Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 186(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
“Sav, where do you want to start?”
I come back to, slightly embarrassed. “Younger kids,” the words tumble out of me, as I turn down the first aisle sharply. “Let’s start with the four year olds.”
Immediately, I regret it.
The space is tight, shelves pressing in, volunteers weaving past with careful smiles. Erik follows, his presence filling the narrow aisle behind me, solid, unhurried, and unavoidable.I reach for a stuffed bear just as he shifts. His chest brushes my shoulder, barely, but it’s enough for me to feel something.
“Sorry,” he murmurs near my ear, his breath warm.
“It’s fine,” I affirm, my pulse disagreeing.
We fall into a rhythm with checking lists, stacking toys into the cart, bumping fingers like it’s accidental when it definitely isn’t.
“So,” he says casually, lifting a box of wooden blocks. “You still in the city?”
“Yes.” I pause. “Brooklyn now.”
He nods. “Makes sense.”
“How so?”
“You always liked places that pretended they weren’t part of something bigger.”
I blink. “That might be the most accurate thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He smiles. “You publishing books yet, or still fixing other people’s commas?”
“Editor, for now,” I laugh. “Romance.”
His brows lift. “Romance.”
“Ironic,” I add quickly.
“No,” he counters. “Actually… it fits.”
I smile, brushing the hair behind my ear, feeling my cheeks flush as red as Christmas garland lining the ceiling. Further down the aisle, something catches my eye.
It’s a snow globe.
Small. Simple. A tiny town square frozen mid-December, glitter suspended in perfect anticipation.
My breath stutters.
My mother loved snow globes. She collected them like evidence that joy could be contained and preserved. One Christmas, I attempted to make one for her. I gathered all of the supplies: a figurine of a mother and a daughter hand carved in sealed wood, a mason jar, distilled water, glycerin and too much glitter. So much glitter.
She cried when she received it. Nailed it.
Over the years, the epoxy failed and the figure started floating awkwardly suspended in the gooey glittery substance. She didn’t mind. I made many mental notes on where it all went wrong.
I reach for it before I can stop myself and the world pauses around me.
Erik notices instantly.
He doesn’t ask. He just steps closer, his hand warm and steady at my elbow, grounding without claiming.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod. “Yeah. Just… memories.”
“Good ones I hope?” The question feels more layered.
I keep my eyes on the snow globe until I can’t resist to look into his deep baby blues. “Mostly.”
He squeezes once and I get my first taste of just how strong his hands really are. The compression helps to bring me back, to ground me despite my mind wandering to thoughts of how Erik might be strong in other ways. When I breathe again, the moment passes.
We keep shopping.
At the checkout, Mrs. Levin rings us up herself, sliding the receipt into The Christmas Kindness Drive envelope.
“Your mother always said the best gifts,” she tells me, “were the ones that reminded children they could be more than what the world handed them.”
I nod, throat tight.
“She was right,” Mrs. Levin adds. “She would be so happy that you are here.”
Outside, the cold snaps against my flushed skin. Snow drifts down, catching in Erik’s hair.
“This is going to be harder than I thought,” I admit out loud.
“The shopping?” he asks.
I hesitate. “Working together.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Means it still matters.”
We stand there, with the almost full cart between us, the store behind us and tradition settling in.
“So…,” Erik shifts, thumb hooking casually over the cart handle, like he’s trying not to make it obvious he doesn’t want to leave either. “Want to go another round? I think we could squeeze a bit more shopping in. Really spoil the kids this year. There are more toys back at the community center.”
The invitation is gentle and hopeful.
“I would love—”
My phone rings.
I don’t need to look. My body already knows. The timing is too precise. Too cruel. I close my eyes for half a second, swallowing the scoff in my throat.
Dammit, Aunt Carol.
Erik’s gaze flicks to my coat pocket, then back to my face. He doesn’t look annoyed. He looks understanding. He already knows what kind of weight follows me around.
“You should get that,” he breathes. “Carol mentioned you’ve got some things to take care of while you’re here.” He pauses. “It sounds heavy.”
Something in my chest grips at the word. “I’m sorry,” I apologize, already reaching for my phone, already feeling the afternoon slipping through my fingers. “I just—”
“You don’t have to explain,” he interjects quickly. Too quickly. He’s making sure not to ask for more than I can give.
I hesitate anyway. “This is… the reason I came back,” I admit. The words feel fragile, like they might break if I handle them wrong. “I have to close my mom’s estate. Paperwork. Meetings. Boxes. It’s not…,” I stop, swallow. “It’s not optional.”