Chapter 1

Helen

The air inside Snowfall Lodge smells like my grandfather’s workshop, if he’d ever bothered to bake gingerbread in it. It’s a dizzying, wonderful combination of fresh-cut pine, woodsmoke, and warm spices that settles right into my bones. For a moment, I just stand in the grand entryway, letting the warmth chase the North Carolina chill from my cheeks. Massive timber beams crisscross the vaulted ceiling, and a Christmas tree that looks like it was stolen from a city square glitters with a thousand white lights. It’s a rustic, fairy-tale fantasy, and I feel ridiculously out of place in my favorite worn jeans and practical boots.

I clutch the handle of my carrying case, the smooth, oiled leather a familiar comfort against my palm. This is it. The "Toy of the Year" finals. My little company, Calvin’s Creations, is up against giants. Behemoths. Specifically, one plastic-peddling, soul-sucking behemoth in particular. My stomach does a nervous little flip, a fizzy agitation that I try to squash with a deep, pine-scented breath. It’s fine. I’m fine. I deserve to be here.

"Helen Calvin! My little woodland artisan! You made it!"

The voice is as bright and crackling as the fire roaring in the gigantic stone hearth nearby. I turn to see Agatha Frost, the competition’s host and a legitimate icon in the toy world, bustling toward me. She’s a whirlwind of crimson cashmere and shocking white hair, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous energy that hasn't faded in fifty years of designing toys that actually matter.

"Ms. Frost, it's an honor," I say, and somehow the words feel small and inadequate. This is the woman who designed the original "Wonder Blocks," the toy that basically taught me the fundamentals of balance and gravity.

"Oh, nonsense, dear. Call me Agatha." She pats my arm, her touch surprisingly firm. "I was so thrilled when your submission came through. That little wooden fox with the articulated joints? Genius. Absolutely soulful."

A warmth spreads through my chest, quiet and settling. Soulful. That’s the highest compliment I could ever receive. "Thank you. He was my grandfather's last design. I just... finished him."

"A legacy," she says, her smile softening. "That’s what this industry has lost. Everyone’s chasing trends and licensed characters. They forget that the best toy is a piece of a story." She gestures toward the main hall, where the other finalists are setting up their displays. "Go on, find your spot. I can’t wait to see what else you’ve brought."

Her encouragement is the push I need. I find my designated alcove, a cozy space next to a window looking out on a world that’s quickly disappearing into a swirl of thick, heavy snow. I unlatch my case and begin to set up my world in miniature.

My hands know this work. They find the familiar shapes in the dark velvet lining without me even looking. First, the family of nesting owls, each carved from a single piece of maple, their surfaces sanded so smooth they feel like river stones. I run my thumb over the largest one, feeling the subtle grain, the invisible seam where the two halves meet. My grandfather taught me that a toy should feel good in your hands long before a child ever decides what to do with it.

Next come the balancing acrobats, their limbs interlocking in a dozen cheerful, gravity-defying combinations. Then the pull-along bear, his wooden wheels designed to make a gentle, rumbling clack against a hardwood floor. This is my comfort zone. The scent of linseed oil on my hands, the heft of solid birch, the quiet satisfaction of a well-made thing. It grounds me, pulling me out of my head and back into the tangible world I understand. I tuck my pencil—always a Blackwing 602, for its perfect softness—into the twists piled on top of my head and stand back to admire my small army of wooden wonders. They look good. They look like they belong.

Which is when I see him.

He’s standing across the great hall, near the bar, looking like a wolf who has accidentally wandered into a petting zoo. Quillan Waylon. In the flesh. He’s talking to one of the judges, his posture radiating an easy confidence that I know, from personal experience, is carefully manufactured. His suit is a sharp, offensive gray that probably cost more than my belt sander, a stark slash of corporate precision against the lodge's warm, rustic wood.

The air in my lungs seems to thin out. Suddenly, the scent of gingerbread is sharp and cloying, and the crackle of the fire sounds like mocking laughter. Chicago. The memory hits me not as a thought, but as a feeling—the hot flush of humiliation under the fluorescent lights of the convention center, the condescending tilt of his smile as he talked about "leveraging brand synergy" while gesturing at my hand-carved creations. He’d dismantled my entire philosophy in front of a crowd with the slick, detached efficiency of a surgeon, and I’d… well, I’d told him his best-selling toy looked like it had been vomited out by a unicorn with a plastics addiction. It wasn't my finest moment.

He's even more infuriatingly handsome than I remember. Strong jaw, hair the color of dark honey that’s a little too long to be strictly corporate, and eyes that are a startling, piercing blue. The kind of blue that seems to see right through you, assess your market value, and find it wanting. My hands find the rough edge of the wooden table, my fingers tracing the grain, trying to anchor myself. He is everything I’m against. A focus-grouped, mass-produced, soulless profit margin in a bespoke suit.

As if he can feel the sheer force of my animosity from fifty feet away, he excuses himself from the judge. He turns. And his eyes—those laser-beam, ROI-calculating eyes—land directly on me.

There’s no flicker of recognition. No moment of searching. Just immediate, direct, and unnerving acknowledgment. He knows exactly who I am.

My breath catches, a stupid little hitch in my throat. I should look away, busy myself with my display, pretend I haven't noticed him. It would be the professional, mature thing to do.

But I can't. I'm pinned by his gaze, by the unreadable expression on his face.

And then he starts walking.

Not meandering. He moves with a sharp, deliberate purpose, cutting a straight line through the festive chatter of the room. Every step is precise, measured, bringing the walking embodiment of my professional and philosophical nemesis directly toward me. My little alcove suddenly feels less like a cozy nook and more like a cage. My fingers tighten on the edge of the table, the wood biting into my skin. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t scowl. His expression is a blank slate of corporate neutrality, and it’s the most dangerous I’ve ever seen.