Page 14

Chapter Nine

Sam

Christmas in North Carolina didn’t come with snow. Just soft blue skies and a cool breeze rolling in off the water. The kind of day where you could wear a sweatshirt and jeans and still end up warm from walking too fast.

Mom and I left early, heading into Wilmington, the truck bed full of non-perishable supplies she’d picked up to donate.

Volunteering at the community kitchen had become our Thanksgiving and Christmas morning tradition.

It started back when I was a teenager. We just showed up one year asking how we could help.

Now we’re part of the regular holiday crew.

It’s a great, hands-on way to start the day and give back beyond the money and supplies we usually donate. There’d been years when meals and care packages from places like this helped Mom stretch her paycheck far enough to cover the bills and still keep us fed. I’ll never forget that.

By the time we got there, the place was already humming.

The rich scent of brewed coffee, sizzling bacon, and pancakes filled the air.

A few regulars waved as we walked in, and someone shoved a Santa hat on my head before I’d even taken off my coat.

The volunteer coordinator handed us both aprons with “Holiday Helper” embroidered across the front.

When the Waves’ public relations team caught wind that I do this, they wanted to set up a photo op, but I wasn’t comfortable with that.

I don’t do it for the accolades or recognition.

Thankfully, they didn’t push it, probably because Hannah Reagan, who leads PR, gets it.

Her husband Jack, the team’s shortstop, supports a few non-profits quietly and prefers to keep it that way.

For breakfast, I worked the line, serving eggs and hash browns. Mom rotated between serving and sitting with people who looked like they needed more than a hot plate. She was good at that. She had this way of making anyone feel like they mattered. Like they weren’t invisible.

We stayed through lunch doing more of the same, then helped clean up.

I washed dishes while Mom wiped down the tables.

Before we headed home, she spoke with the kitchen manager and got a list of their immediate needs.

We’ll do some shopping during the week and drop off those items and whatever else we can fit in the truck.

I settled behind the wheel and started the truck. Pulling out my phone, I texted Hope.

We’re leaving the kitchen now, heading home.

Before I shifted into drive, her reply came through.

I’ll be there around 5pm.

I smiled, already looking forward to seeing her later.

By the time we got home, it was just past three o’clock.

“I prepped most things last night," Mom said as we entered the kitchen.

“Mom, did you sleep at all?”

She waved me off.

“I'll sleep when I'm dead.”

The counter was covered with cooling racks of cookies.

More traditional Italian varieties—pepper, anise cookie, pizzelle, and almond biscotti.

As well as classic holiday staples—chocolate crinkle, raspberry thumbprints, chocolate chip, and festive sugar cookies.

A pan of peanut butter fudge sat off to the side waiting to be cut and plated.

She’d even made struffoli. My mouth watered at the thought of eating one of the t iny fried dough balls coated in honey and sprinkles.

But I know if I even try to take one and mess up her perfectly formed wreath, there will be hell to pay.

Instead, I reached for a biscotti.

“Hands off,” she said, pointing at me. “Dinner first.”

I broke off a piece and popped it in my mouth before she could stop me.

Mom rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m not impossible,” I said around a mouthful of crumbs. “I’m literally standing right here. Very real. Extremely possible.”

She shook her head.

“Go put on some Christmas carols.”

I went into the living room and turned on the stereo. When it comes to Christmas, she likes things the old-fashioned way, so no playlists are allowed. I grabbed a CD, popped it into the tray, and hit play.

With the smooth sound of Johnny Mathis filling the air, we moved around each other in a familiar dance, the way we have since I was tall enough to reach the counter.

While she seasoned the chicken with her usual blend of herbs, I assembled a small charcuterie board of prosciutto, salami, aged provolone, olives, and just enough effort to make it look like I knew what I was doing.

After Mom slid the chicken into the oven, she started layering the lasagna. I peeled and cubed the potatoes, dropped them into a pot of water, and set it on the stove. Most of the veggie prep was already done, so when I asked what she needed next, she handed off garlic bread duty.

I mixed up a batch of garlic butter, sliced the Italian loaf, and slathered it on before setting the bread aside to bake. By then, Mom was elbow-deep in ground meat, spices, parmesan, and eggs, that she’d magically transform into meatballs.

“You know only three of us are eating, right?”

She shrugged.

“We’ll have leftovers for the week.”

When the doorbell rang, I wiped my hands on a towel and opened the door to Hope, holding a bottle of wine, a small potted rosemary tree decorated with tiny red bows, and two gift bags dangling from her fingers.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, stepping inside. “Mmm, it smells incredible in here.”

She wore a deep red sweater that hugged her curves, paired with black leggings and ankle boots. Her hair was half-pulled up with a gold clip, the rest falling in loose waves around her shoulders.

“Merry Christmas. You look beautiful.”

I gave her a quick kiss and she handed me the wine and plant.

“Thank you.” She set the bags underneath the tree next to the other presents. “Mmm, it smells incredible in here.”

Mom peeked around the kitchen door.

“Hope! I’m so glad you can join us.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” she said as we walked into the kitchen.

We hung out in the kitchen, chatting as we put together the rest of dinner. Hope took charge of setting the table, sneaking bites here and there between her tasks. The easy back-and-forth made the time fly, and before we knew it, the food was ready.

Dinner was perfect—rich, comforting, and way too much.

We passed dishes, poured wine, and laughed about nothing in particular.

Once we were all stuffed, we carried the dirty plates into the kitchen and set them in the sink.

I told Mom I’d do the dishes, but instead of relaxing in the living room, she and Hope settled at the island.

I loaded the dishwasher, popped in a soap pod, and hit start before settling at the sink to hand-wash the bigger items. As I scrubbed a stubborn pan, I glanced over my shoulder to see them leaning in close over Hope’s phone.

Based on what they were saying, I figured she was sharing pictures of her parents on their cruise.

Having Hope here for the holiday doesn’t just feel right, it feels inevitable, like every choice I’d ever made has led me to this. This connection doesn’t feel temporary. It feels real and exactly where I need to be. And as bizarre as it sounds since we just met a month ago, I’m all in.

Hope

“I was so happy to hear you’re going to Leo’s wedding with Sam.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Sam’s teammates and their families are really wonderful people. I’m sure you’re going to have a great time getting to know them.” Liz chuckled. “And make sure you get Sam out on the dance floor. He’s an amazing dancer.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Sam set the last pot on the drying rack. He shut off the faucet and dried his hands on the towel hanging by the sink. A big smile spread across his face as he glanced my way.

“Just be sure to wear closed-toe shoes in case I step on your feet,” he teased.

I grinned back.

“Since we’re heading up north and it’s December, you can be sure my toes will be covered.”

Once the dishes were done, Liz declared it was time for presents.

We moved to the living room where the tree stood in the corner, its colored lights blinking softly.

Sam had told me that he and his mom don’t spend a lot on Christmas presents, they give meaningful gifts tailored to the person. I love that. It fits my vibe perfectly.

“Since you’re our guest, you get to open the first gift,” Liz said, handing me a box.

“Ooh, this is heavy.”

I removed the bow and set it aside, then carefully unwrapped the festive paper.

A set of scented candles and essential oils were nestled into a wooden keepsake box.

I opened one of the candles and breathed in deeply.

The sweet musky scent of clary sage mingled perfectly with a bright, zesty burst of orange.

“This smells amazing. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I got the box at an auction in Wilmington. I know you love repurposing items and I think it will be nice to store things in.”

“It’s perfect,” I said, running my hand along the weathered edge.

“You’re next, Sammy,” Liz said as she handed him a box.

Sam opened the box and peeled back the green tissue paper to reveal a trinket bowl and coaster set.

“I made them in a pottery class I took,” Liz said with a laugh. “They were supposed to be matching, but the bowl had other ideas.”

“They’re awesome. Thank you.”

Sam handed Liz three packages. The first one held a custom puzzle depicting a picture of the two of him after his first Major League start.

The next a personalized calendar filled with family photos and marked with all the important dates.

Liz was thrilled to see the Carolina Waves schedule listed as well.

And the third held a hand-sewn leather journal, its rich brown cover embossed with Liz’s initials.

Her eyes softened as she ran her fingers over it, clearly touched by the thought behind each gift.

I gave Sam his gift from me next.

He reached into the bag and pulled out the afghan I crocheted. I watched him run his fingertips over the soft, mingled colors—blue, yellow, gray, and white—representing his high school, college, and the Carolina Waves.

He looked up at me and asked, “Did you make this for me?”

“I did.”

“I love it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Before I could get too emotional over the fact that instead of setting it aside, he rested it on his lap, I handed Liz her gift.

I’d made her a tote bag from an upcycled denim jacket and floral fabric I found in a thrift store.

With the extra fabric, I was able to make her two matching eyeglass cases.

“This is lovely, Hope.” She slung it over her shoulder. “And so my style.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

When I opened Sam’s gift to me, I froze. Inside the small box was a delicate silver bracelet. Tiny compass points were spaced along the chain, each one echoing the design of the necklace I wear almost every day.

“Sam, it’s beautiful.” I whispered, brushing my fingers over the intricate metalwork. “Where did you get this? It matches my necklace perfectly.”

He gave me a small smile, then said, “I had it made.”

“You had this made?”

“I took a picture of your necklace to an artisan jeweler in Wilmington who does custom pieces. She sketched a few options, but this one felt the most like you.”

I turned the bracelet over in my hand, still stunned. The little compass charms glinted in the light, their details so precise they could’ve been plucked right off my necklace.

“It’s perfect,” I said, and I meant it.

Not just because it’s beautiful, but because it was him . Thoughtful. Steady. A little sentimental, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

I was still collecting myself when Liz stood.

“I’m going to go make coffee and bring in some desserts.”

“Do you want some help?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“No, you two sit. Relax.”

The twinkle in her eye made it clear that she was giving us a moment, and I was grateful for it.

“This is probably the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received,” I said and ran my fingers over my necklace. “Besides this.”

“I never asked about the story behind that necklace,” Sam said gently, his eyes on the pendant. “But I can tell it means a lot to you.”

“My grandmother gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday,” I said softly.

“We’d been living with her in Maryland for a year while my dad was deployed.

When he came back, we were moving again, this time to New York, and I was dreading it.

She knew how much I hated always being the new kid, always starting over.

She gave me this necklace and told me it was a symbol of stability and grounding.

That no matter where life took me, I could carry a strong sense of self with me.

It was her way of reminding me that I’d always have a place in the world, even if the address keeps changing. ”

His gaze softened as he said, “That’s more than beautiful, Hope. It’s like you carry your own anchor, no matter where life takes you.”

He gave a little “come here” gesture with his fingers, and I handed him the bracelet, then held out my arm. He took it carefully, wrapping the delicate chain around my wrist and fastening the clasp with a quiet focus that made my heart flutter.

Sam leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to my lips, sending a flutter straight to my heart.

If someone had told me at Thanksgiving that by Christmas I’d be falling head over heels for the town’s favorite son, I’d have laughed and called them crazy.

But there I was—heart racing, wrist adorned, and completely, utterly caught in the moment. Somehow, it all felt so right.