Page 18 of Love in a Christmas Storm
Carlos felt the weight of her words settle in his chest like snow on cedar. Heavy and beautiful. He thought of Lettie. Of the way she’d stared at the mug of hot chocolate he'd made her, like it might betray her. Of the way she’d melted, just a little, at the sound of jingle bells. Of the way she was searching for something real beneath all the glitter.
She wasn’t wrong to ask questions. But maybe… maybe the answers weren’t so simple.
“I think people would understand,” he said quietly, “if they knew the whole story.”
Mrs. White smiled again—smaller this time but softer. “Maybe. Or maybe they’d just find something else to be suspicious about. That’s the thing about joy, Carlos. People don’t trust it unless they can see the strings. And even then, they tug until something unravels.”
Lettie was always tugging. Always testing. As if joy was a trap, not a gift. As if happiness couldn’t be trusted unless it came apart in her hands.
What had she seen in him that made her pull back?
What string had she found and decided was too frayed to hold?
He’d thought last night meant something. The way she leaned into him. The way their breaths had synced, soft and slow like carols humming under the firelight. For a second—for a breath—it had felt like more.
But this morning, she’d left like it meant nothing. She was always looking for the fault line. The first crack. The moment it would all fall apart.
What had she seen in him that told her they would?
And how could he show her that they wouldn’t?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lettie hovered her finger over the touchpad of her laptop. The open draft of her article blinked back at her. She’d written it in a rush of clarity, full of facts and quotes and all the quiet truths no one else seemed brave enough to say.
It was good journalism. It was balanced. It was fair. It would also unravel everything. The Honor Valley Holiday Trail, the fundraising pipeline, the not-so-secret Mistletoe Mafia.
If she submitted this piece, she knew exactly what would happen. Whispers would turn to headlines. Mrs. White would be ousted. The town would reel. The Holiday Trail would crumble. And Carlos… would he be disappointed in her? Would her parents?
Lettie swallowed hard, dragging the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She hadn’t slept much since leaving the cabin. Not without the weight of Carlos’ arm at her waist. Not without the soft cadence of his voice murmuring Christmas trivia or cocoa ingredients like they were bedtime stories.
She’d tried hot chocolate three nights in a row. None of it tasted right. None of it tasted like his.
With a sigh, she flipped to another tab and pulled upNoel Magazine’shome page. She hadn’t meant to check it. Butcuriosity itched like a pine needle in her sock. She couldn’t help but wonder: What had Carlos written? Had he already spun the Honor Valley story into some sugar-frosted miracle?
The site loaded. Her breath caught when she saw the headline.
The Noel in All of Us, by Carlos Nowell.
The header image wasn’t the bustling Christmas market or Mrs. White’s house decked in lights. It was a grainy old photo of her family standing in front of the old offices of the magazine. The faded signage. Her parents, arms around each other, laughing in front of the window. A little girl in red mittens with flour smudged on her cheeks, stood between them.
Lettie scrolled past the photo to the beginning of the article.
I came to Honor Valley expecting snow, twinkle lights, and strong opinions about candy cane placement. I found all that—and more. I also found her.
Lettie pressed a hand to her chest.
Carletta Noel wasn’t the warm welcome I’d expected. She asked hard questions. She saw through glossy smiles. And she didn’t care how many people called me Mr. Christmas behind my back.
To be honest, I thought she’d come to town to tear everything down.
But that wasn’t it.
Her vision blurred. She wiped at her eyes and kept reading.
What she did—what she does—is look for what’s real. She pulls at the ribbon, peeks behind the wrapping paper, and gets to the heart of what matters. And sometimes, whenyou’ve been caught up in sparkle and spectacle, you need someone to remind you why we wrap things up in the first place.
Lettie’s breath hitched. Her fingers trembled against the keys. She kept reading.
