“It says Christmas is going to be interesting this year.”
As if on cue, snow begins to fall, a rare occurrence in Twin Waves, NC. Big, fat flakes catch the light from our porch and make everything look magical.
Maybe the answer to our Christmas crisis really is closer than I think.
Chapter Two
ASHER
Great. Mom’s dragging me to another one of her “community emergencies.” Because apparently my actual emergencies aren’t enough.
I push through the door of Twin Waves Brewing Co., and caffeinated chaos hits me full force. Michelle’s coffee could wake the dead, which is good because I feel half-alive after last night’s call. Mrs. Jackson’s oven decided to stage a Christmas cookie rebellion at midnight. Three hours of sleep. That’s what I’m working with here.
“Asher!” Michelle waves from behind the espresso machine, her blonde hair escaping what was probably a neat bun this morning. “Your mom’s commandeered table six. Fair warning, she’s in full coordinator mode.”
I grunt something that might pass for thanks. Half the town’s here, clutching coffee cups and looking like they’re preparing for war.
Mom’s got her laptop open, papers scattered everywhere, and that look. The one that means someone’s about to get “voluntold” for something they definitely don’t want to do.
She spots me. Waves me over with enthusiasm.
“Perfect timing,” she says. “I need your opinion. Do you think this timeline will work?”
I drop into the chair beside her and peer at the screen. “Mom, this isn’t a timeline. This is a fantasy novel.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being realistic.” I gesture at her screen. “You’ve got…” I quickly count them. “Seventeen major events scheduled in twelve days, half of which require permits we don’t have.”
“Details.” Mom waves me off. “That’s what you’re here for.”
Right. Details. The thing about being a firefighter is that details matter because they prevent disasters and keep people alive.
I’m halfway through explaining why her Santa’s workshop setup violates at least three safety codes when the door chimes.
My brain stops.
Mads Cooper walks in wearing a hoodie and sweatpants that are ready to swallow her whole, but it’s totally working for her. Her hair is up in this messy bun with two tendrils of auburn hair framing her face. She looks gorgeous and oozes confidence, like she’s right where she belongs. Which, knowing her family’s history on this island, she basically does. But it’s not that. It’s the way she moves. Purposeful, like she’s got this handled.
She’s not some damsel in distress. She runs Hensley’s Beach Shack and knows every family on this island. That’s expertise, not amateur hour.
“Mads!” Mom practically launches out of her chair. “Perfect. We need someone with your community connections.”
“Hey, Jo,” Mads addresses my mom, sliding into the seat across from us. “Hey, Asher.” I thought for a minute there she was going to ignore me completely. Not that it would matter.
I catch vanilla mixed with sea salt.
“Community connections?” She raises an eyebrow. There’s amusement in her voice. “That’s a fancy way of saying you need someone to guilt people into volunteering.”
“I prefer ‘enthusiastic recruitment,’” Mom says primly.
“Uh-huh.” Mads glances at me.
I’m staring. Great. Real professional, Lennox.
“So,” she says, “we need to reorganize Christmas in less than two weeks, coordinate with every business in town, and somehow make it better than the fifteen years Dean’s been perfecting it.”
“That’s the gist of it,” Mom says cheerfully.
