I have work to do, and nothing—not even a self-proclaimed guardian angel or an insufferably handsome competitor—is going to stand in my way.
As I approach The Pampered Pooch Pantry, the cheerful exterior momentarily lifts my spirits. The whimsical hand-painted sign featuring a grinning golden retriever in a chef’s hat always makes me smile despite myself.
The bell chimes as I enter. Biscuit, who had been dozing in one of the cozy armchairs in the corner, lifts his head and offers a slow, friendly wag of his tail.
“Back so soon?” Mrs. Pennington asks, looking up from her work. Her keen eyes seem to read the tension in my posture. “Is everything alright, dear?”
For a moment, I’m tempted to pour out everything, my excitement about the competition, my encounter with the strange Gladys, and my frustration with Logan. But the walls I’ve built around me hold firm.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just got a lot of work to do for this competition.”
Mrs. Pennington nods, though I can see the concern in her eyes. “Well, you know where to find me if you need anything. A cup of tea, a sympathetic ear, or even just some quiet company.”
Her kindness threatens to crack my defenses, but I hold firm. “Thank you, Mrs. Pennington. I appreciate it.”
As I climb the stairs to my apartment, I hear her speaking softly to Biscuit. “I do hope she’ll be alright, old boy. Christmas is no time for anyone to be alone.”
Her words follow me into my apartment, echoing in my mind as I close the door behind me. Alone. A five-letter word that sometimes feels like a four-letter curse.
As I settle at my small desk, my sketchbook open before me, I stare at my little tree. I decorated this one just for me, with things that I like.
It looks good.
Not just good, but great.
I did that. I let the knowledge settle in. I can do this. I am a creature who was made to create. My fingers twitch, and I pick up a pencil to let the ideas flow. The warmth of the Christmas lights and the distant sounds of carols from the street below fade into the background as I lose myself in my work.
I’m doing this on my own—in my own way—and I’m not going to let anyone take it from me.
Two
BAILEY
The town square bustles with activity, people rushing about with arms full of presents and festive decorations. The scent of grease, cheese, and cinnamon wafts from Casa Rameriz, and the cheerful jingling of sleigh bells hung on door knobs, fills the air. It’s as if the entire town of Benton Falls has been transformed into a winter wonderland.
As I reach the grand entrance of the Holly Inn, I can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. I’m determined to flesh out my design ideas for the decorating competition. The weight of my sketchbook in my bag feels comforting. I’ve spent the last two days creating image after image. I have narrowed my ideas down to seven.
It’s a lot, I know.
But this is the first thing that’s really inspired me in a while, and I guess I’ve been backed up.
The scent of old wood and polish mingles with the aroma of freshly cut pine trees. I pause for a moment, taking in the grandeur of the sweeping staircase. What I wouldn’t give to do a garland for that! It would cost ten thousand dollars for decorations, and it would totally be worth it.
As I make my way to the ballroom, I overhear a couple of staff members discussing the town’s tree lighting ceremony tonight. Their excited chatter reminds me of the event, and I feel a twinge of regret. I’d love to attend, to be part of that magical moment when the town square is illuminated with thousands of twinkling lights. But with so much work to do for the competition, I’m not sure I can spare the time.
I push open the heavy wooden doors of the ballroom, and once again, I’m struck by its sheer magnificence. It’s like stepping into a fairy tale, and for a moment, I allow myself to be swept away by the magic of it all and spin in a circle, imagining my golden dress flaring out around my legs.
I have a place for myself, which is just how I like it.
I haven’t seen Gladys since the other day. Not that I’ve given her much of a chance to run into me around town, but if she was really an angel and wanted to find me, I’m sure she could. Poor lady. I kind of feel bad that she’s so confused. Maybe she has family around that keeps an eye on her, and she slipped away or something.
Settling myself in the center of the room, I spread out my sketches and notes. The colorful sheets lie around me like the billowing skirts of a ball gown. The ideas that have been swirling in my mind are laid out before me, a modern twist on classic Christmas themes with sleek lines and unexpected color combinations. I lose myself in the creative process, the outside world fading away as I work with colored pencils.
“Back at it already, I see.”
The deep voice is like a cup of hot chocolate dumped over my head; it’s warm and delicious but unexpected and startling. I look up to find Logan Brown standing a few feet away, his tall frame casting a shadow over my work. His chestnut hair is slightly tousled as if he’s just run his hand through it, and his deep green eyes are fixed on my sketches with curiosity.
I instinctively move to gather my work closer, feeling exposed and vulnerable. “What are you doing here?” I ask, wincing at the accusing edge in my voice.
