The thing is, they don’t really understand why this matters so much to me.
No—that’s not fair. Theydounderstand.
I told them once, late at night in Karolina’s dorm room after too much wine, about how Christmas used to be magical when my mum was alive. How she’d transform our tiny flat into something out of a storybook, all twinkling lights and cinnamon smells and carols playing on the old radio. How she’d save up all year just to make sure I had presents under the tree.
And then she died when I was eight, and I went to live with my aunt and uncle, who treated the holidays like an inconvenient obligation. Just awkward dinners where they reminded me how much of a burden I was.
For eleven years, Christmas has been something to survive, not celebrate.
This party… it’s my way of reclaiming it. Of creating something good again.
“I just want one perfect Christmas,” I say quietly. “Is that too much to ask?”
“No,” Karolina says firmly. “It’s not. And you’re going to get it.”
I want to believe her. I really do.
I pull out the crumpled piece of paper from my jacket pocket. My master list of everything that needs to happen before the party. It’s color-coded and annotated with tiny sketches in the margins because I can’t help myself.
“Okay,” I say, standing up and smoothing out the paper. “I need to talk to the facilities manager about the water hookup, confirm the food truck vendors, pick up the lights from—”
I back up, reciting my list under my breath, while my friends wave goodbye and head out.
Feeling safe and alone, I take another step… right into what hits me like a brick wall.
A brick wall that’s warm. And solid. And smells like expensive cologne.
My face smashes into a very muscular chest.
Oh no.
Oh God, please, no.
I stumble backward and look up—way up—into piercing blue eyes.
Raiden Blackwell stares down at me, flanked by three of his hockey teammates. They’re all wearing Ashford Beasts hoodies, looking like they just came from practice.
“Didn’t you used to wear glasses so you wouldn’t bump into every lamppost?”
His voice is flat, almost bored, but there’s something underneath it that makes goosebumps prickle down my arms. Something I refuse to examine too closely.
“I switched to contact lenses,” I say, trying to sound normal. “They’re very comfortable.”
Shit.They’re very comfortable?What am I thinking, replying to him like we are buddies?
I straighten my shoulders. “I didn’t know the lampposts would be moving now.”
One of his teammates—the blond one from the auditorium—snickers.
Raiden doesn’t react. He just reaches out and plucks the paper from my hands in one smooth motion.
“Give it back,” I say immediately.
He holds it up, scanning it with theatrical interest. “Of course. The legendary Christmas preparation sheet.”
“Give it back to me!” Heat floods my face.
“No wonder your eyesight is ruined. With handwriting like that, you could go blind trying to decipher your own scribbles. Oh, hot cocoa and evensweet pie.” He tilts his head. “Did you really have to write the list by hand?”
