“You let us know if you need help, Noelle.” Grant says from the table.
Dad slides his eyes in their direction. “Surprised you all aren’t volunteering your services.”
Dean, ever the charmer, grins from across the table. “We’d just be in the way. Noelle runs that place like a well-oiled machine. Plus, I don’t know about these two, but I’ve still got some birthday shopping to do.”
Dad just shakes his head. “Don’t go too overboard. How about we all grab dinner somewhere instead of cake and gifts here?Doesn’t need to be fancy. Spending time with you all is more than enough.”
“Listen to how sentimental you sound,” Callum says with a slight smirk. “This holiday season has made you downright jolly.”
Dad laughs. “Blame it on the nightshift.”
Eli comes barreling back down the stairs then in a puff of enthusiasm.
He’s wearing his thickest sweater and a pair of mismatched gloves.
A red scarf is trailing behind him like a cape, only half wrapped around his neck. “I’m ready! Grampy, let’s go!”
Dad laughs again, shaking his head in disbelief as he takes the gloves from Eli’s hands and helps him pull them on properly.
When he finally gets him properly dressed, he presses a kiss to Eli’s forehead. “Alright. Let’s make this birthday one to remember.”
Eli grabs his hand, bouncing on his toes, the pure joy in his little voice filling every inch of the house. “Yay!”
I don’t notice anything is wrong until I try to shove my key into the front door at the shop.
At first, it’s just a little resistance, something that feels like a hiccup in the lock.
I frown, thinking maybe the cold’s frozen it up again, and shove my shoulder against it.
Sometimes it happens this time of year—the metal freezes, the wood expands, and everything sticks.
But when I twist the key again, the sound it makes isn’t right.
It’s a harsh, scraping noise like metal grinding against something broken inside the mechanism.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, jiggling the key and trying one more time.
I try again, this time pressing my shoulder against the door as I twist the key harder.
The lock gives a protesting squeal then jerks.
For a moment, I think I’ve forced it open but when I push, the door doesn’t move the way it should.
It doesn’t swing cleanly inward, it hits something hidden on the other side of it.
The first thing that hits me isn’t that familiar balsam and cinnamon wax melts I had burning all yesterday but something acrid that smells like spray paint.
A sick, crawling feeling starts in my gut.
Even in the dim lighting from behind me, I can see that my beautiful shop, my sanctuary, my livelihood, has been turned into a war zone.
Shelves have been ripped from the wall and lie on their sides like fallen soldiers.
Ornaments that took me weeks to get shipped from overseas artisans are shattered and in pieces all over the floor.
The fairy-light strands that usually dangle from the ceiling have been torn down and gutted, bulbs smashed and wires frayed from where they’ve been pulled apart.
My custom wreaths, each one a labor of love, are shredded to bits, their ribbons fluttering in the slight breeze from outside like surrender flags.
