Prologue
Mrs. Claus
Oh, hello there, little elf. Don’t just stand outside in the blizzard like a lost snowflake. Come in, come in! Wipe your boots, grab a hot cocoa, and mind the reindeer. They have been awfully nosy as of late, and I don’t want you to leave with wet nose kisses all over you.
Now then—welcome to Sugarplum Hollow—the sweetest small town just outside of the North Pole. Population: a few dozen elves, an exhausted sleigh mechanic, nine reindeer shifters and their families, and yours truly, Mrs. Claus. Although, do call me Estelle because Mrs. Claus makes me sound like all I do is bake cookies all day and nag the big guy about his cholesterol. Which—alright, fine—I do. But only because I care. You will always hear the tinkling of hammers, the chatter of all the gossiping elves, and of course smell fresh-bakedcookies daily. If you were hoping to maintain your waistline—it won’t be here.
Every generation of reindeer men, heartthrobs with six-packs, and smiles that would light any woman’s underwear on fire, passes down the reins of Santa’s flight team to the next son in line. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen—you know the names. Honestly dear, it’s almost a full-time job keeping their inflated egos in check. Handsome devils, the lot of them. You’ll see soon enough just how much of a handful they are. Those nine make up what we call the Circle of Nine—Santa’s Official Sleigh Team. Men who know they’re handsome and use it to their full advantage. If you aren’t surrounded by their deep pine cologne, then your hair is being whipped around you as they fly by.
You should see the elves who trip over themselves just to deliver the hot cocoa to one of them. Each of these men possesses speed, charm, and enough mischief to make me sprout gray hairs beneath my bonnet. It’s a miracle most years that we are able to get Christmas done on time.
Now, this season’s hot cocoa is coming in piping hot. The rumor is that this year Ryatt Dasher—yes,thatDasher—is supposed to be stepping into the big leagues. You know, taking his place on Santa’s sleigh team. But it seems young Ryatt has cold feet, bless him. Instead of embracing his destiny, I fear that he’s run off to New York City like a lovesick Hallmark hero determined to carve his own path into this world.
My heart is heavy with the thought of something happening to him and with his father’s magic flickering like a candle by a drafty window, this is the worst possible time for a Dasher to go missing. If he doesn’t return soon, this year’s Christmas magic may unravel faster than tinsel in a dryer.
You see, people think the North Pole is all magic, ho-ho-ho, mistletoe, and Christmas fun year-around. The toy division is almost always behind and the gingerbread union is alwayschanting about an impending strike. If they have to work on a Sunday, you can bet your Christmas stocking that the streets will fill with the loud roar of their anger. There isn’t a nook of this town that you could stand in and not hear it.
And as if that weren’t enough…the reindeer? Don’t even get me started on the sexy-as-sin men who are the bane of my existence. They are always one existential crisis away from quitting. The amount of times I have one in my office complaining and whimpering about something inconsequential could fill my office with packing peanuts.
And would you believe it? There’s anelf—well, she has only dressed as one—about to make him forget all about his duty, North Pole woes, and the impending role he must take. Between you and me, Aurielle’s been nudging this one along. Goddess loves her romance. Humans rarely stumble into our destiny circles by accident. Something I’m sure will make this love story my new favorite. But there’s an allure about her, twinkling in the sugar as I pour it into the bowl. It’s as though she has her own magic, maybe not the same magic as mine. But there is something there in the way she crafts her worlds.
Now drink up, dear, and enjoy your freshly baked thumbprint cookies. You’ve now joined theSugar Dusters Society, and we know this story is going to be dashing.
But don’t you worry your snickerdoodle heart, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all the centuries of being the matchmaker of Sugarplum, it’s this:“love always finds its way home, even with my little nudge.”
Welcome to Sugarplum Hollow, little elf. Bring your hot cocoa, enjoy the cookies, and watch yourself crossing the road—we wouldn’t want another incident report. The logistical paperwork is a nightmare I don't have time for this close to Christmas.
Chapter One
Jingle All the Way (to Work, Apparently)
Holly
There are two types of Christmas people in the world: the ones who wake up each morning to the smooth baritone notes of Bing Crosby, sipping their fresh hot cocoa, twirling a peppermint stick in it as they look down upon the frozen city at everyone bustling through their holiday shopping—then there’s me.
I’m racing through my apartment as I seek where I left the silly felt, green bootie for my elf costume after I discarded everything last night after a grueling twelve-hour shift at Macy’s. Working in retail, especially during the holiday season, will test even the saintliest of people’s patience. I check the stove clock, let out a string of expletives, and curse my yesterday-self for literally tossing my costume across the apartment like confetti.
A jingle cuts through the air.
I spin around just in time to see Chester—my fluffy menace and part-time emotional support gremlin—prancing toward me with the bootie dangling from his mouth. “Chester, buddy, thank you for finding Mommy’s bootie,” I coo, squatting to grab it.
He immediately lifts his lip at me like I’m the unreasonable one here. Every time I reach for the felt disaster, he flicks his head away, taking a taunting little step back. Of course he does. He ignores the overflowing basket of toys I bought him, the $300 cat bed he refuses to touch, but the bootie? Suddenly, it’s the Holy Grail.
“Fine. Plan B.” I straighten, scanning the apartment for the one thing that always gets him to drop whatever he’s hoarding.
Garfield.
Chester is obsessed with that orange menace. Go figure—my fat, lazy Cheshire cat worships another fat, lazy cat.
I don’t dare say the plan out loud—he understands English when it benefits him—so I casually dust glitter off my elf skirt and make my way to the remote. My green felt costume sheds sparkles everywhere as I click on the cartoon.
The theme song starts.
There’s a beat.
And then he bolts across the room like he’s auditioning for Olympic-level couch lounging. The bootie drops to the floor, blessedly freed. Victory tastes like hot cocoa and petty triumph. He knows I’ve won. I know I’ve won.
A glance at the stove clock nearly sends me into cardiac arrest. Great. Now I really am going to have to sprint if I want hot cocoa, the uptown subway, and a prayer of clocking in before Jonathan—my supervisor with the voice of a foghorn—gives me The Speech about time management.
