1. Milo

ONE

MILO

Not that anyone asked, but if I were to rank my favorite hours, then mid-March noon would be high on the list, when clear, bright sunshine promised the real start of spring and when you could sit on your front lawn and enjoy a cup of something sweet. Higher still, I would put the golden hour of late August. The first breath of fresh air would remind you that the sweltering heat couldn’t last forever. But the best—the very best—hour was at half past six in the morning in early December.

The sky was still dark, but the clouds were soon catching the first rays of sunlight high above the town. On some days, the sky was clear, the infinity of scattered stars impossibly bright, and the few whisps of clouds would look purple against the indigo horizon. On other days, snowflakes replaced the stars, glimmering in the orange glow of streetlamps in Santa’s Village.

I yawned and pulled the blanket closer around my shoulders. The dancing steam rose from my snowman-shaped mug, spreading the aroma of coffee and cinnamon throughout my little apartment.

Only one lamp was on in here, leaving the window mostly transparent. In it, I could see the faint reflection of my huddled figure. I didn’t want to imagine what I would look like to a wandering passerby who had the misfortune to be out this early and glance at my window. My unruly curls poked in all directions, and the blanket around my torso made my body look like a small mountain of fabric with a sleepy head perched on top.

A laugh bubbled inside me, tugging up the corners of my mouth, and I shook the image out of my head.

As I slowly emptied my snowman mug, the night faded from the sky. I didn’t need to look at the time to know I was running out of it. Shedding off the blanket, I moved quickly through my studio to clean it up and get dressed. Swapping my striped pajamas for the uniform was the worst part, but it only took a minute, and there was no point in turning on the heater for that. Not when the shop had to use power all day.

“Come on, come on, come on,” I whispered as I rubbed my hands for warmth. This wasn’t how I’d imagined my first winter back in Christmas Falls, but it still beat doing nothing. I glanced at the mirror in the small bathroom. My fitted cream shirt was tucked into my comfortable black trousers, sleeves rolled to my elbows, and awaiting the apron in the kitchen. Putting on a pair of sturdy canvas shoes that would protect me from slipping in the kitchen, I felt ready to face the day.

The shop, which occupied most of the building’s floor plan, was still dark, lit gently by the streetlamps and the hints of morning sunlight brightening the cloud-laden sky. The silence was near absolute, aside from the humming of the equipment in the kitchen.

Before anything else, I fired up the heating because my breath was misty in the cold air of the shop.

I turned on the lights, giving my little story all the cozy vibes I’d been daydreaming about for years. The Edison light bulbs made such a huge difference when paired with the dark wooden surfaces on the interior. Cracking my knuckles, I picked up a cleaning cloth and a disinfectant to clean up the surfaces all the way from the front doorknob to the cash register on the far end. The shop was tucked into a small building with only one tiny room on the side for living, and the kitchen in the back for making my products, together with the inventory, took up half the space I had. The storefront was conveniently cluttered with several wooden tables and chairs. Some held heaps of fresh products, while others were meant for customers to sit down and enjoy all I could offer them. Not that I had too many customers lining at my door. Not everything could be exactly as I’d imagined, right?

The air was warm at last by the time I went into the kitchen. I wiped the stainless steel surfaces, then hurried to restock cocoa, sugar, cream, and flavoring ingredients. Deep in work, I heard myself humming the opening tune of “The Little Drummer Boy”; then, I put a stop to it before the earworm took hold of me.

Nothing in the world felt as good as heating that first block of chocolate at the crack of dawn.

Okay, maybe a few things felt better, but I didn’t exactly have time to procure them. Or an opportunity. Chocolate it is , I told myself with satisfaction. The really good thing about chocolate was that it never got your hopes up over the course of an evening only to leave before breakfast and never reply to your messages, making you wonder what the hell you’d done wrong and how you hadn’t realized that you had been doing it.

As the chocolate melted smoothly in the double boiler, the rich, sweet aroma filled the kitchen, wrapping around me like a warm hug. I took a moment to savor it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers as I stirred. Once the chocolate was perfectly tempered, I grabbed my favorite molds—each shaped like tiny Christmas trees, snowflakes, and ornaments. I set them on the counter, my heart quickening at the thought of creating something special.

With a steady hand, I poured the velvety chocolate into the molds, filling them just right before gently tapping each to release any air bubbles. As I worked, I imagined the excitement on my hypothetical customers’ faces when they discovered these delightful bonbons—each a small, edible piece of magic. After letting them set, I filled them with luscious ganache infused with seasonal flavors like peppermint, orange, and cinnamon, each bite a little surprise wrapped in chocolate.

“And now, we wait,” I said softly to the treats on the countertop, turning my attention to other products.

When the clock struck nine, I lifted my head and stretched my arms and back. It was crazy how quickly time passed when I worked.

I unlocked the front door and turned the door sign around to let the passersby know we were officially in business. I wondered what else to do to attract attention, but my lack of talent in that area was astounding. Maybe they’ll come when the festival gets going , I told myself, knowing well that the festival was already happening and that the streets of Christmas Falls were flooded with returning natives and countless tourists. People flocked to this town either to experience the festive spirit or to rediscover the magic of Christmas they’d lost somewhere along the way. Both kinds got precisely what they wanted.

Christmas Falls was a quaint town that had nearly been wiped out in the transition to the modern world. Had it not been for the imagination of its residents and their love of artisanal crafts, Christmas Falls never would have survived, let alone thrived. As things stood now, the tourism from the winter holidays fueled the town’s success. I’d hoped for a slice of that on my return this summer. I’d hoped to see my investment show signs of paying off with the seasonal tourism boom.

Give it time , Dad had told me. You’re a hard worker, Milo, and a talented craftsman. Give it time . But I wasn’t sure how much more time I could give it. And because I could provide answers to none of these questions, I put it out of my mind.

As if sent by my guardian angel, James Willoughby walked into the shop half an hour later. The bell above the door alerted me while I was crouching behind the counter and making sure I had enough packaging materials for the inevitable run on my store once every town visitor heard of my chocolates.

“Good morning,” I singsonged as the wood-and-glass door shut behind him with a little clang.

“You’re rather cheerful,” James said in a flat tone.

“Always,” I said. “Unlike some in here.”

James let out a snort. “It’s too early to be happy about anything, Milo.”

“I’d love to see you say that in front of Ezra,” I said.

James’ eyes widened a little with concern and mischief, two conflicting expressions that somehow made perfect sense. Whereas James hid his jolliness deep beneath his surface, his boyfriend, Ezra, wore it on his sleeve.

“What can I get you?” I asked, half chuckling at James’ change in expression.

“Er, I should have written it down,” James admitted, scratching his head.

“Is it for Ezra?” I asked, unable to hide the bubbling laughter. There was something cute about the way James struggled when he clearly wanted to do well. Once upon a time, he had been a corporate bigshot in New York, but last year’s visit to Christmas Falls reminded him of where he belonged. That and the fact that Ezra Thorne was a force of nature that swept James off his feet with his Christmas cheer. Together, they’d saved Nicholas Willoughby’s toy store—to be perfectly fair, they had basically saved it from James and his boss—and continued the long tradition of being the one true Santa’s home in Christmas Falls.

“You know it,” James said hopefully.

“I got you covered,” I said with a wink. Ezra loved the white chocolate pralines with coconut filling. He was my biggest customer.

I put together a box and ran it through the cash register.

“Keep the change,” James said, sliding a bill across the counter. “It’s for saving my skin.”

I thanked him, then pushed over a small bag of individually wrapped bonbons. “And this is for Nick and Marigold.”

James eyed me. “You know, you don’t need to give your work away every time.”

I met his look with playful defiance. “Ah, but I want to.”

James hesitated, then lifted the little bag of treats. “Fine. But only because Marigold is going to love you forever because of it. Thanks.”

I watched James’ back as he walked out of the store with my chocolates. Marigold ran a trinket shop near Nicholas’ toy store. The two town elders were fierce competitors but also the living, breathing proof that it was never too late to fall in love.

I made myself sigh as I thought about it. Nicholas and Marigold had unintentionally driven each other’s businesses up by bickering publicly, then began dating in secret in their sunset years, especially after James and Ezra took over most of the work in Santa’s Workshop, giving Nicholas the free time he deserved. Not that the old Santa would ever give up on a chance to make a child’s day. Almost every time I stopped by, Nicholas was in his rocking chair, carving wooden toys like he was still an eager apprentice.

The day slowed down significantly after James’ visit. No matter how much I manifested, I couldn’t magic another customer through the door. One woman stood at the large window, watching the display of sweets and goodies for so long that I was sure she would buy my entire inventory, but she received a phone call that distracted her for long enough to forget all about my chocolates. An older gentleman walked in around noon, but he needed help finding the White Elephant down the street and wasn’t allowed to eat sweet food, politely refusing to give them a taste test.

I wondered if I was doing something wrong. The thought that I was simply offering bad products made me lose my appetite over lunch.

Maybe I had just dreamed it all up way too big. Maybe I’d let the fantasy go too far.

As the end of the day neared, streetlamps lit again, and snow lightly dusted from the overcast sky. Marigold Fairchild walked into my shop as I was closing.

“Darling,” she said in a low and hurried tone. “What a marvel you are.”

“You got the chocolates, Ms. Fairchild?” I asked cheekily.

She smacked her lips. “I don’t know how you do it. I simply don’t know.”

“Secrets of the trade,” I said, touching the side of my nose conspiratorially.

“Do you know, there was one with menthol that was positively divine,” Marigold said as he neared the counter. She wore many of the trinkets of her own making on her fingers, wrists, and around her neck. Wooden beads, polished stones, and various metalworks drew my attention to her products.

Was there a way I could wear a chocolate hat in town to drive my business out of this crisis?

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ve been testing a new recipe,” I said, stifling the giddiness that rose in me whenever someone expressed genuine interest in my craft.

“Do tell,” Marigold said, leaning against the counter and looking at me expectantly.

“Well,” I started, feeling a thrill at the chance to explain, “it’s all about balance. I wanted to create something refreshing but not too overpowering. So, I infused the filling with menthol crystals—just a tiny amount to get that cooling sensation without it tasting medicinal. The real trick is blending it with white chocolate ganache. The sweetness of the white chocolate mellows out the sharpness of the menthol, creating this smooth, cool burst when you bite into it.”

Marigold’s eyes widened in delight as I continued.

“Then, I coat the whole thing in a thin layer of dark chocolate to give it a rich, slightly bitter contrast. The combination makes it feel like you’re biting into a frosty winter breeze, but it melts into warmth on your tongue. Perfect for the season, right?”

Marigold clapped her hands. “Darling, that sounds positively enchanting!”

“I’m glad someone likes it,” I said, finding a couple of them in a sampling bowl and sliding them on the counter between us. “Want one?”

Marigold’s eyes glimmered mischievously. “I really shouldn’t,” she said mock scoldingly. “Oh, what the devil. No one needs to know.” And with an expression that lacked any hint of guilt, Marigold unwrapped one bonbon and popped it into her mouth.

I did the same, letting the flavor take me back to my childhood in Christmas Falls. It opened a flood of memories from the first sweet treat I remembered to the taste of fresh snow we really shouldn’t have put into our mouths. It brought back the aroma of cold air biting your nostrils when you’ve been building that snow fortress for way too long, and your fingers were becoming numb, but you just wouldn’t give it up. I remembered the snowball fights and red cheeks and misty breaths from those days. I remembered us building the biggest snowman the town had ever seen, only to have it topple almost squarely onto our heads.

It was strange how a single bite could make me so nostalgic for a time I could never revisit.

“We’re all so lucky to have you back, Milo,” Marigold said sagely. “So many people are returning. Young people, too. And wouldn’t you know it? I ran into your old friend this morning.”

“Kody?” I asked. “Is his wedding looking any better?” I picked up a cleaning cloth to wipe the counter. Kody was a good friend, both since our childhood in Christmas Falls and because he understood the woes of running a business in this town. The White Elephant thrived, unlike Jingle Bites, and my friend had his plate full with a wedding that just rattled me.

Marigold shot me a dubious look and forced away a sneaky smile. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” she said. “But I meant the Underwood boy.”

The cloth slipped from my fingers. Breath hitched in my throat, and I blinked. Forcing myself to act normal, I cleared my throat. “Christian is back?”

Even saying his name brought back those same snowballs, fortresses, and snowmen. The mischief in his chocolate eyes and the redness in his pale cheeks burned so vividly before my eyes.

“He sure is, dear,” Marigold said. “Isn’t it wonderful how you all go away to see the world but always come back?”

“Um…my parents had to move for work,” I murmured distantly, my mind coming up blank while my heart raced. My focus sharpened again, and I looked at Marigold. “I never would have left on my own.”

She gave me a soft smile. “What matters is that you are here now.”

Christian Underwood was back in town. I never would have expected it. When I’d asked around, Kody said Christian had left years ago and hadn’t been back that often. Some big-city career had been keeping him busy. Of course, I was happy for him, and I didn’t ask about him too much. I didn’t want to be so obvious, especially because it was the quickest way to earn someone’s pity.

“Is he well?” I heard myself ask.

“I wouldn’t know, darling,” Marigold said in a low voice. “I saw him from afar. I wouldn’t have recognized him if it wasn’t for his mother. And when I told Nick, he said it was true. His grandson had seen Christian near the rink just the other night.”

I forced a small smile to my face. “I hope he has a nice time off.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Marigold said quietly. That was how all the juiciest gossip started. “But I don’t think he’ll be going back. A friend of a friend was over at their house a few weeks ago, and Joan Underwood was talking about Christian’s struggles with work. It looks like he’s back for a while.”

My heart gave a stupid lurch that shouldn’t have carried as much hope as it did. This didn’t mean anything other than that Christian’s life wasn’t as good as I would wish for him. That was all. The end. Nothing more.

“Don’t tell anyone I said so,” Marigold warned me. “I don’t care for gossip.”

“Of course,” I agreed, lifting a corner of my mouth into a small smile.

Marigold met my look with a glimmering one. “You cheeky thing.” She swatted at me with one hand, then said she needed to go. “But have more menthols ready tomorrow. Nick will make a big order, I believe.”

Relief washed over me, and I did my best to conceal it.

“And don’t be a stranger,” Marigold said. “Visit the stalls at the crafts fair, darling.”

“I’ll come around,” I promised.

As Marigold left, I locked the store and turned everything off. Slipping through the hallway to my studio, I couldn’t ignore these odd sensations in my body, feelings tugging my heart in so many directions. Christian…

We’d been best friends once upon a time. Had it not been for my parents’ work, I never would have left him. I would have spent every Christmas with him, like we had for years. I never would have stopped.

My blankets awaited me in the bed after I showered and put on clean pajamas. It was easy to get warm beneath them, but I struggled to fall asleep. It was elusive, like the happiness of my childhood and the feeling that anything at all was possible. I could see it on the horizon, but I just couldn’t come close enough to grab it.

Much later, sleep did take me, and the last thing I thought was that Christian was back in town.