Chapter 1
Merry
Thefirstsnowofthe season always makes people act a little unhinged.
In my case, it makes me drive three hours into the mountains on a Tuesday with an empty trunk, a travel mug of lukewarm coffee, and a single, laser-focused mission.
Get the wreaths. Get out.
I grip the steering wheel as Mercury Ridge's main street comes into view, all twinkle lights and wreaths and postcard-perfect charm. The kind of town that looks like it was built specifically for Christmas movie montages. There's a little square with a tree already up—a towering blue spruce strung with white lights that glow against the darkening sky. A gazebo wrapped in freshgarland anchors the center, and a banner strung between two lampposts reads:
WELCOME TO MERCURY RIDGE
Beneath that, someone has hung a homemade sign, paint scrawled on a board, that says, “Where the mountain men are hotter than Mercury!”
I snort, even though I'm tired enough to cry.
"A hot mountain man?" I mutter to myself. "Where do I sign up for one of those?”
The wipers squeak across the windshield, leaving faint arcs of clarity before the snow dots the glass again. The snowfall isn't heavy yet, but it's steady, purposeful. Flakes spiral in the air like someone shook a snow globe right over my hood, each one catching the glow from the streetlamps before disappearing into the growing drifts along the curb.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder just as I come to a stop sign in the middle of town. I glance at my phone to see a text from my assistant back at the shop.
Please tell me you're getting these wreaths. People are begging for them like they're Taylor Swift tickets.
I glance behind me to make sure no one is waiting at the stop sign, and then I tap out a reply with one hand.
On my way. I will return victorious.
Because I have to.
I run Merry & Bright Boutique in Knoxville, Tennessee. It's my pride, my paycheck, and my whole life from October through Valentine's Day.
With a name like Merry, I was destined for a career in the Christmas business.I wasn’t even born in December. My mom’s just a fan of creative spellings. Just ask my sister Sylveeah.
Every year, my store sells a ton of wreaths, but ever since some influencer posted a video of handmade wreaths made in Mercury Ridge—close-ups of glossy winterberries nestledagainst thick pine boughs, dried orange slices catching the light, and velvet ribbon tied in perfect bows—my customers have become absolutely feral.
I've made wreaths. I can make wreaths in my sleep.
But these…theseare the ones everyone wants.
And the only person who makes them? A man named Rowan Hale.
I check the address again as my GPS announces, in its cheery robot voice, that I've arrived at my destination.
It's the little shop that featured the wreaths. It’s charming, with a painted sign that says MERCURY RIDGE MERCANTILE and a bell that jingles as I push through the door.
Warmth hits me like a hug. The place smells like cinnamon and pine and something buttery, like fresh cookies pulled from the oven moments ago. Wooden shelves are stocked with local jams in jewel-toned glass jars, hand-poured candles with labels that promise scents like "Winter Hearth" and "Evergreen Dreams," knit hats in cheerful reds and greens, and ornaments that look like they were carved by hand. A display near the front has a stack of flyers that read:
MERCURY RIDGE HOLIDAY MARKETSATURDAYS THROUGH DECEMBER
Behind the counter, a woman in a red sweater looks up from a register. She has silver hair pulled into a loose bun and bright eyes that flick to my scarf, then my coat, then the keys in my hand like she's clocking me for what I am.
An outsider.
"Morning," she says, voice warm but sharp around the edges.
"Hi." I push my hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of the peppermint lip gloss I'd swiped on at my last gas station stop. "I'm looking for Rowan Hale."
