1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

MADDIE

H ow to break your life in three easy steps:

Fall in love with your best friend and find out it’s unrequited.

After leaving a store, get into the wrong car and nearly be arrested.

Accidentally send your boss another client’s content . . . that involves kissing.

My sisters would say I’m being melodramatic. But can you blame me? This series of unfortunate events has me on the couch, surrounded by cartons of takeout and tissues. But the real travesty is I can’t bring myself to decorate for Christmas.

If you know me, this is a problem of the highest magnitude. Of the four of us Tinsel girls—yes, like the shiny metallic strands that decorate Christmas that used to be popular—turns out I’m not either.

Joshy Henderson and I met in kindergarten. I always believed he was the one. Having reached thirty, my sisters said to take my shot. Either that or they were tired of me pining. They said to go for it. So I did.

I professed my undying love for Joshy. After being swept into us taking things to “The next level” and spending Thanksgiving together, he texted on Black Friday, telling me he wanted to “Drop things down to the previous level.”

Ba dun, dun.

He let me down easy, but then I found out he’d been pining over his ex, Pammy, and hoped I’d help him get over her.

Pouting, I scroll social media and land on a photo taken two days ago of Joshy and Pammy back together, posing cozy at Night Lights.

It has lots of likes. Their names go nicely together, and I’m not a monster. I want him to be happy. But I thought it would be with me.

A cranky, crabby, irksome little thought that’s been pestering me pokes me in the chest.

Maybe I wanted my forever fellow to be Josh because he was the easy button. We know each other well—seven-day summer camp without a shower friend zone status. Our inside jokes are endless. Or was that we were so comfortable with each other the problem?

The worst part of it is that we haven’t been in touch since the text. I lost my best friend and the guy I thought I loved at the same time.

Pop Tart lets out a whiny bark.

“Alright, alright. I’ll get my dumb butt off the couch,” I say to my Chorkie. She’s part Chihuahua, part Yorkshire Terrier, and all adorable beastie.

She looks at me with the sincerest puppy dog eyes on the planet.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t wallow.”

She barks.

“Fine. I’ll face the facts. Josh and I grew apart. He lives in Connecticut. I’m here in northern New Hampshire. Our time spent together and phone call catchups had dwindled to a seasonal text, if that. And he was critical of my side hustle. All my hustles. He’s probably impressed by Pam’s fancy art director job.

Pop Tart’s third bark is sharper this time.

Giving her lots of pets and scratchies, I say, “I never understood why he didn’t like you. Who wouldn’t love my little Pop Tart pupper love muffin?”

When I open the door for Pop Tart’s potty break, she skitters to her spot under the holly bush. I take a breath of cool air.

Gran always said, “The best is yet to come.” I tell myself to hang on. To believe it’s true. There’s someone out there for me to love and be loved by.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a pretty great life. But with Anisette, Praline, and Tassie scattered all over the world and Gran three hours away at the Memorial Memory Care Center down in Concord, life in Liberty Lake can get a little lonely.

I love it, especially around Christmastime, but this year, everything has a bluish tint. I miss the days when Gran called us her “Sweeties.” She always had cookies and milk waiting after school. We’d spend lazy summer afternoons by the lake and enjoy the “Great Christmas Celebration,” as my grandfather called Gran’s holiday enthusiasm.

Pop Tart hurries inside and hops onto the couch. I bring her a treat before plopping down and reviewing my internet tabs.

I stew in my recent failures, wishing I could undo them.

My main gig is the “Covert Cookie,” my online business where I bake cookies for the dough-challenged or the time-limited. The kinds of people who want to be Betty Crocker, laboring all day in the kitchen baking deliciousness for their guests, friends, and family, but don’t want to risk an oven fire or lawsuit.

There’s also my virtual assistant side hustle. I have three clients. Bernice Heath, the famed Regency romance author. We’re on hiatus for December. Hewitt & Hershey—no relation to the chocolate, but I could go for some right now—operate an online dog accessory shop. I built their eCommerce site and help run the backend.

Pop Tart wears one of their tiny hoodies with her name embroidered on the back and looks rather adorable, if I do say so.

Last one. Worst one. Cavell Stone. Supreme Ruler of Grump Empire, Inc. Kidding. He’s the CEO of a gravel, rock—or was it a coal?—company. His virtual assistant requests are sporadic, but I’ve handled minutia like printer ink orders to larger projects like updating old files and digitizing them without so much as a please or thank you . In real life, we’d probably despise each other. In the virtual world, I tolerate him because I need the job.

He’s the one I accidentally sent Bernice’s kissing scene social media image to. He was not amused. Cavell is gruff and cold. I imagine he took the empty spot at Ebenezer Scrooge’s desk when The Christmas Carol character vacated it to have dinner with the Cratchits.

My laptop dings with a notification, but instead of a missive from Cavell, it’s an inquiry from the Covert Cookie contact page.

I read the message twice.

My first thought is, This is too good to be true .

My second thought is, How soon can I start?

This could be my big break and a chance to help contribute to Gran’s medical bills.

Before I get too excited about the request to supply cookies for an Annual Christmas Charity Bake & Bazaar Auction, I take a deep breath. Fingers shaking, I dial the number from the contact form.

Ten minutes later, I’ve agreed to supply Nicholls’ Candy Cane Corp with cookies, am packing my suitcase, and have my sisters on a group call as I explain that I’ll be in North Pole for Christmas this year.

I finally feel a little merry.

“You’re going to bake on site?” Tassie asks.

“In Alaska!” Praline exclaims.

“What about Pop Tart?” Anisette’s ex took their dog.

“To answer your rapid-fire questions, yes, the Covert Cookie is taking me to North Pole, Alaska, for a charity auction. Pop Tart was invited to come, too.” My voice gets small. I know they love me, but I’m the fa la la loser sister who hasn’t yet gotten her life together.

“I’m stuck in Little Rock, so I wouldn’t be able to see you anyway,” Ani says.

“I agreed to go on a ski trip to the Alps with Aldo for the holidays.” Praline doesn’t sound too pleased.

“Aren’t you fancy?” I can’t tell if Tassie is being sarcastic or not.

We’re all quiet for a moment, realizing the same thing at the same time. This means Gran will be alone. The adjacent thought about Gran, I’m certain we’re all having, makes my eyes damp. She no longer recognizes us and seldom acknowledges anyone, not even her caretakers.

“It’s not the same as it used to be,” Ani says softly.

We all agree, but we don’t stay glum for more than a moment because Gran was the queen of turning our frowns upside down. She wouldn’t want us to dwell on her memory loss.

By the time I get off the phone, I’m smiling at happier times in the Tinsel household when Gran was lively, and Gron—our grandad’s name was Ron—was still alive.

After packing and tidying up the house, I head to the airport for a red-eye flight. Once settled in with my seatbelt fastened and my tray table in the upright position, I realize I forgot my lucky apron. For once, maybe I won’t need it.

Before I power down my laptop, I receive a notification from Cavell.

Cavell: Arrange a meeting on 12/26 with AccuPlex. I’m not pleased with the projections for next year.

I could ignore it, but I opt to spread the Christmas cheer.

00M: Seasons greetings! I wish you and your family a blessed Christmas. Thank you for being such a supportive and caring boss.

Gram always said Kill ‘em with kindness . To which Gron replied , And Bury ‘em with a smile . He was a gravedigger and had a dark sense of humor.

Cavell: Arrange the appointment.

Well, bah humbug to you, too.