“Oh, fine. I’ll do it. But don’t go telling half the town.”
Jo squeals and hugs him, which only serves to deepen his frown.
“Yeah?” I say.
“I mean, I’d have to check with Chief Dean first and make sure it doesn’t conflict with department duties, but...” He shrugs.
“I think,” I say slowly, “that Dean would be thrilled to know someone cares enough about the community to step up. And I think you’d make a really good Santa.”
He almost smiles at that. Still serious, still controlled, but warmer somehow. Like maybe there’s more humor and lightness under all that competence than he usually lets people see.
“So we have a plan?” Jo asks.
“We have a plan,” I agree, and for the first time since Dean fell off that ladder, I actually believe we might be able to pull this off.
“In a minute.” I want to hold onto this moment a little longer—the two of us standing here with steaming coffee and the beginning of something that might be a solution, or might be something else entirely. “I just... thank you. For stepping up. For caring about people you barely know.”
Then Lila’s voice cuts through the December air: “Hey, did the grumpy firefighter just volunteer to be Santa?”
Annoyance flickers in Asher’s eyes. “So much for keeping it quiet.”
And just like that, our quiet moment becomes a community celebration, with everyone talking at once and making plans and thanking Asher for saving Christmas.
But as the chaos swirls around us, our gazes collide, and he actually smiles—the kind of smile that says this is just the beginning.
An hour later, after the crowd has dispersed and plans have been made for an emergency coordination meeting tomorrow, I’m walking home with Mom and Lila, pulling my coat tight against the sudden chill in the air. The adrenaline from the crisis is finally wearing off, leaving me with the weight of what I’ve just committed to.
“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” Mom says as we reach our street. “You can say no.”
“Can I, though?” I ask. “Did you see Dean’s face? He’s devastated about missing Christmas.”
“Dean will understand if it’s too much,” Lila says firmly. “You’re twenty-four, not the town’s designated Christmas fairy.”
But as we walk up the path to The Hensley House, the Victorian beach mansion Mom renovated with Jack, my now stepdad, the Christmas lights Mom and I put up last weekend twinkle in the starlight. Simple white strings outline the porch, nothing fancy, but warm and welcoming in the gathering dusk.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out the cream-colored envelope, finally ready to see this mysterious message.
“Finally,” Lila says. “I’ve been dying to know what that says.”
Inside, written in the same elegant script as the address, is a letter that makes my heart skip:
Dear Mads,
Someone who loves you very much has written to ask that I help you open your heart to new possibilities this Christmas. She says you’ve been dimming your light to avoid being hurt, but that the world needs your brightness. Especially now.
The holidays have a way of bringing people together who are meant to find each other. Don’t be afraid to trust your heart when love shows up in unexpected packages.
Sometimes the grumpiest wrapping paper hides the sweetest gifts.
With mistletoe kisses and a heart full of hope,
Mrs. Claus
I read it twice, and Mom and Lila watch me expectantly.
“Well?” Lila asks. “What does it say?”
I fold the letter carefully and slip it back into my pocket, thinking about steel-blue eyes and quiet competence and someone who stepped up to save Christmas without being asked.
