His words are all business, but when he glances up, our eyes meet—and for a second, there’s a flicker of warmth beneath the cool, gray steel. The kind of look that says he remembers me, too.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
He hands me back my license, that unreadable expression firmly back in place. “Slow down, Pope. And stay out of trouble.”
“No promises.”
This time, healmostsmiles. Almost. Then he steps back, taps the hood, and walks away, all authoritative stride and broad shoulders disappearing into the morning light.
I sit there for a long second, staring after him, pulse still racing.
The Chief of Police should not look that good in uniform.
I take a long sip of my coffee, trying to shake the heat crawling up my neck.
Stay out of trouble, huh?
We’ll see about that.
After all, if I’m making a documentary about Mistletoe Bay’s small-town charm, it’d be criminalnotto feature its most handsome, broody public servant.
And if I happen to enjoy rattling his perfectly-composed cage along the way?
Well. Some traditions are worth revisiting.
Whistling along with the jaunty little carol now playing on the radio, Islowlypull back onto the road and follow it to the left, past the lighthouse at Holly Point and toward Snowberry Lane where my parents live.
The house I grew up in comes into view at the end of the lane, a white Cape Cod style house with green shutters, a red door, and smoke curling lazily from the chimney. It’s picture-perfect. Like something straight off one of those glossy Christmas cards my mom still insists on mailing.
I pull into the driveway, heart tugging somewhere between comfort and guilt. It’s been years—too many—and I didn’t exactly make it easy for us to stay in touch while I’ve been gone. Work always came first. Deadlines. Airports. Hotel rooms that smelled like bleach and burnt coffee.
But now, with the twinkle lights blinking against the frosted windows and my childhood home looking like something out of a snow globe, I can’t remember why I stayed away so long.
The front door flies open before I can even grab my bag.
“Tessie!”
Mom barrels down the steps in her red plaid scarf and puffy vest, arms wide and eyes shining, her hair pulled into that same messy bun she’s worn since I was ten. When she tugs me into a bear hug, she smells like sugar cookies and cinnamon.
“Hi, Mom,” I laugh, my face muffled against her shoulder as she squeezes me tight enough to crack a rib. “You’re gonna break me before I even unpack.”
“Worth it,” she says, pulling back to give me a good once over.. “You look thinner. Are you eating? And why didn’t you call when you left the city? Your father’s been pacing since breakfast.”
“Mom.” I grin. “You’re being a little dramatic right now, don’t you think?”
She swats my arm, then links hers through mine and tugs me toward the porch. “You love it.”
She’s not wrong.
Inside, the house smells like pine and cloves. There’s a half-decorated tree in the corner, a garland on the banister, and the faint sound of Christmas music playing from the old record player Dad refuses to replace.
“Look who finally found her way home,” comes his voice from the kitchen doorway.
Dad leans against the frame, wearing his favorite flannel and holding a mug of coffee. His beard’s a little grayer, but his smile is exactly the same as I remember.
“Hey, Dad.”
He sets the drink down and pulls me into a hug—the gesture quieter than Mom’s greeting, but deeper somehow. “Good to see you, kiddo.”
