Page 29 of Daddy's Little Christmas

The cold hit harder once I stepped out of Holly & Pine.

For a moment I just stood there on the sidewalk, breath puffing in a pale cloud, fingers swiping a single stupid tear from my cheek.

Whatever he’d meant byit's not a big deal—just kindness, probably—it had knocked something loose inside me. My chest felt tight and hot, like somebody had cracked a window in a room that had been shut up for years and all the stale air didn’t know where to go.

I stared down the street toward the inn.

I could picture exactly what waited there: the soft quilt, the little heater humming in the corner, my laptop glowing on the desk. I could go back, climb under the covers, scroll through work emails and pretend today had been normal.

I’d done that version of my life for years—go home, shut down, tuck everything inconvenient into a corner no one ever saw. It was safe. It was lonely. It was familiar.

Behind me, the bell over Holly & Pine’s door chimed as someone else went in. Warm air and the faint smell of pine spilled out for a second before the door settled closed again.

The sound tugged at me.

Graeme hadn’t yelled when I dropped the ornament. He hadn’t sighed or rolled his eyes or asked what was wrong with me. He’d cupped my cheek, thumb warm against skin that still remembered it, and told me I had nothing to be ashamed of.

Breathe with me. I’ve got you.

No one had ever said that to me so plainly.

I took a few steps toward the inn, boots crunching in the thin layer of snow on the sidewalk. Then I stopped.

Running away from feelings hadn’t really worked out for me so far. Different cities, different apartments, different “fresh starts”—same ache.

I turned around and went back to the shop.

The bell chimed softly as I slipped inside again. The warmth hit first, then the smell—pine, a hint of cinnamon, beeswax candles. It was starting to feel familiar, in that way places do when they’ve already seen you at less than your best.

Graeme was by the front counter, adjusting a small wreath stand. When he looked up and saw me, his whole face eased in this quiet, genuine way that made my throat feel strange.

“You’re back,” he said.

“Yeah.” My voice came out a little rough. I cleared it. “Didn’t, uh… didn’t feel like going back to the inn yet.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said, like that was the most natural response in the world. No questions I wasn’t ready to answer, no fuss. “You’re not interrupting anything important. Just wrestling ribbons.”

A little laugh escaped me. “You look pretty in control of the ribbons from where I’m standing.”

He huffed. “Don’t tell Mae that. She swears I’d lose my head in December if she didn’t remind me where I put it.”

That pulled a real smile out of me, small but there.

“I can help, if you want,” I offered. “I mean—I’m not great with fragile things right now, apparently, but… strings, tags, that kind of stuff?”

“Perfect,” he said immediately. “I’ve got a whole tray of ornaments that need hooks and not a lot of hands. Come on.”

He led me toward the big front window. On a low table, a wooden tray held a jumble of hooks and a box of sturdy wooden stars and hearts—clearly not made of glass.

“These are volunteer-proof,” he said, reading my glance. “Harder to break.”

Relief loosened something in my shoulders. “Good. I’d hate to become a local legend that fast.”

“Oh, they’d love you for it,” he said dryly. “But we’ll save your debut for something less stressful.”

I sank into the chair by the table and started slipping hooks through the little metal loops. The work was simple and rhythmic; my brain liked that. The light from the window fell over my hands, picking out the brushstrokes on each ornament.

Outside, the snow had softened into lazy flurries. Every so often, someone walked past—hat pulled low, scarf pulled high. I watched them through the glass the way I used to watch people from apartment windows in Chicago, except this felt… different. Quieter. Like the town wasn’t rushing anywhere in particular.