Chapter 1

Hannah

The morning air carries the sharp bite of December, but I wrap my wool coat tighter and keep walking. Main Street stretches before me like a Christmas card come to life, each storefront dressed in its holiday finest. The garland I designed for Murphy's Cafe catches the early light, silver bells chiming softly as a breeze stirs the evergreen boughs.

"Morning, Hannah!" Mrs. Chen waves from behind the window of her flower shop, where my custom wreath arrangement creates a backdrop of deep burgundy and gold. "The arrangement is absolutely stunning. My customers can't stop talking about it."

I wave back, warmth spreading through my chest despite the cold. "Thanks, Mrs. Chen. I'm so glad you love it."

This is why I do what I do. Not for the competition or the acclaim, but for moments like these, when my work becomes part of someone else's joy. The butcher shop displays my rustic pine centerpieces in their window, and even the hardware store sports the whimsical snowflake garland I crafted from reclaimed wood and fairy lights.

But the warmth fades as my gaze drifts down the street to Winter Wonders. Even from here, I can see Wyatt's latest creation—an elaborate light display that transforms the Matthews' storefront into something that belongs in a damn fairy tale. The bastard has talent, I'll give him that. Too bad he's also an arrogant ass who thinks he owns this town's holiday spirit.

"Hannah, dear!"

I turn to find Eleanor Morrison approaching, her cane tapping against the sidewalk. At eighty-three, she's seen every Christmas display this town has produced for the better part of a century.

"Mrs. Morrison, how are you feeling today?"

"Oh, can't complain. Though I must say, your grandmother would be so proud of what you've done with the town square." Her eyes crinkle with genuine affection. "That tree lighting display last week? It's pure magic, sweetheart."

The compliment should make me happy, but instead it settles like a stone in my stomach. Would Grandma Rose really be proud? Or would she notice all the places where I fell short, all the details I rushed because I was too focused on outdoing Wyatt instead of honoring our family's true artistic vision?

"Thank you. That means everything coming from you."

She pats my arm before continuing down the street, but her words echo in my mind. Your grandmother would be so proud. The pressure sits heavy on my shoulders, a constant reminder that I'm not just decorating for myself. I'm carrying forward a legacy that spans three generations.

Last night blurs together with all the others: me hunched over my workshop table until three in the morning, surrounded by pine needles and wire, my fingers cramped from weaving garland after garland. The coffee pot had run dry hours before, but I kept working, driven by the nagging voice in my head that whispered not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.

I'd pulled up photos of Grandma Rose's work on my laptop, studying every detail of her 1987 Christmas display for the town hall. The way she'd layered textures, how she'd used light to create depth and shadow. It was art, not just decoration. And here I am, twenty-eight years old, still trying to measure up to a woman who's been gone for five years.

The sound of delighted squealing pulls me from my brooding. A group of kids has their faces pressed against the window of Evergreen Decor, their breath fogging the glass as they point excitedly at my latest creation.

"Look at the reindeer!" A little girl with pigtails bounces on her toes. "It's moving!"

"That's not a real reindeer, stupid," her older brother says, but even he can't hide his amazement. "It's just really good decorations."

I designed that window display to tell a story, a winter forest where mechanical woodland creatures move through the trees, triggered by motion sensors. It took me three weeks to perfect the engineering, and my bank account is still recovering from the cost of the materials.

"Excuse me." I approach the group, and several small faces turn toward me. "Would you like to see how it works?"

Their enthusiastic nods make my chest tight with something that feels dangerously close to tears. This is what matters. Not beating Wyatt Matthews and his flashy light shows, not desperately trying to live up to Grandma Rose's impossible standards, but creating wonder for people who still believe in magic. These kids see my work the way it's meant to be seen. As pure possibility.

I unlock the shop door with hands that tremble slightly from the cold, and gesture them inside. Their parents trail behind with those indulgent smiles that say they're humoring their children but secretly enjoying this as much as anyone. The familiar scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air as we all crowd into the warmth of Evergreen Decor.

For the next twenty minutes, I find myself in my element. I explain the intricate mechanics behind the window display, pulling back the curtain on the magic to show them the careful engineering underneath. I demonstrate how the motion sensors detect movement, how the tiny motors create the illusion of breathing in the mechanical deer, and how the LED lights are programmed to shift subtly like real firelight. Their parents ask thoughtful questions about the technology, while the kids pepper me with rapid-fire inquiries about everything from battery life to whether the reindeer have names.

"Can you teach me how to make one?" the little girl asks, her pigtails bobbing enthusiastically as she speaks. Her eyes are bright with the kind of ambition that reminds me of myself at that age, already plotting and planning.

"Maybe we can set up a workshop after the holidays," I tell her, crouching down to meet her at eye level. "Would you like that?"

Her grin could power the entire town's Christmas lights, and I make a mental note to actually follow through on that promise.

After they leave, I lock up again and head toward home. The Rivers family house sits on Elwood Street, a blue Victorian that's been in our family for four generations. The wraparound porch displays my latest personal project: an elaborate arrangement of evergreen swags punctuated by vintage ornaments that belonged to my great-grandmother.

I climb the front steps, each one creaking with familiar comfort. Through the window, I can see Mom in the kitchen, probably starting her afternoon baking marathon. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla drifts through the door before I even open it.

"That you, honey?" Mom calls without looking up from her mixing bowl.

"It's me." I hang my coat on the hook by the door, the same hook where I've hung winter coats since I was tall enough to reach it.

"How's the shop today?"

"Good. Mrs. Chen loves the flower shop arrangement, and I had some kids stop by to see the window display."

"That's wonderful." Mom finally looks up, flour dusting her dark hands. "Your father's in the workshop if you want to say hello. Mia's upstairs working on her thesis."

The workshop. Dad converted the old carriage house behind our property into a creative space when I was twelve, after it became clear that three generations of Rivers women needed more room to spread out their artistic endeavors. It's where Grandma Rose taught me to wire garland, where I learned the difference between Douglas fir and noble fir, where I discovered that creating beauty with my hands was the only thing that ever felt like home.

"I think I'll head back there," I tell Mom, already moving toward the back door.

"Dinner's at six," she calls after me.

The workshop smells like pine sap and wood stain, exactly the way it has for the past sixteen years. Dad looks up from the table saw as I enter, safety glasses pushed up on his forehead.

"Hey, sweetheart. How was your morning?"

"Good. Busy." I perch on the edge of his workbench, the same spot where I used to sit and watch him and Grandma Rose work side by side. "Just thinking about things."

"What kind of things?"

Dad has this way of asking questions that makes you want to spill everything. Maybe it's the patience in his voice, or the way he keeps working while he listens, never making you feel like you're interrupting something more important.

"About Grandma Rose. About whether I'm doing justice to what she built."

His hands still on the piece of wood he's sanding. "Your grandmother would be amazed by what you've accomplished, Hannah. The business has grown more in the past five years than it did in the ten years before that."

"But is it the right kind of growth? Am I honoring her vision, or am I just trying to prove something to—" I stop myself before I say Wyatt's name.

"To the Matthews family?" Dad's tone is gentle, but knowing.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Your grandmother and James Matthews were competitors, sure. But they were also friends. They pushed each other to be better." He sets down his sandpaper and turns to face me fully. "The rivalry you and Wyatt have... it's different. More personal."

More personal. That's putting it mildly. Especially considering Wyatt Matthews was the only man I ever wanted. But he was the one I could never have.