Chapter 1

Kiana

The first rule of owning a bookstore is that the coffee must be as strong as the literary heroines. The second is that the scent of old paper and new ink is a perfume all its own. I breathe it in now, a deep, satisfying lungful, as I slide a first edition of Their Eyes Were Watching God into its rightful place in the Classics section. The soft luminescence of the fairy lights I’ve draped over every available surface twinkles against the book’s worn spine, making the whole shop feel like a secret, magical grotto.

From behind the counter comes a sudden, delighted shriek that is pure, unadulterated toddler joy. I peek over a tower of bestsellers to see Noel, my son, my fifteen-month-old blizzard miracle, trying to shove a soft, fabric-covered block shaped like a star into a square hole. He is nothing if not an optimist.

“It’s a noble effort, my love,” I tell him, my voice soft in the silence of the shop. “But some things just aren’t meant to fit.”

A truth I’ve learned the hard way.

Noel abandons his geometric quandary and instead beams at me, a wide smile that shows off a chaotic collection of new teeth. And in his eyes—the same shade of deep, forest green as the pines outside—I see the ghost of Christmas past.

It’s been two years. Two years since a different blizzard trapped a handsome stranger in my store. A search-and-rescue pilot with a slow, easy smile and eyes that saw right through the carefully constructed walls I’d built around myself. One week. One perfect, snowed-in, impossible week that felt like the beginning of a chapter I’d been waiting my whole life to read. And then, reality came back, the storm broke, and he was gone. No note. No call. Just a hollow space in my bed and the lingering scent of pine and wind.

My fingers, acting on their own accord, find one of my locs and begin to twist it, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to break. It’s ridiculous to feel this pang of… something. Melancholy, maybe. I have Noel. He is the sun and the moon and all the stars in my sky. A gift I never expected and wouldn't trade for a thousand happily-ever-afters. Still. On quiet mornings like this, with the festive strains of a muted carol drifting from the radio, I can’t help but wonder. I can’t help but ache for the connection I thought we’d had.

“Looks like it’s going to be a white Christmas, folks,” the radio announcer chirps, his voice jarring me from my thoughts. “A very, very white Christmas. We’re upgrading this evening’s storm watch to a full-blown blizzard warning for the Aspen Ridge area. Forecasters are calling this one historic, people, so hunker down, stay safe, and don’t travel unless you absolutely have to.”

Well, shit.

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and look out the large front window of "The Final Chapter." The sky, a cheerful blue just an hour ago, is now the color of a bruised plum. Fat, heavy snowflakes have begun to fall, clinging to the branches of the aspens that line Main Street. It’s beautiful, but it’s the kind of beautiful that has teeth.

The landline on the counter trills, and I pick it up, tucking the receiver between my ear and shoulder. “The Final Chapter, where every story matters.”

“Even the one where a ridiculously independent bookstore owner gets herself snowed in without enough emergency chocolate?”

Ellie. Of course.

“I have three bars of the dark-roast espresso kind, so I think I’m covered,” I say, walking over to his play area and handing Noel the correct, square-shaped block. He rewards me with a raspberry. “What’s up?”

“Just heard the weather report. Wanted to make sure you and the nugget were okay. You need me to come over before the roads get bad?” Her loyalty is a fierce, wonderful thing.

“We’re fine, El. I’m about to start my storm prep. Got plenty of food and firewood. We’ll be cozy.” I glance at Noel, who is now happily chewing on the corner of the block. A sharp, protective knot tightens in my stomach. I’ve gotten us through the last fifteen months on our own; a blizzard is nothing.

“Okay, okay.” I can hear the sound of her fiddling with her keys. “Just… you know. It’s the two-year anniversary. Of the other blizzard.” She’s trying to be delicate, which is not her natural state. “Didn’t want you to be alone with your thoughts.”

“My thoughts and I are on excellent terms, thank you very much.” It’s a deflection, and we both know it.

“Uh-huh. So says the woman who quotes Jane Austen when she’s stressed. Has Noel’s mystery dad tried to get in touch? Any carrier pigeons with tiny little notes tied to their legs?”

“Nope. Radio silence, as per usual.” The words are lighter than I feel. For months, I checked my email, my phone, even the shop’s post box, hoping for… something. An explanation. An acknowledgment. Now, I just feel a dull, settled sort of disappointment. It was a whole short story. A very good, very memorable chapter that resulted in the world’s best epilogue, who is currently trying to pull all the board books off the bottom shelf.

“His loss,” Ellie says, her voice firm. “The man is an idiot. A handsome idiot with great genes, apparently, but an idiot nonetheless.”

I can’t help but smile. “Thanks, El.”

“Anytime. Now, go be the self-sufficient goddess you are and prepare for the apocalypse. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

We hang up, and the silence of the store settles around me again, now heavier than before. The snow is falling faster now, a thick, muffling curtain that is quickly erasing the world outside. Time to get to work.

I spend the next hour in a flurry of activity. I haul in more firewood from the covered porch out back, the cold air biting at my cheeks. I check the batteries in our flashlights and emergency radio. I bring the charming A-frame sign that reads “Come in and get lost in a good book” inside. In the small apartment upstairs, I make sure the pantry is stocked and pull out the extra blankets. All the while, Noel toddles after me, my little shadow.

With everything secured, I brew a fresh pot of coffee, the rich aroma a welcome comfort against the storm’s growing howl. I stand at the window, mug warming my hands, and watch the town of Aspen Ridge disappear under a blanket of white. It’s happening again. Two years later, almost to the day. Déjà vu is a funny thing. A trick of the mind, a glitch in the matrix. Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling you that you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

That’s when the little brass bell above the shop door chimes, a sharp, clear sound against the muffled roar of the wind.

A blast of frigid air and swirling snow rushes inside, carrying with it a tall, broad-shouldered figure who stamps the snow from his boots on the welcome mat. My breath catches, a sharp, painful little snag in my chest. Because even as a silhouette against the blinding white of the storm, I know him.

I would know him anywhere.