CHAPTER 1
Amayah Harper angledher phone toward the front door, watching as the tripod holding it sank into the thin, powdery snow on her sidewalk.
The pale blue paint on her door wasn’t fresh, but she loved that distressed look. The door had depth and history and reminded her of the Christmases she’d spent at her grandmother’s house, curled on her threadbare sofa, listening to hymns hum through the place as if they were prayers woven into the walls.
She reached up and brushed her fingers over the wreath she’d made the night before, pine sprigs still fragrant despite the cold, dotted with dried orange slices and tiny cinnamon bundles tied with twine.
Still today, her hands were sticky with sap, and the scent lingered on her coat sleeves. All day, the aroma had reminded her that Christmas was only two weeks away.
She hit Record and turned to the camera with a smile. “This week, I’m sharing doors that have been decorated for Christmas. Doors that remind us of home. Of welcome. Of peace.”
Her breath fogged in front of her as she glanced at the wreath again.
“My grandmother used to say a front door tells you everything about the heart behind it. She painted hers a different shade of blue every year and hung a bell so the house would sing when someone arrived.” A faint smile touched her lips at the memory.
A year ago, when Amayah had seen this house with the blue door for sale, she’d felt it was a sign that this place should be her new home.
Everyone in her life had questioned her choice of moving to this neighborhood.
But she’d been sure this was where she was supposed to be—though she still wasn’t sure why.
She looked at the camera, about to continue, when she heard a thump inside her house.
She paused.
Had she been hearing things?
She waited.
That had to be it—it was just her imagination.
After several seconds of quiet, she continued. “I know I’ve mentioned this before in my videos, but it was after the heaviest season of grief I’ve ever experienced that I realized how significant doors have been to me. I then realized that doors could be significant for others also. They represent opportunities. Changes. Memories. They wait for you. They say you belong without speaking at all.”
She rested her palm briefly against the worn wood. “Every time I come home to this one, something inside me settles. It’s like the world exhales.”
She shifted her weight, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in her chest. She only had a few minutes until a reporter from the local newspaper arrived to interview her. Miranda Greene, her manager, had insisted Amayah say yes—had said it would begood exposure. A heartwarming holiday story.It will give people hope.
Amayah prayed that was true. But she’d seen one too many times how reporters could use their own bias to shift a story the way they wanted.
After that moment in her life, the one she didn’t like to think about—she had trouble trusting journalists. That was why she liked having her own platform, her own voice. She didn’t have to depend on others to get her message across.
But Miranda said local stories like this created good engagement and they’d fit her brand.
Brand. . . Amayah had begun to hate that word. She’d never wanted to be well-known per se. She’d just wanted to make a difference and do what she loved.
Somehow, her popularity had exploded, and she’d practically become an overnight success as an online influencer.
Speaking of which . . . Luke Cross was the reporter she was meeting with today. She’d read some of his stories, and they were good. Heartwarming. Kind. Fair.
Miranda insisted he would be a great fit.
He was due to arrive in ten minutes. That meant she needed to hurry if she wanted to get this video done.
At that thought, a shadow moved at the edge of her vision, and she glanced up.
A man approached on the sidewalk, his hands tucked into the pockets of a black wool coat. Snow caught in his dark hair and clung to his shoulders. He walked with quiet, deliberate strides, his gaze steady and intent when he spotted her.
Her pulse gave an inexplicable hitch.
