He groans dramatically. “She says thateveryweekend.”
I roll my eyes with a snort. “Don’t I know it.”
We brush off the snow as we head back into the house. Inside, the warmth from the freshly stocked fire wraps around us like a hug.
Dad’s already in his chair next to it, a cup of coffee in his hand raised to his lips.
He raises an eyebrow when he sees Eli tracking snow into the living room.
“Nice work out there, snow architect,” he says, smiling when Eli launches into an enthusiastic retelling of the build.
Half an hour later and after a cup of cocoa, we say our goodbyes. Eli gives Dad one last hug, tight and sincere, and then we’re out the door again, climbing into my car.
The drive isn’t long, just ten minutes up the road. The heater hums, the windows fogging slightly as snow-covered trees blur past.
When we finally pull onto the main strip and park out front, I exhale in relief. Thankfully, no one’s lingering outside the storefront having a meltdown, trying to peer in through the glass while wiggling on the handle a hundred times.
Eli unbuckles himself and slides out of his car seat. “Race you inside.”
I laugh, pulling the keys from the ignition. “You’d win anyway, honey.”
The familiar chime of bells greets us as I unlock the front door and step insideNoel’s Winter Wonders, my little sanctuary of perpetual Christmas.
The sound echoes softly through the quiet shop like the first few notes of a carol. Even before the lights come on, the faint smell of pine and cinnamon lingers in the air.
I flick the switch by the counter and, one by one, the fairy lights strung across the rafters blink awake. Their glow spreads slowly, spilling over shelves of garland and glass ornaments until the whole shop feels alive again.
Next, I flick on the wax melts scattered around the space—evergreen, balsam, and a touch of cranberry spice. The aroma fills the air almost immediately, wrapping around me like a familiar hug. I inhale deeply, letting it settle the last of my morning nerves.
Out there, the world is loud and cold and unpredictable. But in here? It’s magic. It’s mine.
Handcrafted ornaments sway gently when I pass by, dangling from their wrought-iron stands like delicate jewels.
Tiny nutcrackers, glass icicles, painted wooden angels, all carefully made by practiced fingers.
Every piece tells a story.
Some are local creations, others hand-made by artisans from all over the world, but they all carry the same warmth, the same spark of wonder that drew me to start this place in the first place.
Wreaths line the walls.
Lush circles of evergreen and holly, dotted with crimson berries and finished with thick velvet ribbons.
Some are minimalist, others are grand and ornate.
Together they make the shop feel like it’s always December the second you walk through the door.
Eli trails close behind me, his boots squeaking faintly against the wood floors.
Five years have woven themselves into the fabric of this place, into who I am now.
I never thought I’d find myself running a holiday shop in town, but I suppose crazier things have happened.
The world beyond the frosted windows might still be complicated, filled with questions and fears and things I can’t quite name, but here, surrounded by twinkling lights and the scent of winter, it all feels bearable.
It’s been six years since that snowbound weekend with my dad’s best friends.
Since the world had narrowed to the flicker of firelight and the intoxicating pull of forbidden desires.
