Page 1 of Holly Ever After

One

Holly

Oh, sweet baby Santa Claus, what have I done?

My car groans to a halt in front of a dilapidated cottage that, to put it mildly, has seen better days. Maybe even better decades. I shove the car’s door open and practically fall onto the frozen earth, my heels digging into what I hope is just mud and not a part of the town’s sewage system. If I needed a sign that I’ve officially hit rock bottom, this might be it.

But at least everything at rock bottom is mine.

I frown at the peeling paint, and the windows that look like they’re screaming, “Help me, for the love of God!” At least the walls are sturdy, and the roof is still intact. I can work with that.

My father and brother unloaded my furniture when it arrived yesterday, so at least I can set my ass down somewhere. I’ll somehow have to ignore everything else until I get started on cleaning tomorrow. This crumbling monument to bad life choices is my new home, and I’m going to make it work if it kills me.

It might actually kill me.

I drag my luggage out of the car, each wheel on my suitcase wailing like a cat in distress as it rolls over the uneven ground. “Come on, you. No complaining,” I mutter to it as if it can hear me. Maybe I’ve gone mad. Conversations with luggage tends to be a red flag.

I fumble for the cottage keys in my purse, dropping my phone in the process. It lands face down. Of course it does.

“Please don’t be cracked, please don’t be cracked.”

Thankfully, it’s still in one piece. Unlike me.

Finally, the door creaks open, and I’m hit by an odor that’s a mix between aged cheese and grandma’s attic. But at least my things are here. Silver linings and all that.

I cough, realizing that my extensive collection of scented candles is about to serve a greater purpose in life.

At least I’m home. Home is Pine Falls, the town with more trees than people and more gossip than the Internet. I unpack a couple of essentials—laptop, some clothes, and an emergency stash of chocolate. As I set up my little writing nook, I catch my reflection in the window.

And what a reflection it is—twenty-seven years old, a recently un-engaged romance novelist with a bad case of writer’s block.

I feel like a fraud writing books about happily ever afters with mind-blowing sex that only ever happen in a fictional world. How am I supposed to write another novel when any relationship I’ve ever been in has ended in heartbreak, and I haven’t had sex in so long I’ve practically regrown my virginity?

I grin at my reflection, deciding to find humor in the absurdity of it all. Fuck it. Why not? If I don’t smile, then I’ll cry.

Even if my life feels like a draft that needs major revisions, it’s still my story to write.

I should get cleaning first, but this writer is on a deadline. It’s my third to be exact because I missed two while my life was falling apart. I’m sure my agent and publisher are fit to kill me and drop me all at once. My last book, much to my surprise, hit number one, which means the pressure is piling on for the next.

I sink into my makeshift writing nook, cracking my knuckles like a pianist about to perform a concerto.

I can do this.

But when I open a new document on my laptop, my eyes dance between the blinking cursor and the clock ticking away, two relentless reminders that time waits for no writer.

Hell, who needs a deadline to feel the pressure? Life is doing an excellent job on its own.

I decide to take a break, telling myself it’s for inspiration and not because I’ve just typed and deleted the same sentence five times. I lean back and close my eyes as I try to massage the headache beginning to bloom.

My phone lights up with a message from my ex-fiancé, Adam.

Adam: Can we talk?

I hit delete, my finger pressing down a little too hard on the screen as if trying to erase him from my life. If only it were that easy.

I take a steadying breath when a pounding at the door startles me. This isn’t a soft, neighborly knock; it’s a drumroll, a forewarning of the storm about to engulf my new sanctuary.

With a sigh, I close my laptop and brace myself for impact. Swinging the door open, I’m instantly smothered in a floral-scented cloud of chaos. Mom barrels through the doorway like a Tasmanian devil in designer heels.

---