
“Then I need a miracle by December 27.”
“We’ll make it work. We always do.”
They stood in silence, surveying the shop. Carrie had poured everything into these walls—her savings, her pride, her desperate need to prove she was more than Dennis had told her she was for five soul-crushing years. You’re not practical enough. Not business-minded. Too emotional for entrepreneurship.
She’d left him, found this space, and built something beautiful on her own. But three years in, she was struggling on Hollydale’s quiet Main Street.
She just needed people to find it.
The morning routine steadied her—flip the lamps on, start the cocoa station, and arrange the new releases to catch the light. Shannon put on the vintage Christmas playlist with Bing Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald, and Mel Tormé.
Carrie had just climbed back on the ladder to fix the perpetually crooked “Local Authors” shelf when the ancient bookcase creaked and groaned like a cellar door in a haunted Victorian house.
The entire Austen section tilted forward in slow motion.
