Hunter.
But not Hunter in his usual grumpy-professor-turned-coffee-guy look. Oh no. This was Hunter in full,devastatingly gorgeous,authentic Nordic garb: a dark linen tunic belted at the waist, woolen trousers tucked into knee-high boots, a heavy cloak fastened with a carved brooch, and a fur collar that made him look as if he’d stepped straight out of a saga. His hair was wind-tossed, his cheeks pink from the cold, and he carried himself like some kind of Viking lord who’d conquered Wishing Tree.
“Wow,” I blurted, heat rushing to my face. “Just… wow.”
He wrinkled his nose, looked adorably embarrassed, then tapped the brooch. “This is wrong. I mean, it’s plastic and print, and it would’ve been bone, back then. Cloak’s wool, dyed with madder root. Bootsare replicas, hand-stitched. And the tunic—linen. Cold as hell, but authentic.”
I swallowed hard, throat tightening. “You… you did this. For me?”
He shrugged, but I could see the effort behind it, the way he’d thought about every detail because he knew how much this meant to me. “Did some research. Figured if you’re going to drag me into a Nordic-themed giant goat stall, I might as well do it right.”
My eyes stung. I laughed, covering it badly. “You’re ridiculous. And perfect. And—don’t mind me if I just melt into a puddle here.”
He cleared his throat and held up a clay bottle. “I also come bearingglögg.Warm, spiced wine. Traditional.”
He poured me a measure into a small cup. I sipped—and oh. Cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, orange peel, a sweet heat spreading through me like firelight.
“It tastes like… Christmas had a baby with a cuddle,” I said reverently.
Hunter chuckled. “That’s… one way of putting it.”
Then he lifted a can of cream from the bag in his other hand, giving it a shake with a perfectly straight face. “You want some?”
I stared, then burst out laughing. And in my ridiculous hat and his deadly-serious Viking cosplay, with glögg in my hands and cream ready to top it, Irealized—I wasn’t only excited for the parade. I was sparkling for him.
The street outside The Story Lantern had been transformed. Strings of white and gold lights crisscrossed overhead, casting everything in a soft glow, and the air smelled of cinnamon, pine, and woodsmoke. Our stall stood beside the shop windows, decorated with sprigs of holly and a banner I’d painted at two in the morning that read:
The Story Lantern & The Real McCoy — Bringing You Yule Cheer!
Hunter manned the big pot of glögg, ladling out steaming gorgeousness into paper cups, while I flitted around like a festive elf in my red tunic and ridiculous bobble hat. We’d made versions of drinks for all ages—spiced wine for the adults, warm berry juice for the kids, even a milder cinnamon apple blend that had already proven popular. Along the edge of the stall sat trays of pepperkaker—ginger biscuits stamped with snowflakes—and little paper bags filled with hard caramels I’d ordered special from Norway.
The best part? Each bag had a card stapled to it: one side with The Story Lantern’s logo, with a twenty-five percent discount code, the other with The Real McCoy’s steaming coffee cup and the wordsWarm upwith us.
“Perfect guerrilla marketing,” I whispered proudly as I handed a bag to a little girl in a pink hat.
Hunter gave me a look that was half fond, half exasperated. “You’ll have this whole town sugared up before the parade’s halfway through.”
“Sugar makes people happy,” I said. “And happy people buy books. And coffee. You’re welcome.”
The distant jingle of bells announced the first floats, and soon the parade began winding down Main Street. The marching band in red uniforms came first, then floats lit up like moving Christmas trees, the air filling with cheers and music. The kids from the history club rolled past in all their glory—Jamie pedaling the goat-bicycle as if his life depended on it while Connor, Megan, and Luis tossed out candy bags.
“Woohoo!” I shouted, waving both arms over my head. “That’s my goat! That’s my kids!”
Jamie spotted us and yelled, “Hi, Wesley! Hi, Hunter!”
“Great job!” Hunter called back, his voice carrying.
I clutched my chest, ridiculously proud, my eyes wet. “They’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Hunter’s hand briefly brushed mine where it rested on the stall, long enough to ground me.
Between floats, there were lulls—quieter moments where the crowd shifted, or kids darted pastwith their new candy bags, or we stood together under the twinkle of Christmas lights. Once, without thinking, I leaned sideways into him, and he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close against his warm cloak.
I let myself sink in for those stolen seconds, breathing in spice and smoke and the faint, clean scent of him.
“Don’t look now,” I murmured, “but I think we might be winning Christmas.”
He huffed a laugh. “Pretty sure you were winning Christmas long before I showed up.”
