Chapter 17

By the time evening rolled around, the kitchen looked like a cookie explosion had gone off. Sprinkles covered the counter, flour dusted the floor, and a precarious tower of dishes teetered in the sink. I should have started cleaning an hour ago, but somehow, I’d talked myself into decorating just one more tray of cookies.

As I leaned over to add a final flourish of frosting to a particularly stubborn snowflake, my phone buzzed on the counter.

Evelyn: Just checking in—our Santa hasn’t had a change of heart, has he?

Me: He’s still in. Don’t worry.

Evelyn: Just making sure. Graham seems dependable… for a townie.

I smiled at the screen. That was Evelyn—always toeing the line between impressed and wary. To her, people from the city were fascinating creatures, equal parts glamorous and suspicious. Graham, with his easy smile and hockey star status, had clearly made an impression.

I typed back a quick reassurance: He’s not going to bail. He promised.

She replied almost instantly: He seems like a keeper. Just saying.

Rolling my eyes, I tossed my phone back onto the counter. Evelyn was right about one thing, though—Graham was impressive. In the few days since his team had arrived for the holiday tournament, he’d become the talk of the town.
But I couldn’t afford to think too much about that—or about him. The annual tree lighting ceremony was tomorrow, and it wasn’t going to plan itself.


The tree lighting wasn’t just an event; it was the event. The kind that turned our sleepy town into a picture-perfect postcard for one night. Everyone gathered at the center of town, and the night was filled with hot cocoa, handmade ornaments, and enough twinkling lights to rival the stars. Families bundled up in scarves and mittens, their faces glowing as they watched the towering spruce come to life.

I never missed it. Standing under that tree, bathed in its glow, it was like I was a little girl again, not a worry in the world. Christmas magic.

And thanks to Graham, that magic would include Santa himself.

The timer on the oven dinged, and I grabbed my oven mitts, pulling out the last tray of cookies for the night. Rows of Santa and tree shapes greeted me, some a little crooked, but I was too tired to care. I set the tray down on the counter, brushing a stray hair out of my face, just as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Smells like bribery,” Graham said, his voice carrying through the quiet kitchen.

I turned to find him leaning in the doorway, wearing sweatpants and a rumpled long-sleeve shirt that somehow made him look even more annoyingly good. He crossed his arms, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he surveyed the baking chaos.

“You caught me,” I said, grabbing a spatula to transfer the cookies to a cooling rack. “But if you’re going to complain, I could always give these to someone else.”

“Not a chance.” He stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he made a beeline for the tray of frosted Santas on the counter. Picking one up, he inspected it like it was a work of art.

“This one looks a little... stressed,” he said, holding up a cookie with uneven frosting and a sprinkle beard that had gone slightly rogue.
“Stressed is festive,” I shot back, setting down the spatula. “It’s a holiday vibe.”

He grinned, taking a bite of the cookie. “Tastes festive, too.”

“That’s the sugar talking,” I said, leaning against the counter. “But I’m glad my ‘Santa bribe’ meets your standards.”

He nodded solemnly, as if weighing the importance of my efforts. “It does. Barely. Though I’ll need to inspect a few more to make an informed judgment.”

I rolled my eyes but pushed the tray closer to him. “Be my guest.”

Graham leaned back against the counter, cookie in hand, his expression softening. “So... this tree lighting thing. Evelyn made it sound like the Oscars of small-town Christmas.”

I laughed. “She’s not wrong. It’s one of the biggest events of the year. Everyone shows up, from the mayor to kids bundled up like marshmallows. There’s cocoa, carolers, the works. And when the lights come on...” I trailed off, my smile faltering.

His brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

I hesitated, my chest tightening at the thought. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just... special. For a second, it feels like everything else disappears. It’s just you, the lights, and the people you care about.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “You’ve got a soft spot for this, huh?”

I shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “It’s my mom’s favourite tradition. She takes us every year, no matter how cold it was. Back when I was younger, it wasn’t about schedules or planning or making everything perfect. It was just... simple. Fun. It felt like Christmas, you know? No pressure. Just lights, hot chocolate, and carols.”

Graham tilted his head, his smile softening. “Yeah. I get that.”

His voice was quiet, but something about the way he said it made my chest tighten. I glanced at him, and for a moment, I thought he might say more. But he just studied me, like he was trying to see past my words to whatever I wasn’t saying.

I blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He glanced down at the cookie in his hand, then back at me. “Sometimes, it’s not about the tradition itself. It’s about who it reminds you of. Who you’re doing it for.”

Something in my chest ached at his words, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. There was something deeper behind what he said, but I didn’t know him well enough to ask. Not yet.

“Well,” I said lightly, trying to pull us back to safer ground, “now you’re part of the tradition. Welcome to the tree-lighting elite.”

He chuckled, setting the cookie down. “Do I get a badge or something?”

“Nope. Just a beard and a red suit,” I teased.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “The things I do for cookies.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, picking up a frosting bag to start on the next tray. “I’m sure you’ll make an excellent Santa. The kids will love you.”

His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than I expected, his smile softening. “You think so?”

“I know so,” I said, surprising myself with how certain I sounded.

He nodded, like he was filing the thought away, and straightened. “Guess I’d better get some sleep, then. Don’t want to embarrass myself in front of all those kids tomorrow.”

“Good call,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

He gave me one last crooked grin before turning toward the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late making more ‘stressed Santas.’”

“I’ll try not to,” I shot back, but my voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to.

As he disappeared up the stairs, I stared at the half-frosted cookies in front of me, my chest still tight.