CHAPTER 1
Lauren
The house glowed.
It wasn’t subtle. But then, Christmas wasn’t meant to be.
Lauren stood in the doorway, arms folded with satisfaction, and let herself just look. This was all her doing. Every wreath, every bow, every stitched pillow.
Individually each element was impressive; together, the effect was stunning.
Her eyes lingered on her favorite touches. The grand wreath over the mantel. The mason jars filled with tea-lights. The tree heavy with handmade ornaments.
The hot-glue burns, the late nights—they all were forgotten as the light shimmered off sequins and metallic thread.
She drifted into the kitchen and the magic followed her there—festive tea towels, twisted garlands, the smell of spice and sugar warm in the air.
Tom’s keys rattled in the lock and her heart gave that little leap it always did.Nowit would be perfect. Her strong, practicalhusband coming home to the house she made sparkle for them both.
“Lauren?” he called.
“Kitchen!” she answered.
He joined her there, dropping his bag just inside the doorway. Snow was caught in his dark hair, shoulders broad beneath his coat.
She couldn’t help it—every time she saw him, the world seemed to click into place.
He was the moment of peace after carols fade, the warmth of a fireplace in winter. Tom and Christmas—those were her twin miracles. Her two loves.
“Jesus, Lauren. It looks like Christmas exploded in here,” he said with a twist to his mouth that was half smile, half grimace.
But he tugged her close to kiss her temple and she melted against his broad chest, just a little. He held her there for a moment, his muscular arm curved around the soft give of her waist, before releasing her.
He reached for one of the sugar-dusted cookies cooling on the counter and took a bite. Watching her husband eat a cookie she had made herself filled Lauren with satisfaction.
He headed to the living room and Lauren took a moment to savor the sight—the solid, stable man she’d married eating the cookie she’d baked for him—before turning back to the kitchen.
She wanted the house to be perfect.
She loved this—baking, stitching, crafting—loved being able to turn her feelings into something real, something tangible. She'd learned it from her mom, who'd learned it from hers.
The counter needed clearing, the garland could be straightened. Tom’s bag was by the doorway instead of hanging where it should. Habit tugged her toward it and she moved without thinking. And as she lifted the bag something inside caught her eye.
She stilled.
A box. Small and velvet and completely impossible.
She darted a look toward the living room.
She wasn't snooping. She was tidying. That was all.
She angled the bag toward the light and leaned closer, trying to make out the shape, the color, anything.
Okay. So maybe shewassnooping.
Tom didn't do jewelry. Last year he'd bought her a heated blanket. The year before: a slow cooker. Practical gifts. Useful gifts. Sensible things.
And shelovedthose gifts—loved thinking of him every time she wrapped herself in that soft heat, every time she stirred soup.
