Meanwhile, Tessa quickly circles around the group, snapping pictures to document every angle, every smile, every perfectly imperfect moment.
Deep in my chest, I know this holiday season is going to test me in ways I didn’t expect. Not because of the town, and not because tomorrow Santa will be making his arrival by boat.
But because trouble has a name, she’s all grown up and back in Mistletoe Bay.
three
. . .
Tessa
If joy had a sound,it would without a doubt be the laughter and pure happiness echoing around Mistletoe Bay’s harbor front right now.
Pulling my scarf a little tighter and shifting my video camera strap higher on my shoulder, I take a deep breath. The scent of apple cider, hot chocolate, pine and wood smoke in the chilly evening air washes over me, bringing a wave of nostalgia.
I weave through the crowd as tiny children dart between legs in puffy coats, clutching candy canes and glowing wands tipped with tinsel. Parents sip cider and gossip with one another and boats glitter under red and green lights like floating ornaments in the water.
Everywhere I point my lens, there’s something worth capturing. Emmy, the bakery owner, is handing out sugar cookies shaped like snowflakes. Two retirees are waltzing near the docks to a Christmas classic. Rhett Jenkins, everyone’s favorite handyman, is laughing as he pretends to juggle candy canes for a gaggle of kids.
It’s pure, small-town magic. The kind I used to roll my eyes at.
“Excuse me—sorry—just need to get a shot of this,” I murmur, squeezing past a group of carolers in matching plaid scarves. My breath fogs in the air as I crouch by the edge of the dock, zooming in on the reflections of the string lights rippling across the black water.
Through my viewfinder, the world looks perfect—framed, composed, shimmering.
And then my lens lands onhim.
Even from this distance, I’d recognize that no-nonsense posture anywhere.
Nathan’s standing near the far end of the dock, directing traffic like the human embodiment of “rules and order.” His radio crackles at his shoulder, his jaw tight as he gestures toward a delivery truck that’s blocking half the road.
The camera slips a little in my hands.
Because what was once intimidating—the way he always seemed to catch me right in the middle of doing something I shouldn’t have, the way his eyes could pin you in place—now hits differently. He’s still calm, steady, in control…but the years have done something to him.
The faint streak of silver at his temples, a little more definition in his jaw.
And that scowl?
Still lethal. Just in an entirely different way.
Looking at Chief Hale, I can understand the appeal of a silver fox.
I can just imagine all the years of experience he has under his belt.
Shaking those thoughts from my head, I reach for my regular camera and snap a few photos before I can think better of it—hisprofile lit by the glow of Christmas lights, breath ghosting in the cold air.
The camera in my hand beeps. “Battery’s dying,” I mutter under my breath and look for a spot out of the way to replace it with a fresh one.
Once I’ve got a fresh battery on deck, I tuck my camera against my chest and push back into the crowd.
Someone nearby starts a round of “Jingle Bell Rock.” For a second, I’m sixteen again, watching the same parade of lights from the same dock, except this time I’m not in trouble for sneaking down here after curfew and getting caught by none other thanOfficerNathan Hale.
I’m just starting to relax when a commotion near the end of the dock catches my eye—the kind of noise that sends the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up. I know that sound. A low hum cuts out, followed by the disappointed groan of a hundred people.
“Generator’s out!” someone yells the obvious.
Half the dock plunges into darkness.
