CHAPTER 1
SYLVIE
“Oh, sleigh bells and candy canes,” I muttered under my breath.
The twinkling lights at the Northwood Christmas Tree Farm refused to come back on after all my efforts of fidgeting with the bulbs. The entire string of lights that had been cheerfully illuminating our entrance sign spontaneously went dark, like someone had flipped a switch on Christmas itself. Theaudacity.
It was after five on Thanksgiving and I was freezing my tiny little butt off in the November chill. I was in no mood to screw around with crappy lights.
“Come on!” I stomped by boot and resisted the urge to scream.
The lightshadto work. Tomorrow was the day after Thanksgiving, which meant Christmas season would officially kick off, and our entrance couldn’t look like a sad, forgotten corner of winter when our first customers arrived. They were expecting Christmas magic, not Christmaswhomp whomp.
I was absolutely convinced there were literal gremlins in the world. Gremlins working for the Grinch. Because no matter how carefully we put away the Christmas lights, and no matter thatthey worked when we put them away, they never worked the following year. And they were always tangled.
Always.
I glanced up toward the lodge. Golden light spilled from every window. Through the glass, I could make out the shadows of my family moving about inside, probably going in for another round of leftovers.
At least they were cozy and warm.
Man, a glass of red wine by the stone fireplace sounded absolutely divine right about now.
But first, these blasted lights. I gritted my teeth and glared down at them.
“Come on, you stubborn little—” I caught myself before the curse word slipped out. Even when I was alone and frustrated, old habits died hard. “You stubborn littlegumdrops,” I finished instead, crouching down to examine the first strand of lights more closely.
I started at the beginning, testing each connection point with my frozen fingers. My breath fogged the area in front of me as I worked my way along the string, searching for loose bulbs or damaged wires for the third time. Snow had started falling again, dusting my shoulders and the brim of my knit hat. Despite being bundled up in my warmest winter jacket, thick jeans, and insulated boots, the cold still managed to seep into my bones.
“Fiddlesticks,” I grumbled as I spotted what looked like a loose bulb about halfway down the strand. I reached for it, trying to twist it more securely into its socket, when my boot hit a patch of ice hidden beneath the fresh snow.
My feet went out from under me faster than you could say “Frosty the Snowman,” and I went sliding backward. My arms windmilled wildly as I tried to regain my balance, but gravity had other plans. I crashed right into one of our prized eight-foot Fraser firs.
The tree, apparently as startled by our collision as I was, decided to take revenge by tipping over and landing right on top of me.
“Holy mistletoe!” I yelped, finding myself trapped under a mountain of pine needles and branches. The tree wasn’t particularly heavy, but it was awkwardly large and seemed determined to keep me pinned to the snowy ground.
I wiggled and squirmed, trying to find leverage to push the tree off me. Pine needles were getting in my hair, down my jacket collar, and somehow even inside my socks. My skin started itching all over.
“This is just peachy,” I muttered, spitting out a mouthful of evergreen. “Real dignified, Sylvie. Your ancestors would be so proud.”
After what felt like an eternity of pitiful struggling—though it was probably only a minute or two—I finally managed to work my way out from under the Fraser fir. I sat up in the snow, brushing needles off my jacket and out of my hair while contemplating every life choice that led me to that moment.
The tree lay on its side, looking rather sorry for itself. I felt a pang of guilt as I scrambled to my feet and hurried over to assess the damage. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be hurt—just a little rumpled. I grabbed the trunk and hefted it back upright.
“Sorry about that, beautiful,” I told the tree, patting one of its branches apologetically. “You’re right as rain. Someone will buy you and slap a thousand beautiful lights on you. Lights thatwork,” I added venomously and shot the broken strand a dark look.
Maybe getting tackled by a tree was exactly the motivation I needed. After going through the rest of the strand, I plugged it in, and hallelujah, it worked.
Light blazed to life, illuminating the entrance to our tree farm in cheerful colors. The sight of it made my heart lift despite just having my butt whooped by a tree.
I dusted the remaining snow off my jeans and jacket, though I suspected I was fighting a losing battle. My hair was probably a disaster zone. I could still feel pine needles scratching against my neck. But the lights were working, the tree was upright, and I had successfully avoided any actual profanity. All in all, not a bad day’s work.
As I trudged back up the slight hill toward the lodge, all I could think about was red wine, leftovers, and a warm fire.
But as I got closer to the lodge, my festive mood dimmed a little. The building looked beautiful, all lit up with warm golden light spilling from every window and evergreen garland wrapped around the porch railings. It looked exactly like the kind of place families would want to spend their holidays.
The problem was, there weren’t enough families wanting to spend their holidays here anymore.
