Page 17 of Love in a Christmas Storm
So she turned, finally, just enough to meet his eyes. Just enough to lie.
“No,” she said. Calm. Clean. Surgical. “You’re not reading it wrong. But you’re not reading the whole thing, either.”
Carlos blinked, confusion flickering like candlelight.
“This isn’t some Hallmark Christmas movie, Carlos,” she added. “It’s just a cabin in the woods and two people who got snowed in. That’s all.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. To fight for something. But she didn’t give him the chance. She opened the door. Cold air swept in like a correction. And still, she didn’t look back.
Because if she did…
She’d have to admit she was walking away from the first real thing she’d felt in years. And she wasn’t sure that she was strong enough to survive that truth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Carlos had always loved the library in December. There was something sacred about the way the twinkle lights danced across the rows of books, the way the pine garland wound around the banister like a secret waiting to be unraveled. Even the quiet here felt different. Less like silence, more like a carol holding its breath.
He found Mrs. White in the reading nook by the frosted window, knitting something red and impossibly small. A stocking, maybe. Or a mitten for an elf. She looked up as he approached, eyes sharp behind her glasses, but her smile softened the edges.
“Carlos Nowell,” she said, like he was a story she’d already read but wouldn’t mind revisiting. “What brings you here this fine frosty morning?”
Carlos took off his hat, smoothing his hair more out of habit than vanity. “I wanted to talk to you. About… the Mistletoe Mafia.”
Mrs. White’s knitting needles paused mid-click. Then she laughed—a short, surprised chuckle that morphed into something sly and pleased. “Mistletoe Mafia?” she repeated. “Well now, that’s got a ring to it.”
“Yeah, I appreciated the branding, too. What I don't appreciate is the underhandedness it entails.”
“Oh?” She resumed knitting, the rhythm returning like a heartbeat. “And what do you think I have to do with this mafia?”
He sat on the edge of the armchair across from her, fingers laced. “I hear you're the one in charge.”
“Who said that?” The needles never stopped clacking.
“You know I'm not going to reveal my sources. I'm here to ask is it true?”
Clack-clack went the needles. “Mm. You came here to ask if I'm strong-arming the town in the name of Christmas.”
“I came here because I want to understand.”
At that, she looked at him fully. Like she was measuring something behind his smile. Not his charm. His character.
“I started the Holiday Trail with four shops in an economic downturn where not many businesses thought they were going to make it into the new year. The idea was simple: get people to walk the length of the town instead of stopping at the corner café and turning back. We wanted to share the cheer. And we did.”
Carlos listened, hands still. Heart open.
“It worked,” she continued, “better than I ever dreamed. Business picked up. Spirits lifted. But it was more than sales. We saw something happen. People came out of their homes. They made cocoa for the neighbors. Knitted scarves for kids they didn’t know. Strangers became community.”
Carlos nodded, his chest tightening with something like recognition. That sounded like his kind of Christmas. The one he believed in.
“And then, the Trail started to turn a profit. A good one. Enough to put lights on every lamppost, sure, but also enough to buy coats for every child in the elementary school who needed one. Enough to stock the food pantry through March. Enoughto make sure the senior center had heating through the worst of January.”
Carlos swallowed. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t,” Mrs. White said. “They just see the snow globe sparkle. They don’t see the hand turning the crank.”
She paused then, fingers resting on the half-finished red yarn.
“I’m old, Carlos. I won’t be around forever. And I’ve made some mistakes. I know that. I’ve pushed too hard, snapped at volunteers, made demands. But it’s not because I want power. It’s because I want this to last. I want someone to care as much as I do. To carry it forward. Not for the glory but for the good.”
