Category: Bonus Scenes from Snowball Falls

An exclusive extra scene featuring Cassie, James, and a very unexpected royal visit.

Ever wonder what happened after James decided to stay in Snowball Falls? Cassie is about to discover that dating a former runaway royal occasionally means serving tea to actual monarchs.

This bonus scene sits alongside Wish on the Winter Star.

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The chime of the brass bell over the door echoed through the quiet of Snowdrop Books. Cassie Bennett smoothed her palms against her thighs, the fabric of her skirt snagging on the dry skin of her thumbs.

She fixed her gaze on the hand-lettered sign she’d forgotten to remove from the front window. BLIND DATE WITH A BOOK. NO GHOSTS. PROBABLY. The word probably seemed to pulse in the morning light.

Behind her, the porcelain teacups rattled. James, still Leif to the rest of the world, but James when he caught her eye, shifted a stack of saucers on the round table she’d squeezed between the history section and the window.

“The shop looks charming, Cassie,” he said.

“The sign says probably, James.”

“My mother appreciates honesty.”

Cassie turned on her heel. “She does?”

James paused, his hand hovering over a silver spoon. “She tolerates it.”

A sleek black car crawled to a halt at the curb. The engine cut, leaving a heavy silence that felt thicker than the usual quiet. This floorboard had creaked under local authors, nervous brides, and the Friday night book club that once nearly rioted over a cliffhanger, but it had never supported a monarch before.

James stepped into her personal space. The scent of cedar and cold air clung to his sweater. “They’re not here to inspect you.”

“They are absolutely here to inspect me.”

“They’re here to meet you.”

“That is the same thing, only with more eye contact.”

The door swung open. A woman in a pale wool coat entered first. She moved with a grace that made the messy stacks of paperbacks on the counter look like a personal affront. Her eyes, the color of winter flint, swept the room. Behind her, a taller man followed, his silver hair catching the overhead lights. He wore a smile that reached the corners of his eyes. A younger woman trailed them, her navy coat dusted with melting flakes of snow and her cheeks flushed a bright, healthy pink.

James let out a long, slow breath. “That’s Astrid.”

“Your sister.”

“Your future sovereign, as long as we have a Nordreim passport,” he murmured. “Try not to mention the pie.”

“Leif,” the Queen said. Her voice was low, but carried to the back of the shop where the cat slept.

James straightened his spine. The movement looked reflexive, a ghost of a palace habit, before he forced his shoulders to drop. “Mother,” he said.

The Queen’s mouth twitched, a tiny adjustment that might have been a repressed smile.

Cassie forced her feet to move. “Your Maj…” The title felt strange in her mouth. “Welcome. To Snowdrop Books.”

The King beamed, his gaze wandering to the floor-to-ceiling shelves. “Books. Already an improvement over the morning’s briefing.”

Astrid bypassed her parents, her boots clicking on the wood as she reached for Cassie’s hand. Her grip felt firm and warm. “You’re Cassie. I’ve heard things. Specifically that you made my brother eat pastry with his bare hands in a public park.”

Cassie felt the heat climb her neck. “That was a singular lapse in judgment.”

“He talked about it for a month,” Astrid said, leaning in. “He’s been much less insufferable since.”

The Queen moved toward the window. She stopped in front of the display, her chin tilting as she read the sign. “Probably,” she repeated.

Cassie held her breath, waiting for a comment on professional decorum.

“Sensible,” the Queen said. She turned back, her expression unreadable. “One can never be entirely certain about ghosts in a building of this age.”

The King leaned over a row of brown-paper-wrapped volumes. “Explain this. How does one choose?”

“You read the clues on the wrapper,” Cassie said, her customer-service voice kicking in. “You pick based on the mood rather than the cover. You don’t know the title until you’ve already committed.”

The King’s eyes brightened. “It’s exactly like choosing a Cabinet.”

The Queen sighed.

“Tea,” Cassie blurted, gesturing toward the table. “I brewed tea. It’s just tea, though. I don’t have the… specific kind.”

“We prefer ‘just tea,’” Astrid said, pulling out a chair.

They settled into the mismatched seats. James hovered for a second, looking for a protocol that didn’t exist in a Snowball Falls bookshop, then sat beside Cassie. His knee brushed hers under the table.

The Queen lifted her cup. She took a single, delicate sip and nodded. “Chamomile.”

“Yes.”

“With a hint of lavender.”

Cassie went still. “Yes.”

“Good for the nerves,” the Queen said. Her eyes softened, the flint warmth turning to something like empathy.

Next to them, a sharp rip broke the silence. The King had already torn the paper off a book.

“Darling,” the Queen said mildly.

“It’s part of the experience, isn’t it?” The King held up a romance novel featuring a shirtless man on a horse. He grinned.

Astrid leaned toward Cassie. “He buys them at airports and hides them inside copies of The Economist.”

“I do no such thing,” the King said.

“You have a favorite trope,” Astrid countered.

Cassie let out a startled laugh. The sound seemed to break the last of the tension. James watched her, the tension in his jaw finally dissolving.

“I was worried,” he whispered.

“About?”

“This. The collision of my two worlds.”

Cassie looked at them, the King asking if the rolling ladder could support a man of his stature, the Queen examining a staff-pick recommendation for a gritty detective novel, and Astrid attempting to win over the shop cat.

“They’re lovely, James.”

“They are terrifying,” he corrected.

“We can hear you, Leif,” the Queen said without looking up from the shelf.

Cassie pressed her hand over her mouth.

The Queen set her tea down and walked over to Cassie. She stood close enough that Cassie could smell the faint scent of rosewater and expensive wool.

“For the record,” the Queen said, “we did not come here to reclaim him.”

Cassie’s heart gave a strange, erratic thump.

“We came,” the Queen continued, her gaze traveling over the scarred wooden counters and the sunlight dancing on the spines of the books, “to see where he chose to put down roots.”

The radiator hissed in the corner.

“It’s a small shop,” Cassie said.

“It is rooted,” the Queen corrected.

Astrid joined them, sliding her arm through James’. “I’ll handle the crown and the boring galas,” she said. “You keep the books.”

James looked at Cassie, his eyes bright. The bracing in his shoulders, the weight he’d carried since the day they met, seemed to vanish.

The King clapped his hands. “Now. The ladder. I’d like to live dangerously.”

“You will stay on the floor, George,” the Queen said firmly.

Cassie laughed again, the sound easy and full. James leaned in, his voice a warm breath against her ear. “You’re doing very well.”

“I told the Queen her tea was ‘just tea.’”

“She liked that best of all.”

The Queen returned to the table and picked up another wrapped book, weighing it in her hand. “Perhaps,” she said, “we all need an element of surprise.”

Snow continued to fall outside the window, blurring the edges of the world, but inside the shop, everything felt warm and cozy.

❄️❄️❄️

Want more Cassie and James?

Meet them properly in Wish on the Winter Star, a sweet, closed-door Snowball Falls royal romance.

[Read Wish on the Winter Star]

A little extra holiday magic (and a ruined penguin sweater) from Snowball Falls.

An undercover Santa, a suspicious cocoa urn and one thoroughly ruined penguin sweater make for an unexpectedly cosy moment between Marley and Vin.

This bonus scene sits alongside Mistletoe and Mobsters.

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Marley Winters had been growing more and more suspicious of the cocoa urn for twenty minutes before it betrayed her.

It made the faintest clicking noise, gave a cough and then shot a brown spray of cocoa straight down the front of her sweater.

“Oh no,” she said, staring at the spreading stain. “Oh no no no.”

Across the table, Vin DeLuca stopped mid-reach.

He had been standing very still, in his Santa suit, hands folded the way they were when he was concentrating on not reacting. His beard smelled faintly of pine cleaner. His eyes dropped to the mess on her chest and snapped back up again.

“Are you burned,” he asked.

“No, but I am deeply offended.”

She dabbed at herself with a napkin. It did nothing. The cocoa had soaked in, dark and obvious, right over the penguin on her sweater.

“That penguin had dreams,” she said.

Vin stepped closer. She became very aware of the width of him, the way his boots planted on the packed snow, the quiet authority of his presence even here, surrounded by fairy lights and marshmallow debris.

“Here,” he said, tugging his red Santa coat open. “Take this.”

She blinked. “Your coat.”

“You’re cold.”

“I am not cold.”

“You’re standing in a wet sweater in December.”

She hesitated. People were everywhere. Evergreen Square buzzed with voices and music and the scrape of skates. Mayor Frost laughed somewhere near the tree. The Blodgett twins hovered at the edge of the rink with a camera and a grin.

Vin held the coat out patiently.

Marley sighed and slipped her arms into it.

It swallowed her. The hem hit her knees. The sleeves hid her hands completely. It smelled of soap, and him.

“There,” he said.

She looked up at him. “Now you look underdressed.”

“I’ll survive.”

She tugged the collar closer. “I look like I stole Santa.”

“You did,” he said.

She laughed before she could stop herself. The sound surprised her. It always did, how easy it was around him.

They moved to the side of the booth so Maddie could swoop in and rescue the urn. Marley perched on the edge of a hay bale, swinging her feet. Vin stood in front of her, blocking the wind without making a point of it.

“That thing has been eyeing me all night,” she said.

“The urn.”

“Yes. It knew I was vulnerable.”

His mouth twitched.

She leaned back, wrapped in red, feeling ridiculous and oddly safe. “You’re very calm about this.”

“I’ve dealt with worse spills.”

“Emotionally or professionally.”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “You’re very mysterious tonight, Mr. Claus.”

He glanced around. Lowered his voice. “You’re wearing my coat.”

“So.”

“It has pockets.”

Her eyes widened. She plunged her hands inside. Pulled out a handful of candy canes, a folded note, and something small and hard.

She froze.

“What’s this,” she asked carefully.

Vin looked. Winced. “That’s not supposed to be in there.”

She held it up. A tiny silver bell, worn smooth.

“It’s festive,” she said.

“It’s evidence.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

He exhaled. “From an old case. It’s fine.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s inert.”

“That’s worse.”

She studied the bell. Turned it over. It chimed softly.

“That’s actually kind of sad,” she said.

He looked at her. “Why?”

“Because someone dropped it. Or lost it. Or kept it for luck.” She handed it back. “And now it lives in Santa’s pocket.”

He closed his fingers around it. “I forgot it was there.”

They stood like that for a moment. The music swelled. Someone cheered on the rink. Snow drifted down in lazy flakes.

“You can keep the coat until your sweater dries,” he said.

“I might never give it back.”

“I’ll file a report.”

She grinned. “You would.”

A shout went up. The Blodgett twins had turned their camera on them.

“Twelve seconds,” Jess called. “Just stand there.”

“No,” Vin said.

Too late. The flash went off.

Marley laughed. “You’re going to be all over the town feed.”

He closed his eyes. Opened them again. “Fantastic.”

She slipped off the hay bale and stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You know what.”

“What.”

“This is the least suspicious thing you’ve done all night.”

He raised a brow.

“You gave me your coat. You worried about cocoa. You let yourself get photographed.” She smiled, soft this time. “You look normal.”

His throat moved. “I don’t do normal well.”

“You’re doing fine.”

The words hung between them.

He reached out, hesitated, then tugged the sleeve down so her hand emerged, pink from the cold.

“Your fingers,” he said. “They’re freezing.”

She flexed them. “See. Human.”

He held her hand between his palms. Just to warm it. Practical. Necessary.

She felt it anyway. The heat. The care. The way he focused.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

He met her eyes. No beard in the way now. Just him.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

They stayed like that until the bell over the cocoa booth jingled again and Maddie called her name.

Marley let go first. Reluctantly.

“I’ll return your coat,” she said. “Eventually.”

“I’ll be here.”

She smiled, wrapped in red, and walked back into the lights, carrying something warmer than cocoa with her.

❄️❄️❄️

Want more Marley and Vin?

Meet them properly in Mistletoe and Mobsters, a sweet, closed-door Snowball Falls romance.

[Read Mistletoe and Mobsters]

When the Power Goes Out, Firehouse Logic and Award-Winning Puns Take Over.

A blackout in a library full of paper is bad enough. Add Theo Morgan, a roomful of trivia teams and Mayor Frost’s enthusiasm for candles, and Natalie King’s carefully organised evening is about to get considerably less organised.

This bonus scene sits alongside Reindeer Games.

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Natalie King was halfway through taping a laminated reindeer to the library noticeboard when the power went out. The lights blinked once, blinked again, and then the whole place dropped into a thick, inky darkness. The heater clicked off. The holiday playlist made a brave little stutter and died in the middle of a sleigh bell.

“Oh,” she said into the silence.

From somewhere behind the shelves, Theo Morgan swore under his breath.

Natalie froze with the tape stuck to her fingers. The library had gone so quiet it almost hurt. Every small sound was exaggerated, from the squeak of her boots to the soft crackle of the tape pulling at her skin, even her own breathing.

Without sight, her other senses intensified, old paper smell crept out, glue and dust, and that faint sweetness from the children’s corner where someone had spilled hot chocolate last week, and she still hadn’t tracked down the culprit.

If she’d wanted to work in a quiet library, she would’ve applied to Merriring, where they ran silence like a religion and were offended by the concept of joy.

“Is that bad?” she called.

“No,” Theo said.

She waited.

“Maybe,” he added.

“That didn’t answer the question.”

Boots thudded along the aisle. He appeared at the end of it, tall and broad, his phone held up in one hand to throw light ahead. The beam caught the glitter reindeer on the noticeboard and made it look alarmed.

Natalie decided she didn’t identify with the reindeer at all.

“They’re working on the transformer,” he said. “Town Hall mentioned it.”

“They mentioned it to you,” she said.

He shrugged. “Firehouse memo.”

“Of course.”

She peeled the tape off her fingers and stuck the last corner of the reindeer down out of pure stubbornness. The thing would be visible to exactly no one in this darkness, but she refused to let the blackout win.

“Trivia night rehearsal starts in twenty minutes,” she said.

Theo angled the phone light toward the main room, scanning chair legs and table corners, then the exits. He did it in a neat pattern, left to right, as if his eyes had a checklist.

“We can delay,” he said.

“We can’t delay,” Natalie said. “There are teams, with puns. One of them is called Quiztopher Nolan.”

Theo’s mouth twitched. “That’s criminal.”

“It’s award-winning,” she corrected.

He took two steps into the main space and looked up. “No motion sensing backups then?”

Natalie swallowed. She kept her tone bright, because bright was her default when something might go wrong. “Okay. That’s fine. Libraries are very safe in the dark. Statistically.”

Theo’s gaze flicked to her. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she said too fast. “I just don’t like not being able to see where the chairs are.”

“I’ll move them.”

“You don’t have to,” she started, because she always started there, even when she liked help.

He was already doing it. He slid tables a few inches to widen the aisle, stacked two chairs where someone had left them tipped at an angle, and nudged a book cart into a neat place by the desk. He nudged the wobble out of a table leg with the edge of his boot, then carried on. The room felt less likely to trip someone up.

Natalie watched him and felt her shoulders drop without permission.

“You’re very good at this,” she said.

“At furniture?” he said.

“At making things feel under control.”

His shrug this time was smaller. “It’s what I do.”

Natalie nodded because she understood that. She also understood the part he didn’t say, which was that he did it for other people before he did it for himself.

“Well,” she said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near sincere. “Thank you.”

The front door banged open, and a gust of cold air shoved snowflakes into the entryway. Mayor Frost’s voice followed, loud enough to rattle the donation jar.

“Is this atmospheric,” the mayor boomed, “or a disaster?”

Theo didn’t even flinch. “Controlled.”

Natalie stepped out from behind the desk and raised her chin as if she was in charge of the weather. “We can run trivia by candlelight.”

Theo’s head snapped toward her. “In a building full of paper?”

Mayor Frost clapped once, delighted. “Romantic and librarian-approved. I love it!”

“Battery lanterns would be better,” Theo said.

“Candles are already here,” the mayor said, far too cheerful for someone who definitely owned multiple boxes of emergency candles for dramatic purposes.

Theo stared at the mayor for a long beat. Then he exhaled through his nose, the closest he ever came to expressing his feelings.

“Fine,” he said. “Then we do it properly. On tables only. Away from the shelves. Nothing near paper. Nothing left unattended.”

Mayor Frost saluted, which was not reassuring.

Candles appeared from somewhere. Of course, they did. The mayor produced them. Soon the library glowed with small pools of warm light, shadows shifting over book spines, posters and the holiday displays Natalie had spent all morning adjusting by half an inch at a time.

Theo moved without being asked. He headed to the kitchenette in the staff area and came back with six glasses.

He put a candle inside each one. Then, without thinking, he counted the candles again under his breath and repositioned one two inches farther from the edge of the table. A barrier. A reminder. A piece of firehouse logic placed gently into her librarian world.

Natalie stared at the glasses, then at him. “That’s clever.”

“Basic safety,”

“It’s very romantic of you.”

His eyes held hers for a second longer than necessary. “Don’t tell the mayor that.”

Teams filed in, bright with winter energy and damp boots. Someone cheered when they saw the candlelight. Someone asked loudly if this was on purpose. Someone else said, “This is very Snowball Falls,” which made Natalie want to throw a pencil at them.

A teenager in a Santa hat tripped over the edge of a rug and recovered with a bow. Two retirees arrived in matching sweaters that read SLEIGH MY NAME and asked where the cocoa was.

Natalie opened her mouth to answer and realised she couldn’t see her sign-in sheet properly.

Theo was already there, phone light angled down. He didn’t make a big thing of it. He just offered the light and waited.

Natalie’s throat formed a lump. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

He nodded once.

She took her place at the podium, notes trembling slightly in her hands. She told herself it was adrenaline or the dark. It wasn’t Theo. Then Theo moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel warmth radiating off his coat. Not touching. Just present. Just there, which was sometimes worse than touching.

“You’ve got this,” he murmured.

Natalie inhaled, tasting candle wax and cocoa powder, and winter air that had hitched a ride in on everyone’s coats. “Welcome to holiday trivia,” she said, and her voice evened out on the first sentence. “Round one.”

Applause broke out. Laughter followed it. The library filled up, the way it always did when something went slightly wrong and the town decided it was now tradition.

Round one went smoothly. Round two went off the rails in the best way. Someone argued that Die Harder was a Christmas movie. Someone else shouted, “Objection” even though this was not a courtroom. Mayor Frost attempted to mediate and made it worse.

Natalie watched Theo watch the room. He wasn’t watching the game. He was watching the candles. He was watching the pathways. He was watching the exits. He looked like the sort of man who could find danger in a bowl of marshmallows.

Still, he smiled once when a team called The Gingerbread Men got an answer right and celebrated with a coordinated fist pump.

Halfway through round two, the power flickered back on.

The overhead lights blazed to life, bright and sudden, and the holiday playlist returned mid-song as if it had been eavesdropping and rejoined the party.

A collective groan rose from the room.

Natalie blinked against the brightness and surprised herself with a sharp pang of disappointment. “Oh,” she said, and she couldn’t even pretend it was about the lighting.

Theo glanced down at her. “Want me to turn them back off?”

She stared at him, then laughed, proper laughter that made her ribs ache. “No. That might be illegal.”

His smile came easier this time. He didn’t hide it fast enough.

Natalie didn’t know what to do with that.

Trivia ended in cocoa and arguments about elf lore. People left with prizes they didn’t deserve and opinions they wouldn’t let go of. Someone tried to blow out a candle, and Theo made a sound that stopped them cold before they’d even pursed their lips.

When the last team finally drifted out into the snow, the library fell back into its usual hush. The heater hummed as it warmed itself up, offended by the interruption. The overhead lights stopped flickering and committed to their job.

Natalie lowered herself into a chair behind the desk, exhausted and glowing in the worst possible way, because she knew Theo could see it. “That went well,” she said.

“It did,” Theo agreed.

Natalie looked at the empty room. At the glasses still guarding the candles. At the last little curls of smoke as the flames guttered low.

Then she looked at him, and the way he was still standing a little too close to the danger, even now that the danger had passed.

“Thanks for staying,” she said. “For hovering.”

“I wasn’t hovering,” he said, which was ridiculous.

Natalie’s mouth curved. “You were. And I liked it.”

Theo held her gaze, steady, ever-present. “Good,” he said.

They stayed like that for a moment, comfortable in the aftermath. The library was a place where people had made noise and made memories and argued about elf lore as if it mattered.

Natalie reached out and straightened his sleeve. There was a smudge of candle wax on the cuff.

“There,” she said. “Library-approved.”

Theo laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “I’ll take it.”

Outside, snow kept falling past the windows, soft and persistent. Inside, the lights hummed. Neither of them rushed to leave.

❄️❄️❄️

A jammed ladder, a pressed fern, and the boy who refuses to stop catching her.

Ivy Brooks thought she could handle a simple prop hunt at Snowdrop Books. She didn’t count on a jammed mahogany ladder, a judgmental metallic screech, or Noah Bennett deciding he was her unofficial spotter.

This bonus scene sits alongside Merry Matchmaking.

❄️❄️❄️

Metal gears ground together with a deafening clank, locking Ivy Brooks halfway up the rolling mahogany ladder at Snowdrop Books.

Clamping one hand around a stack of faded hardbacks, she hooked her leather boot desperately over the third rung. Her heart stuttered as dust shook loose from the nearby shelves.

“Don’t move,” Noah Bennett ordered from the floor below.

“That falls entirely outside my current plan,” she squeezed out through gritted teeth.

Glancing over her shoulder brought instant regret.

The wooden contraption stood a perfectly sensible five feet tall. On an average Tuesday, it looked completely reasonable. Right now, it swayed with enough enthusiasm to remind her that gravity held long-standing grudges.

Down at the base, Noah gripped the mahogany side rail. He kept his opposite palm raised, ready to catch her if she tumbled. The worn threads of his green flannel pulled at a specific, tucked-away corner of her chest. Meanwhile, the crisp scent of antibacterial soap mixed with the sharp bite of winter wind drifting upward.

“You’re okay,” he promised in a low rumble. “The track just stuck.”

“It made a horrible noise.”

“It always makes a horrible noise.”

“That specific metallic screech sounded deeply judgmental.”

A sudden twitch disrupted the flat line of his mouth. “Ladders judge everyone.”

Swallowing hard against the dry lump forming in her throat, she clung tighter to the wood. “I need to reach the folklore shelf.”

“Folklore is a terrible reason to risk your life.”

“My shoot requires the red edition.”

“There are three red ones.”

“This volume contains the pressed fern,” Ivy squeezed out, her knuckles white against the mahogany. “Mrs. Waverly told me about it.”

Noah’s grip on the railing tightened. “Mrs. Waverly is a fountain of random information.”

“She said it was a ‘relic of a better era,’” Ivy added, the ladder groaning under her weight. “I suspect she mostly wanted me to climb something precarious while you were in the neighborhood.”

A reluctant smile broke across his face. “She always did admire your commitment to the shot. ”He blinked slowly. His raised hand dropped to his side. “Of course it does.”

Shifting her weight on the narrow slat sent a piercing groan echoing through the quiet aisle.

Noah tightened his knuckles around the railing. “Okay. Don’t do that.”

“My boot slipped.”

“I know.”

He waited in absolute silence. His dark eyes tracked the frantic rise and fall of her shoulders until her breathing finally leveled out. His old habit of noticing her nervous tells remained profoundly annoying. It also made her feel … safe in a way she actively refused to acknowledge since returning to Snowball Falls.

“Hand me the books,” he instructed, reaching up.

A sharp spike of panic hit her chest. “If I let go…”

“I’ve got the ladder.”

Studying the familiar lines of his wrists, she surrendered the dusty hardbacks one by one. His calloused fingers grazed her bare knuckles on the final transfer. A sharp, electrical pull tore straight up her arm and lodged firmly in an inconvenient place.

“Okay,” he exhaled softly. “Now step down.”

Ignoring him, she pushed against the shelf to propel herself to the left. The locked wheels refused to budge a single inch.

“The left wheel is completely jammed,” she said. “I just need one more foot.”

“I can rock it,” he offered. “Gently.”

“Use the word gently one more time.”

“Gently,” he repeated. A sudden, reluctant smile broke across his face.

The heavy wooden frame shifted forward before the gears unlocked with a loud crack. Ivy pitched backward with a startled yelp as the entire structure jerked an inch across the floorboards.

Reacting on pure instinct, Noah lunged into the gap. He buried his broad shoulder into the mahogany rung. His arms banded tight around her calves, pinning her securely against the wood.

A stillness swallowed the narrow aisle.

The sudden absence of space between them pulled all the oxygen from the air. The intense heat of his palms radiated straight through the thin nylon of her tights. Above her knee, his chest rose and fell.

“I apologize,” he muttered in a breathless rush. His grip loosened just a fraction. “I only meant to…”

“Everything is perfectly fine,” she babbled at lightning speed. “You caught me.”

“Yes,” he rasped. “Because, that was my goal.”

Forcing her boots down to the next rung, she descended the rest of the way in total silence. Her feet hit solid ground. She lingered right there within the narrow circumference of his personal space for three long seconds.

He held his ground just as stubbornly.

Absolute stillness blanketed the shop. Golden afternoon light slanted through the frosted front windows, illuminating the swirling dust between their bodies. Upstairs, the old iron radiator clicked rapidly through its heating cycle.

“You still attack ladders with your old momentum,” he murmured.

Rolling her shoulders back, she set her jaw. “What does that even mean?”

“You rush,” he stated evenly. “You bypassed the locking mechanism completely. You assume gravity will cut you a break.”

She folded both arms securely across her chest. Her chin tipped up defensively. “I survived intact.”

“You survived,” he agreed. His dark gaze dropped to her boots. “Because you had a spotter.”

Those words disrupted her thoughts more than if he’d shouted.

Pivoting on her heel, she reached for the nearest display table. She began aligning a perfectly tidy stack of paperbacks. “I never asked you to be a spotter.”

“I know that perfectly well.”

His acceptance sliced far deeper than any argument.

“Ivy,” he pleaded softly. “I kept a respectful distance.”

Spinning back around, she met his stare. “You constantly hovered.”

“I worry about you.”

“You swallowed your words and substituted anxiety instead.”

He nodded slowly. “I did exactly that.”

The resulting silence stretched down the aisle.

Letting out a long breath, she dropped her defensive posture. “Climbing up there was a mistake.”

“Agreed,” he murmured. “Scaling that track alone invites disaster.”

A familiar tightness gripped her throat. She studied the sharp angles of his face. His enduring ability to remain endlessly careful, completely present, and infuriatingly right drove her utterly mad.

“Thank you for the rescue,” she offered in a hushed tone.

“You are entirely welcome.”

Closing the final inch between them, she reached up to smooth the rumpled edge of his flannel collar. The soft fabric sat perpetually crooked against his neck. It maintained the same charming asymmetry he carried through all the years she knew him.

“There,” she whispered. Her fingers fell away slowly. “You look a bit more composed.”

“I sprinted the entire way from the clinic.”

A genuine smile broke through her defenses. The expression surfaced with a deep, familiar warmth before she could suppress the reaction.

The sharp focus in his dark eyes melted into something infinitely softer. “I missed seeing that.”

Snatching her hand back to her side, she broke the physical connection. “Stop.”

“I will stop,” he assured her softly. “Unless you ask me to continue.”

Parting her lips to argue, she snapped them shut a second later. Her entire vocabulary completely abandoned her.

Out on the street, a passing pedestrian brushed the hanging door chime. The bright jingle sliced right through the heavy tension pooling in the aisle.

Taking a deliberate step backward, she cleared her throat loudly. “I need to get back to work.”

He dipped his chin in agreement. “My patients await my return.”

They both remained entirely motionless. Their feet stayed rooted to the wooden floorboards.

“If that track gives you any more trouble,” he added, shifting his tone to carefully neutral territory. “I work right down the street.”

Catching his gaze directly, she held it. “I know exactly where to find you.”

He finally turned and walked out the door a full sixty seconds later. He left behind a shop vibrating with an aching emptiness.

Tipping her head back, Ivy stared up at the jammed wooden structure before shifting her focus to the worn red spine holding the pressed fern. A small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. She turned away, abandoning the ladder exactly where it stood.

❄️❄️❄️

Somewhere between the jammed gears and the pressed fern, something shifted.
Neither of them named it. Neither of them fixed the ladder.

Snowdrop Books stayed exactly as it was.
And so did the space they kept leaving between them, careful, charged, and waiting.

Thanks for spending a little time back in Snowball Falls.

❄️ The North Wind tree is waiting.

She planned every detail of the Snowball Falls Winter Gala. He was the one variable she couldn’t control.

If you’ve ever watched Eliza Carter hold a clipboard, you already know this was inevitable. This bonus scene sits alongside Mistletoe and Mayhem..

❄️❄️❄️

Eliza gripped her third clipboard of the evening just as Charlie Rivera slid the fourth one smoothly from her fingers.

“Give that back,” she demanded.

“Absolutely not,” he replied, his tone entirely too pleasant for the freezing temperature.

She lunged for the plastic board. He lifted it out of her reach, weaponizing his height advantage with a maddeningly relaxed stretch.

“Charlie.”

“Eliza.”

“That is my master schedule.”

“This is an intervention,” he corrected, lowering his voice as he stepped closer. “You’re currently stress-sorting the dessert forks.”

She dropped her gaze to the long table draped in midnight-blue velvet. The forks lay in gleaming, identical rows. She had arranged them by tine length, then by the luster of the silver polish, and finally by their overall structural reliability. One stray piece of silverware sat a fraction of an inch out of alignment. She nudged it into place with a rigid index finger.

“The Winter Lights Gala requires a flawless seating strategy,” she informed him. “A strategy requires a physical chart.”

“One physical chart, Eliza. You printed six copies.”

“I need backups for smudges.”

“You laminated the original.”

“People cause emotional smudges.”

He leaned into her personal space. His wool coat carried the faint, grounding scent of cedar and wood smoke. “They’re just chairs. The guests are ordinary people.”

She shot him a withering look. “The Whitfields arrived ten minutes ago. They invest millions in boutique experiences. They ignore adequate events.”

A slow, crooked grin transformed his face. “You’re a boutique experience.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, entirely unrelated to the propane heaters scattered around Evergreen Square. The town plaza buzzed with electric energy. Thousands of tiny sapphire and diamond bulbs curled around the massive central hemlock tree. Maddie’s bakery stall flooded the crisp air with the scent of browned butter and toasted sugar. Near the ice-skating rink, his brewery stall had two enormous oak barrels acting as tables, each wrapped in an oversized velvet ribbon.

Charlie had insisted on the ribbons. He claimed the fabric softened the harsh lines of the wood. She had argued the point for twenty minutes before conceding.

“Look at the cocoa bar,” Charlie murmured, resting his hand warmly against the small of her back. “The marshmallow toppings sit in perfect alphabetical order. Your work achieves absolute excellence.”

She evaluated the station. “You refrained from rearranging the sprinkles this time.”

“I value my physical safety.”

She exhaled a long, ragged breath, watching a plume of white frost disappear into the night sky. “I need this night to succeed.”

“Everything looks perfect.”

“Perfection guarantees the investors sign the contract.”

Charlie tilted his head, his dark eyes catching the fairy lights. “C’mon, tell me the rest.”

She shifted her weight, the gravel crunching beneath her suede boots. “This festival is ours. We built the first real thing that belongs to us.”

The playful teasing melted from his expression, leaving behind a quiet intensity. The fake engagement had ended months ago. The prop ring sat locked in a velvet box at home. The residents of Snowball Falls had simply adjusted their gossip and continued to watch them.

He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, pressing his thumb against her pulse point.

“We built it together,” he agreed.

Mayor Frost swept past them, her silver cape billowing. “You two look devastatingly in love,” the mayor declared loudly. “Keep up the good work. Cameron Whitfield is watching from the ice sculptures.”

Eliza snapped her spine straight. Her chin lifted.

Charlie tightened his grip. “We can stop if you want.”

“I know.”

She maintained her hold on his hand anyway.

The Whitfields approached with the synchronized glide of high-level venture capitalists. Cameron Whitfield wore a cashmere overcoat that radiated quiet wealth. He offered a polite, measured smile.

“Eliza,” Cameron said smoothly. “The atmosphere feels incredibly charming.”

“Thank you, Cameron. We designed the layout for an intimate, scalable aesthetic.”

Charlie leaned forward, projecting an effortless charm that Eliza deeply envied. “We also have an excellent winter stout on tap.”

Cameron paused, then let out a sharp, genuine laugh. “I suppose you do.”

The conversation settled into the familiar rhythm of a business pitch. Eliza navigated the questions, detailing expansion tiers and explaining the midnight installation of the ice lanterns. Charlie remained a solid, immovable anchor at her side. He listened to her data points. He let her lead the narrative. He simply existed as a supportive force in the center of her anxiety.

Cameron glanced between them, his eyes dropping to their joined hands. “You two remain deeply committed partners in all this.”

“We share everything,” Eliza said softly.

“She handles the brilliant logistics,” Charlie added, his smile entirely sincere. “I ensure the guests survive her lecture on the history of dessert forks.”

The investors finally drifted toward the buffet line. Eliza realized her lungs burned from holding back her nerves. She let out a heavy sigh.

“You were magnificent,” Charlie whispered near her ear.

“I managed to avoid overselling the revenue projections.”

“You handled them perfectly.”

The brass band transitioned into a slow, sweeping acoustic melody. The frantic energy of the square slowed to a romantic sway. Mayor Frost appeared from behind a heat lamp, clapping her gloved hands together. “Dance!” she commanded. “The town expects a spectacle!”

Eliza stiffened. “The dancing portion of the evening begins at eight o’clock.”

“Consider this a schedule revision,” Charlie said. He stepped directly in front of her, offering his open palm.

The surrounding residents of Snowball Falls began forming a loose circle. The town treated public affection with the ruthless scrutiny of competitive sports judges.

She placed her hand in his. He pulled her against the heavy wool of his coat until she felt the steady thud of his heartbeat against her chest.

“Your mind is running again,” he observed.

“My mind always runs.”

“You’re reviewing the seating chart.”

“I’m analyzing the contingency plan for a sudden blizzard.”

“You’re thinking about the forks.”

She let out an indignant huff, burying her face briefly against his lapel.

“Look around, Eliza.”

She turned her head. The Whitfields stood deep in conversation with the stall owners, holding steaming mugs. Maddie waved a celebratory spatula from her pastry stall. The fairy lights twinkled flawlessly. The cocoa remained piping hot. The evening held together beautifully.

“I left this moment completely unplanned,” she admitted.

“That makes it the best part of the night.”

She met his eyes. He looked exactly like the infuriating man who’d filed his tax receipts in cereal boxes.

“You’re permanently banned from touching my bookshelves,” she whispered.

“I accept those terms.”

She reached out and placed her final clipboard onto the nearest empty cocktail table. She left it lying there, completely abandoned. Charlie watched the movement, his playful smirk giving way to a raw, breathtaking vulnerability.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

“Yes.”

The music swelled, wrapping around them as the first thick flakes of fresh snow drifted through the glowing blue light. Eliza Carter, a woman who measured her entire life by the second hand of a watch, ignored the time. She ignored the guest count. She rested her head on Charlie’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of cedar, and let the rest of the evening happen without her.

It felt entirely, overwhelmingly perfect.

❄️❄️❄️

Thanks for spending a little time in Snowball Falls.
If you need me, I’ll be in Evergreen Square, guarding the cocoa bar from anyone who thinks sprinkles belong in the wrong jar.

Snow, Cocoa, and a Grumpy Carpenter

A little winter treat from Snowball Falls! I missed Holly and Caleb from Snowed in with the Grump, so I wrote this bonus scene for them.

❄️❄️❄️

Holly Morgan had both arms elbow-deep in a plastic tub of royal icing when the door to The Nutcracker Nook banged open and let in a blast of snow, cold, and Caleb Dawson’s bad mood.

She kept her eyes on her work at first, counting sprinkles. She’d learned the hard way that if you stopped counting, you ended up with a tray that looked festive on one side and vaguely resentful on the other.

“Tell me that’s not peppermint,” Caleb said.

“It’s crushed candy cane,” Holly said. “Peppermint is the flavor. This is the texture.”

“That’s worse.”

She glanced over her shoulder. He stood just inside the door, boots wet, flannel dusted white, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as if they were in danger of escaping. His beard held flecks of snow, and his eyebrows were practically shivering.

Maddie Clarke slid him a mug of cocoa without asking. “You look like you fought the wind and lost.”

“The wind started it,” Caleb said.

Holly went back to her icing. “You’re early.”

“You texted me ten question marks.”

“That was an accident.”

“You sent it three times.”

She winced. “Okay, I’ll admit that was panic.”

Maddie leaned on the counter. “We’re running behind. Holly decided the gingerbread men needed scarves.”

“They’re cold,” Holly said, piping a careful line of blue icing around a cookie’s neck. “It’s winter.”

“They’re cookies,” Caleb said.

“They’re cookies with feelings.”

He took a long drink of cocoa. “This town is unwell.”

Holly smiled to herself. She slid the finished tray aside and pulled another toward her. “You can help.”

“No.”

“You already promised.”

“I promised to drop off the wood frames for the school art show.”

“And then you promised to stay and help,” Maddie said cheerfully.

Caleb shot her a look. “I did not.”

“You nodded,” Maddie said. “That counts here.”

Holly turned, icing bag in hand. “You can do the buttons. It’s very simple. Dots. You’re good at dots.”

He stared at the cookies. Identical, smiling, and waiting.

“This is a trap,” he said.

She held out the icing bag. Their fingers brushed. Just a second—enough for her to notice how warm he was compared to the room, how he hesitated as if the contact surprised him.

“You’ll be great,” she said.

He took the bag as if it might explode, sat down, leaned over the tray, and squeezed.

The icing blobbed. Spread. Slid.

Caleb swore under his breath.

Holly laughed. It slipped out before she could stop it, bright and completely unhelpful.

Maddie made a pleased noise and wandered off to the ovens.

“You’re laughing,” Caleb said.

“I’m encouraging you.”

“That cookie looks like it’s melting.”

“It’s expressive.”

He tried again, slower this time. Three neat dots down the gingerbread man’s chest. He looked faintly impressed with himself.

“There,” he said. “Competent.”

“Very,” Holly said. “Now give him a smile.”

“I am not doing mouths.”

“Why not?”

“They’re judgmental.”

She leaned closer, pointing. Her sleeve brushed his arm. “Just a little curve.”

He sighed and did the curve. It came out crooked. They both stared at it.

“That cookie knows something,” Caleb said.

“It knows love,” Holly said.

He snorted. “No.”

The bell over the door jingled again. Mrs. Waverly swept in, wrapped in a sweater so aggressively festive it made the gingerbread feel bad.

“Well,” she said, eyes flicking from the cookies to Caleb. “If this isn’t educational.”

Caleb froze.

Holly didn’t. “Hi, Mrs. Waverly.”

“Good hands for a carpenter,” Mrs. Waverly said, peering at the tray. “Terrible posture. You’ll regret that.”

“I already do,” Caleb said.

She sniffed. “Are these for the fundraiser?”

“Yes,” Holly said. “For the kindergarten.”

Mrs. Waverly’s expression softened, just a touch. “Good. Children should learn early that baked goods fix things.” She leaned closer to Holly. “You feeding him properly?”

Holly blinked. “What?”

Mrs. Waverly tapped the cocoa mug. “He looks less feral than usual.”

Caleb choked. “I’m fine,” he said.

Mrs. Waverly patted his arm anyway. “Mm.” She left with a box of shortbread and a satisfied nod.

There was a beat of silence.

“I hate that she knows things,” Caleb said.

“She knows everything,” Holly said. “It’s best to avoid a fight.”

They worked for a while after that. The tray filled up. Caleb got better. His dots stayed dots. His smiles stopped looking haunted.

Holly watched him when he looked away—the careful way he lined things up, the way his mouth relaxed when something went right. He leaned in, intent, as if the rest of the world could wait.

“You missed one,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

He pointed at her cookie. “Button spacing. It’s off.”

She looked. He was right, so she fixed it. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. “Details matter.”

As they finished the last tray together, Maddie returned with boxes. The oven hummed, and outside, the snow kept falling thick and fast.

Holly wiped her hands on a towel. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Caleb looked at the cookies, at the counter dusted with sugar, and then at her—cheeks pink, braid slipping loose.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”

Their eyes caught and held. Just long enough.

The bell jingled again, and the moment broke. But when he reached for his coat, his hand brushed hers. This time, both stayed still for a moment.

“Same time next year,” he said.

She smiled. “You’re assuming I’ll let you escape.”

He smiled back, small and real. “I’m counting on it.”

❄️❄️❄️

Want more Holly and Caleb?

If you’re new to Snowball Falls, you can meet them properly in Snowed in with the Grump, a sweet, closed-door small-town Christmas romance.

[Read Snowed in with the Grump]