one
. . .
Tessa
The minuteI pass the “Welcome to Mistletoe Bay” sign, something in my chest loosens. Maybe it’s the twinkle lights strung from every lamppost, or the faint scent of cinnamon wafting in the air from Dockside Cafe, or maybe it’s just the fact that for the first time in months, I’m not staring at a screen or stuck in New York City traffic.
I roll down my window, letting the December air slap some color into my cheeks as Bing Crosby croons through the speakers. My old SUV hums along down Main Street, the bay glittering off to my right dotted with boats dressed up in garland and lights for the town’s annual Santa-Arrives-By-Boat event.
Only in Mistletoe Bay would Santa trade his sleigh for a fishing trawler.
The plan is simple: film a small-town Christmas documentary celebrating quirky local traditions. Come here, get some good footage, maybe clear my head a little in the process.
That’s all.
Except … my stomach twists in that familiar, nostalgic way that says maybe I’m lying to myself just a little.
Because the truth is, I didn’t come back just for work. I came back to remember what belonging feels like. Belonging to a place. And, hopefully someday, a person.
And maybe to figure out why I ever left.
Out of nowhere, flashing blue and red lights appear in my rearview mirror.
You havegotto be kidding me.
I groan, easing to the side of the road, the sound of jingle bells on the radio now feeling like a mockery. A patrol SUV pulls in behind me, and when the door opens, my stomach does a weird, swoopy thing I’m not proud of.
Because that’s not just any cop.
That’shim.
Chief Nathan Hale.
Stoic. Broad-shouldered. Maddeningly composed. The same man who used to drive me home in the back of his patrol car after my teenage “adventures.”
Only now, he’s older. More distinguished looking somehow. And apparently allergic to smiling.
He approaches the driver’s side of my car with that steady, no-nonsense gait, the one that says rules are rules and I’m probably about to get a lecture.
I lower the window a little further, pretending I’m not already flustered. “Well, if it isn’t Chief Hale himself. Tell me, do you pull over everyone with New York plates, or did you just want to say ‘hi’ to an old...friend?”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile—but not quite. “Tessa Pope.” His voice is deeper than I remember, the kind that hums under your skin. “In case you forgot, speed limit is 25. Not 50.”
I didn’t even realize I was going that fast. “Oops.” I bat my eyes. “I slowed down when I saw you, though,” I tease, because old habits die hard.
He arches a brow. “When I turned my lights on.”
“Semantics.” I smile broadly just to annoy him.
He gives me that look—part exasperation, part disbelief—that used to make me laugh. “License and registration.”
I sigh dramatically, fishing them out of my wallet and handing them over. “You’re really going to give me a ticket my first day back in town?”
“Depends,” he says, flipping through the paperwork. “You planning on making this a habit?”
I grin. “I’m only in town for a few weeks. Figure I should make an impression.”
“That’s not the kind you want to make.”
