Page 3 of An Unexpected Christmas
“Come on,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair. “You used to be able to do this in your sleep.”
The cursor blinks like a heartbeat, steady and unyielding, as I stare at the screen. A title would be a start. Or a first line. Or even a coherent thought. But my mind feels as blank as the page.
I reach for the mug on the table, only to find it empty. Figures. Setting it down with more force than necessary, I shift my focus back to the screen, willing the words to come.
My editor’s last email still rings in my ears:“We understand you need time, Sam, but it’s been years. People are starting to forget your name.”
Forget my name. Right. Because my name used to mean something. Because once, I wrote stories that mattered. Stories that people read and talked about.
I close my eyes, trying to summon that part of myself. The part that knew how to turn feelings into words. But all that comes is silence. At what point do I accept that I’m not a writer anymore? That I haven’t written anything new for years. Four years, to be exact. Four years almost to the day was the catastrophe that left me single, friendless, and unable to write a damned thing.
Frankie
There’s no such thing as too much Christmas
My hand shakes a little as I carefully pipe frosting onto the last batch of cookies. My kitchen smells like a bakery exploded in the best way—sugar, butter, vanilla, and a hint of cinnamon. The countertops are a mess of mixing bowls, powdered sugar, and half-empty bottles of food coloring, but I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I’m in the zone.
I hum along toJingle Bell Rockplaying softly in the background, concentrating as I add tiny holly berries to a Christmas tree cookie. It’s a labor of love, but worth it. Every cookie in this batch has to be perfect: snowmen with jaunty scarves, reindeer with little red noses, and, of course, plenty of sparkling Christmas trees.
As I finish, I step back to admire my work. The icing glistens under the kitchen lights, and I can’t help but smile. Baking has always been my therapy, my way of channeling holiday excitement into something tangible. Mrs. Kline down the street said they’re the highlight of her year, so I’ll take that. Plus, these cookies are going to serve a very important purpose.
Operation Kill-Sam-With-Kindness.
My work week is finished, and my flight to Boston isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, so I have a little time to see if I can thaw his icy heart.
I peek out the window toward his house. His curtains are drawn tight, but that’s nothing new.
“Well,” I say to no one in particular, “even Scrooge got a second chance.”
Ten minutes later, I’m standing on Sam’s porch, the tin of cookies balanced precariously in one hand. The wind is sharper than I expected, whipping my hair around my face as I press the doorbell, which chimes faintly inside, followed by the sound of footsteps.
The door creaks open, and there he is in all his perpetually irritated glory. He’s wearing a dark sweater that clings to his tall frame, his hair as messy as ever. His hazel eyes narrow when they land on me, suspicion flashing across his face.
“Frankie,” he says, eyeing the festive tin in my hands. “What... is this?”
“Hi, neighbor,” I chirp with a grin. “I come bearing festive treats.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Christmas,” I say, trying not to stare and get lost in those green and brown orbs. Can eyes hypnotize you? Because his probably could. And, oh shit, I’m staring. Clearing mythroat, I look down at the cookies. “And you look like someone who could use a little cheer.”
Those magnificent brows furrow. “I don’t need cheer.”
“Everyone needs cheer,” I counter, pushing the box into his hands before he can protest. “It’s scientifically proven. Something about endorphins and sugar and, I don’t know, magic.”
Sam stares at the box like it’s a bomb about to go off. “I don’t eat cookies.”
My jaw unhinges at the blasphemy. “You don’t eat cookies? What kind of monster doesn’t eat cookies?”
“A disciplined one,” he replies dryly, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement—in his eyes.
“Come on,” I say, nudging him lightly with my elbow. “Just one. For the sake of science.”
He sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly as if this interaction has already drained his energy. “Fine. One.”
I watch with barely concealed delight as he opens the tin and picks up a snowman cookie. He examines it for a moment, like he’s trying to determine if it’s safe, then takes a cautious bite, teeth digging into the head before he chews.
“Well?” I ask.
