Chapter One

Lucy

 

November 26

               

“I can’t believe you’re getting married,” I tell Charlie, smiling so hard my face hurts. Crap. Does she know it’s a fake smile? I make it larger, feeling a vein pop in my forehead. My mouth droops slightly, the muscles confused.

       “I know!” my friend squeals, pulling me into a hug. Her reddish hair is partially contained by a knit cap, but it brushes against my face with the force of her embrace. “And it’s all because of you and Eileen.”

       Eileen beams at us from the other side of the counter and adds a splash of peppermint schnapps to Charlie’s hot chocolate.

       It’s after closing at Love at First Sip, the coffee shop where my best friend Charlie and I work, run by the delightful Eileen Burrows, a former Hideaway Harbor beauty queen turned coffee shop owner. Her roots in Hideaway run so deep it feels like they span the whole town, down to the harbor. Or possibly the entire state of Maine. Every time I leave the Sip with her, at least a dozen people greet her by name. It’s like working for one of the celebrities who like to vacation here. She looks like a celebrity too, with her barely wrinkled skin, which has never been touched by the slightest prick of Botox, her big blue eyes, and her long, perfectly curled white hair, which never seems to suffer the horrors of hat head. She does occasionally wear oversized reading glasses, but somehow she manages to make even those look elegant.

       I look longingly at the bottle of schnapps in Eileen’s hand, and she winks at me and adds an extra-large splash to my cup. She knows as well as I do that good news can be bittersweet. I’m thrilled for my friend, obviously, but I’m also sad my big adventure with her is ending.

       Charlie has lived in Hideaway Harbor for a year and a half, ever since she answered an ad posted by an eccentric rich woman seeking a portrait artist for her cat. Painting animals is Charlie’s specialty. The woman offered to pay for her travel expenses from our hometown of Asheville to Hideaway Harbor, along with a rental car and an Airbnb in town. It was exactly the sort of adventure I’d longed to go on myself—and would have if my mother’s terminal illness weren’t so far advanced at that point—so I’d urged Charlie to go. She’d fallen in love with Hideaway Harbor, and after her host introduced her to Eileen, she’d decided to stay. The part-time hours at the coffee shop fit perfectly with her commissioned work as an artist.

       Then my mother died last fall. The house filled with an echoing emptiness that broke my heart again every morning. I was desperate to escape it. So I visited Charlie in Hideaway Harbor this past spring, on an unseasonably hot weekend, when everyone was walking around in shorts and summer dresses. We spent the day on the water, ate takeout with sand still in our toes, and then got cheap red mani-pedis while speculating about the wellness treatments offered at The Haven, Hideaway’s fancy spa we couldn’t afford.

       It was the perfect visit, idyllic. So when she’d begged me to move here so we could live together again, just like we’d been able to do for that ever-too-brief semester my freshman year of college, it had felt like fate. Especially since Eileen had offered to hire me part time too—and said it would be “no problem at all” to mold my schedule around some online continuing education classes I was taking.

       Eileen herself is an inspiration. Despite having lost Murray, her husband of thirty-two years, two years ago, she’s in love with love and sees it everywhere. She can always look up at the sky and point out the one cloud that looks like a heart. Every drink at the café is named after a famous poet or romantic hero in literature. We have the Heathcliff, the Romeo, the Byron, and the Fabio—because he’d been on the covers of half of her favorite books for the better part of a decade—among others. Every latte and cup of tea comes with a heart-shaped macaron.

       Even though I’ve never been in love with a man, I adore the idea of finding home in another person, and I fell in love with the café. I wanted to move to Hideaway and spend my days surrounded by the café’s pink mugs, high-pile rugs, and expansive view of the quaint downtown area.

       It felt like a world of possibility was waiting for me in Hideaway Harbor.

       At the end of my perfect vacation, Charlie squeezed my hand and said, “Please come. We’ll do all of it together, Lucy. All of the things left in your magic ball.”

The “magic ball” was a gift from my mother—a spherical, mosaic glass container with a wooden lid. Before the last stretch of her illness, she’d secretly filled it with…prompts, I guess you’d call them. Her attorney had given the colorful container to me after she passed away.

       The prompts were simple but beautiful in their simplicity.

      

Bite into a ripe strawberry and think of that time we went strawberry picking and that man with the mullet tried to juggle with them.

      

Take a walk along the water and listen to the sound it makes.

      

Go to a psychic with a friend. I’ve always wanted to do that, but I wasn’t brave enough.

      

       She’d left me a prompt for each day after she died, for a full year, to help get me through my grief. True to her word, Charlie had completed many of the prompts with me, even after moving in with her fiancé Lars last month, but I’d decided to do the last one alone. Just Mom and me.

       I pulled the final paper last night: Listen to your favorite song and dance like no one’s watching.

       I did just as it said, blasting my favorite song on Spotify, and I wept, which is probably the first time anyone’s ever sobbed to Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” I figure it’s definitely the first time anyone did it while dancing around a Christmas tree.

       Eileen pushes the hot chocolate across the counter to me, pulling me out of the memory. “Drink it up, dear. You’ve earned it.”

       After I take it from her, she emerges from behind the counter and wraps her arms around Charlie, who sets her hot chocolate down and hugs her back. I know from experience that Eileen’s hugs are warm and smell like chocolate and cinnamon.

       “If you hadn’t set me up with Lars, this never would have happened,” my friend says, beaming.

       A sigh seeps out of me, escaping past the too-large smile. We did set them up. In fact, it happened on that warm, sun-filled spring trip, when love had seemed as obtainable as the popsicles sold by the beach. He’d come into the café, Charlie had taken notice of him, and we’d all but pushed her at him.

       I’m happy for both of them—Lars is lovely and sweet and looks like a lost Skarsgård brother—but I have to admit I’m a little sad for myself. Because I’ve never experienced love for myself. Only through other people and in my books. I’m hungry for it. For life.

       I’ve never had a pet, even though I long for one.

       I’ve never gone to Europe, something else I long for.

       And, up until last month, I’d never lived alone.

       “Drink up,” Eileen says, pointing to my cup, and I realize she and Charlie have stopped their happy dance and my friend is watching me with concern.

       I take a sip and try to fix my wavering smile, probably overcorrecting. “So, are you going to wait until after Christmas to do the engagement party? Can we have it here? Or maybe—”

       “Your smile is scaring me,” Charlie says.

       “It’s scaring me a bit too,” I say with a sigh, taking a bigger sip of the hot chocolate. “Have you told your mother?”

       Charlie’s not close to her parents, both of whom are stern corporate types who aren’t pleased their only child is a bohemian artist whose environmentalist boyfriend makes a living following birds around.

       “Yes, and she’s thrilled,” Charlie jokes with sparkling eyes.

       “Come, sit.” Eileen gestures to the pink armchairs assembled in the corner of the room by the front window.

       A visiting businessman once fell asleep in one of those armchairs. Of course, Eileen being Eileen, she’d sent over a single local woman to wake him up, hoping it might be their meet-cute. It might have worked if he hadn’t jolted and accidentally spilled the cold coffee he was still holding all over her blouse.

       We lower into the chairs, and Charlie sets her hot chocolate on the coffee table and takes my hand.

       “Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s just, I pulled the last prompt from the magic ball last night. It’s hard to believe it’s over.”

       Her eyes widen and she swears. “It was last night? Oh shit. I’m such a selfish bi—”

       “No,” I say, squeezing her hand. “You’re happy. You should be happy! You and Lars are getting married, and you’re going to have lots of enormous children together, and probably way too many pets for two people to take care of.”

       Eileen chuckles.

       “Very funny,” Charlie says, pulling off her cap. A few hairs dance above her head, static-charged. “And what an obvious deflection. I should have been there, Lucy. We should have done it together. What was this one?”

       “Dancing to Britney Spears. It was cathartic until I realized the blinds were open and someone was watching me from the street.”

       “Was it a man?” Eileen asks excitedly.

       “Oh, here it comes,” I groan. “You’ve got one of your assistants engaged, and you’ve already moved on to the next.”

       “As if you weren’t always on her matchmaking docket,” Charlie says. “She’s got half a dozen schemes running. You’ve seen her list.”

       I have. Eileen keeps a Google doc of the town’s single people and is constantly trying to match them up. I know several of the people on her list, of course, and most of them aren’t aware they’re on there. I know for a fact that Audrey, the fantastically talented chef/owner of Making Whoopie, the bakery just next door to us, has no idea that Eileen has an ebbing and flowing list of candidates for her.

       “Charlie’s right,” Eileen confirms. “But you’re my number one priority this Christmas. I already have a short list of candidates for you, which is shorter now that Charlie crossed off two of them.”

       “You’ll thank me later,” she says with a grimace. “They were serious duds. One of them is that guy who’s so terrified of Skippy he leapt into traffic and got hit by a car going five miles an hour.”

       Skippy is the town dog, a sweet Saint Bernard who has as many owners as there are people in Hideaway Harbor. He sleeps wherever he wants but never lacks for a warm bed.

       Eileen grimaces. “Yes, I’d forgotten about that.” Glancing at me, she says, “I’d love to see you with one of those Hawthorne brothers. There’s a fortune on the line with that massive fishery of theirs, you know.”
      I make a face. “I get seasick.”

       “Or one of the handsome Cafiero boys next door.” Her face lights up with the idea, but then she purses her lips. “It’s too bad Francesca is still cross with us.”

       “That’s one way of putting it,” I murmur.

       The Cafieros run Hidden Italy, the Italian delicatessen, catering service, and gourmet grocery next door, accessible only by a curving stone stairway leading down to the Hellmouth…or so Charlie and I like to joke. The two of us went there for lunch three times the week of my spring visit—there is no better eggplant parmesan sub in the continental United States—but our love affair with it was short-lived. We’ve been…well…banned.

       There are a couple of reasons behind our ban. For one, Francesca’s granddaughter, Aria Cafiero, dated Lars before Charlie “got her claws into him,” and even though Aria has moved on, her grandmother holds a grudge. Especially since Aria accepted a job at a resort in Greece and now lives halfway around the world.

But I have to be totally honest: I’m the main reason we were banned.

       On my first week at Love at First Sip, a gorgeous blonde woman ran into the café sobbing. I was alone. Eileen was on a store run to pick up more oat milk, and no one else had come in, so I flipped the sign to CLOSED, made the woman a Byron, and sat down across from her. She told me all about her problems with her boyfriend Lorenzo, who constantly prioritized work and family over her. I patted her hand and assured her that she had every right to feel important in her own relationship.

      Turns out she’d been talking about Enzo Cafiero, the Cafiero golden child and eldest son.

      Apparently Enzo moved to New York City years ago to work as some kind of consultant. But that particular weekend, right after I’d moved here, he and his girlfriend were visiting his family here in town. According to her, he’d ignored her the whole time. He sounded like a total jerk and a terrible boyfriend, and I let her know it.

       Within an hour of her conversation with me in the café, she’d dumped him and reserved a weekend spot at The Haven.

       I know this because Enzo stormed in with a red face later that day and asked who’d given his girlfriend such stupid advice. I knew it was him because of the leading question, and also because he looked a lot like his two younger brothers—tall and broad with olive-toned skin, black hair, and thick, arching eyebrows over dark eyes surrounded by long lashes. Charlie describes the Cafiero eyes as brooding. Brooding eyes are her favorite to paint, even on the dogs she does portraits for.

       It was not as fun to stare into a pair of brooding eyes on a six-foot-one man, especially one with a frown that instantly made me feel smaller. He was gorgeous, he obviously knew it, and he was even more intimidating because of it.

       I gulped in air, choked on it, and then raised a hand like a middle schooler who knew they had the wrong answer.

       He gave me a withering look and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

       “No,” I lied, because anyone who asks that question should be given exactly that answer.

       “I’m Lorenzo Cafiero.”

       I didn’t give him the reaction he was obviously searching for; I just tilted my head slightly.

       “I’m the man you screwed over. What qualifies you to give relationship advice to a stranger? You’re what, twenty-one, twenty-two?”
      Honestly. I’m perfectly capable of being confrontational when the situation calls for it—I had to stand up to medical professionals while taking care of my mother—and I wasn’t about to take BS from some gorgeous alpha jerk.

       “I’m twenty-eight,” I told him, standing up straighter.

       “And you still haven’t answered my first question.”

       “Seriously?” I said, exasperated. “Fine. Nothing qualifies me. But I’m not the one who made your ex cry, or the one who broke up with you. And the fact that you’re here complaining and not kneeling at her feet says a lot.”

       He stared me down for a solid twenty seconds. And I stared back, full of anger but frozen in place, like I’d been turned into a mannequin. Then he shook his head, swore in Italian, and said, “I don’t kneel at anyone’s feet.”

       The way he’d said it unnerved me, but I found myself replying, “Then we both know why she wasn’t satisfied.”

       It was a dumb thing for me to say, considering how little experience I’ve had with real-life dating, but I’ve read hundreds of books, maybe thousands. I know what men do to satisfy their women, even if I’ve mostly been left cold.

       Someone in the café started giggling, but Enzo darted a furious glance at them, and they stopped immediately. He shifted his gaze back to me. “I never leave a woman unsatisfied.”

       The intensity of his tone, paired with that dark glower, was very…intimidating. It made my knees feel like jelly. But I stood tall and lifted my chin, saying, “Then I guess it must have been your sparkling personality she found lacking.”

       Enzo glared at me for a moment, his jaw clenched. Then he just stormed off…  

      The next day the Cafieros posted a flyer announcing our banishment from their deli, right where we were sure to see it, on the door by the stairs leading down to Hidden Italy. Not just a written notice either, but a flyer with actual photos of me, Charlie, and Eileen—stolen from our Facebook accounts—with big Xs printed over our faces.

     People came in and asked us about it all day long, and each time, it generated a fresh wave of embarrassment. Especially since the whole town of Hideaway Harbor is always playing a game of telephone, where stories become embellished with each telling until they only slightly resemble what actually happened.

     For a whole week, that flyer stayed up. Until finally a torrential rainstorm took care of it. I suppose it could’ve been one of the other Cafiero boys who actually took it down. They’re big and handsome like Enzo, but they aren’t outwardly hostile. Then again, they did allow their family’s anti-us flyer to stay up for a whole week.

     That was nearly four months ago, but even now, Eileen’s offhand comment about Francesca Cafiero still being “cross” with us brings all the humiliation rushing back. Until those damn Cafieros, I’d never been banned from anywhere.

       “The Cafieros are all jerks,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat with remembered embarrassment. “Hot jerks, but still jerks.”

       “Well, I’m not so sure about that,” Eileen says. “Though I haven’t forgotten that Enzo did behave abominably toward you that day.”

       “Exactly. He’s not at all the kind of  man I’d want to be set up with. So let’s move on. Mom said I need a man with a soft heart.” In addition to the magic ball, my mom also left me a heartfelt letter I’ve read at least a hundred times. In it, she wrote that she was sorry she wouldn’t be able to make it to my wedding and listed all the qualities she thought I should look for in a man.

       Charlie grins and waggles her eyebrows. “Softhearted, maybe, but not soft—”

       “Very funny,” I say. “But yes, obviously.” I pause. “Look, you know how much I want a family. I’m not resistant to trying this matchmaking thing, but I don’t know how to date anymore. I’m totally out of practice.”

I dated a normal amount in high school and in my one semester of college, but for the last eight years, I focused on taking care of my mom. I finished my undergrad math degree online and got a tutoring job that allowed me the flexibility I needed. I still went on dates—Mom insisted on it—but it turns out telling twenty-something guys you’re a caretaker for your dying mom is a buzzkill.

       I told Charlie as much back then, but she refused to see my situation as hopeless. Her solution? I should try being someone else for a night. A stunt pilot. An actress on the lam from Hollywood. Anything I wanted…

       But I wanted to find a man who wanted me, and none of them did. I was too stubborn to pretend to be someone else for their benefit.

       Now, I have no reason to lie about what I’m doing. I’m working here at the café and taking some programming classes to help me develop an idea I have for an app. But I’ve only gone out with four men since moving here, and they were very unremarkable.

       One of the guys clearly only wanted to talk about himself, and he wasn’t interesting enough for me to tolerate it.

       Another ordered dinner for me while I was in the restroom. He’d chosen poorly.

      The other two had immediately disqualified themselves for future dates with their reaction to learning about my virginity on Date Number Three. But while it’s proven to be an effective litmus test for men, I’ve kept my virginity a secret from Eileen and even Charlie. I know they’d offer advice, and it would be excruciatingly embarrassing.

       “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to go on dates,” Charlie says, rolling her eyes. “There’s no manual.”

       “Actually, there are a million manuals about dating, and they all offer conflicting advice. That’s the problem. If there were only one manual, it would be easier to navigate.”

Eileen taps her lips. “What if you could practice dating with very low stakes?”

       “Like by dating the two dudes I crossed off your list?” Charlie asks, laughing. “Those would be low stakes.”

       “No,” she says slowly. “What if we have an event at the café? Santa Speed Dating.”

       My jaw drops. “Like…all of the men will be dressed up like Santa?” My mind conjures a roomful of Santas drinking hot chocolate from pink mugs, their fake white beards stained with it, and laughter tries to spill out.

       “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Charlie says with a grin. “Would you be less nervous if the guys are in costume?”

       I consider this. “Maybe. I’ve never had a daddy kink. Will I have to wear a costume?”

       “Only Christmas colors, dear,” Eileen says. “Let’s make the men work for it. Oh, this is an idea. I’ll have to get it added to the town calendar. We can do it on the day we host the Advent calendar. We’re December second this year.” Her mouth flattens slightly, the closest to a disapproving frown it gets. “Hidden Italy has the first.”

       “They didn’t even put up any twinkle lights last year,” Charlie says, full of indignant rage.

       “That’s because they live in the Hellmouth,” I joke.

       “Well, they do have something planned this year,” Eileen says, “and I’m truly happy for them. They’ve had some business troubles lately, something to do with the accounts. So they could stand to have a little holiday magic in their lives. Still, I’ll confess I was a little miffed we didn’t get the first day.”

       The Advent calendar is a Hideaway Harbor tradition. Each day in December, the calendar is carted to a different Hideaway location, which hosts the unveiling of the day’s number in the countdown to Christmas. The business that hosts the big reveal usually holds some big event in honor of it. The bigger the event, the better the publicity. Sometimes local celebrities reveal the countdown number. Other times it’s someone dressed up like Larry the Lobstah, the town’s mascot, or one of Santa’s elves. On one memorable occasion, one of the owners of Hook, Wine, and Sinker dressed up as the clown from It. Or so Eileen told me. This will be my first Hideaway Harbor Christmas.

       It’s a big deal here, I’m told. Which is a relief, because I’ve decided to reclaim Christmas.

       Last Christmas was awful, the first without my mom, but I’m determined this one will be full of holiday magic.

       Eyes gleaming, Eileen adds, “Perhaps we’ll make a signature drink for it too. I’ve been experimenting with crème brûlée lattes.”

       “And a signature sweet,” Charlie says, getting into the spirit of the thing. “What if it’s a gelatin dessert called the bowlful of jelly?”

       I laugh, but there’s an uneasy edge to it. The truth is, I’d rather work at holiday speed dating event than participate in it. An hour of five-minute dates with men dressed in Santa suits sounds stressful.

Maybe they’re right, though: if I practice with softballs, I might someday be able to play baseball.

       “That wouldn’t give us much time to prepare,” I point out. “It’s already November twenty-sixth.”

       “Oh, what’s to prepare?” Charlie says offhandedly. “All we need to do is buy some discount Santa suits in bulk, and we’re good to go. You know, I bet the tourists will actually love this.”

       “It could become a yearly tradition,” Eileen says brightly. “But why stop there? Why limit our attempts to find Lucy a man?”

       “Why indeed?” Charlie says with a snort. “Why ever stop anywhere?”

       Eileen turns to me. “I’ll have an event every night in December if it helps us find you a fine young man. We’re going to get this sorted before a jolly old man makes his way down the chimneys of every house in Hideaway Harbor.”

       “That sounds way more disturbing than I think you intended it to,” Charlie says with a grin.

       “Oh, it was intended.” She smiles at us both. “I love you girls. My purpose is to see all of you beautiful young people happily settled.”

       Charlie seems to agree with Eileen’s declaration, offering her a reassuring pat on the hand. Then she turns to me with a hopeful expression. “I have to get going for now, but I’m in complete agreement with Eileen. I want you to fall madly in love, get engaged, and then we’re going to have a joint wedding. It’s written in the stars.”

       “Only if we exclusively play Britney Spears at the reception.”

       “Yes, Lars will be totally on board with that.” Charlie blows us kisses, then carries her hot chocolate mug to the sink and rinses it before leaving, letting in a waft of freezing air.

       Eileen gives me a tender look over the rim of her mug. “It’s going to be okay, Lucy.”

       “I know,” I say thickly, but we both know I don’t mean it.

       She takes my hand and squeezes. “I hope you don’t think I overstepped, but I made an Advent calendar for you.” She wrings her hands together. “Each day offers a different suggestion for how you can enjoy the season. I thought you might miss having—”

       Before she can get all the words out, I’m already hugging her, feeling the press of tears behind my eyes. Oh, dear, sweet Eileen. Here she goes again, giving people what they didn’t know they needed. “Thank you. Thank you.”

      

​

Chapter Two

Enzo

 

December 1

 

       I’d promised myself I’d never have anything to do with Hidden Italy. It was my grandfather’s business and then my dad’s (in name), but anyone who knows my family knows the truth—Nonna Francesca has always run the show. She still does, at eighty-three, long after Dad retired to Charleston, but as she always says, eighty-three is different for a Sicilian woman. It’s only made me tougher, caro, like a piece of dry salume.

       “I don’t want to be here,” I complain over the phone to my sister, Aria, as I straighten my tie in Aria’s mirror. I’m using the landline because Hideaway Harbor is so remote, so inconvenient, that most cell phone conversations tend to be cut short by bad service.

       I’m staying in Aria’s old apartment because when she left town she still had five months on her lease. Her landlord was a real dick about it, so I offered to take over the lease and stay here during my visits to Hideaway Harbor. At the time, I didn’t expect to end up living here, but no one with even half an ego ever expects their world to implode.

       But here I am in Hideaway Harbor, where it’s five and has been dark for almost an hour, and Aria’s halfway across the world, up past midnight, because that’s what twenty-five-year-olds do when they’re living the good life.

       I’ve been here a week, and it already feels like too long.

       “I know you don’t want to be there,” Aria says softly.

       My sister is the only one in the family I’d ever admit that to. My brothers, Nico and Giovanni, would never leave this town. It’s in their blood. They constantly bitch about Dad’s choice to spend most of his retirement in a fishing boat off the coast of South Carolina, not that Dad had bothered much with the deli or any family matters even when he was here.

       All of the Cafiero kids worked at Hidden Italy as teenagers, either the catering business or the store, and my brothers still do. Nico makes the food and Giovanni manages the stocking and the kids and seasonal employees who man the register. Nonna oversees the entire operation and keeps the books. Which is what’s caused this colossal fucking problem.

       When I told my brothers they shouldn’t have been allowing an eighty-three-year-old woman to be in charge of the math, they’d acted shocked.

       She’s always done the books, Nico had said.

       Yes, but she used to be able to see.

       She’s got glasses.

       And doesn’t wear them, whether out of vanity or pure stubbornness I couldn’t say. It doesn’t help that she’s still using a real paper book to do the accounting. One that looks as old as she is, although I know better than to say so.

       The result? Hidden Italy is in the hole, and someone has to pull it out.

       Hello, I’m Enzo Cafiero, and I’m “someone.”

       It was my idea to petition for the first day of the Advent calendar unveiling to be held at Hidden Italy. Someone had to. Nonna would never have appealed to the mayor for a favor, no matter how badly the family business might need it. The woman can hold grudges for decades, and she’d held one against Mayor Locke for ages, having famously declared the man was dead to her was dead to her after he said Nico had made him a dry sandwich.

       It was dry. Nico had been nursing the hangover from hell, and he’d forgotten to use the oil and vinegar. Nonna knows this. But never let the truth get in the way of making a point when a Cafiero is involved.

       I was not about to let Nonna’s pettiness get in the way of fixing things. So I took the mayor out for lunch at Hideaway Café well over a month ago, back when I still had my own life in New York City, and insisted that he wouldn’t regret it if he advocated for scheduling Hidden Italy for the advent calendar’s first day this year.

       “But you never decorate for the holiday,” he objected. There was mayo streaked across his face, but I wasn’t about to tell him and risk the possibility of inflaming old grudges about condiments.

       “We will this year,” I promised. “And my best friend is willing to be the guest of honor. You saw Will’s book hit the bestseller list, right?”

       I was stretching, and I knew it. Sure, my high school buddy Will was a bestselling author now, but he’d written a book about finance that was so boring I’d only managed to skim it. He probably wouldn’t appreciate me offering his services, but desperate times…

       “No. No need for Will to make the trip on a weekday. I want your grandmother to be the one who unveils the number,” Mayor Locke insisted stubbornly, pushing his plate away. And I knew this was his revenge for the dry sandwich.

       He wanted to be the man who made Francesca Cafiero swallow her pride and act grateful the man who’d dared question her family.  

       I made him that impossible promise, because I was supposed to be the man who made miracles happen. The man who’d taken a company that had been in the red and given them their best year ever.

       If I could do it for a huge, multinational corporation, I could surely do it for an old mom-and-pop shop like Hidden Italy. Even if I privately thought we’d be better off if we just gave it up.

       But that was probably the one thing that would put Nonna in her grave, and no one wanted to be the Cafiero responsible for that.

       “Of course you don’t want to be there, dipshit,” Aria says with her usual grace. “But you just lost your job, and the family needs help, so you got to swoop in like Superman.”

“I didn’t lose it,” I say, scowling at my reflection. “I decided to step away. It was getting stale.”

“And there’s definitely nothing else to that story,” she says wryly. “But you’d obviously like to change the subject, so I’ll play along. Nico showed me the decorations at the shop. They’re classy. You do it yourself?”

       “What do you take me for?”

       “A person capable of stringing lights?”

       I laugh, rearranging my collar so it’s perfectly centered. “I paid a couple of high school kids. Look at me supporting the locals. But I did get Nico to make panettone.”

       Everyone in the family knows panettone is Nico’s nemesis. It all tastes the same to me, which is why I was never the chef in the family, but he’s never happy with his efforts.

       “Already making waves. Enzo to the rescue.”

       “Giovanni’s into it too. He made us all wear suits.”

       “You sure it was Giovanni and not you?”

       “I know, I’m proud of him too. We look like Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. We’re going to sing a Christmas carol while Nonna tears off the number.”

       She snorts. “Does Nico have a suit?”

       “He does now,” I say, smiling at the memory of suit shopping with my brother, who only owned a single button-up shirt.

       “I wish I were there to see that,” she says with a sigh. “What else are you guys planning?”

       “Samples from the deli and the good stuff we import.” I roll my eyes at my reflection. “Lots of samples of that damn Italian sub, because Nonna’s determined to prove, once and for all, that it’s not dry.”

       “She does enjoy making a point,” my sister muses. “But she’s not wrong to want to prove we can make a good Italian sub. What kind of Italian deli can’t make an Italian sub? It’s a bad look. How about entertainment?”

       “Didn’t I say we’d be singing?”

       “Yeah, but you know how it goes. Everyone likes to pull out all the stops for these things.”

       “We make and sell food,” I point out. “Tonight we’re giving it away. I offered to have Will come up, but the mayor didn’t seem interested. Though I have to be honest: when Will starts talking about finance law, my eyes cross, and I like finance law.”

       “Oh God,” Aria says in disgust. “Will was your big idea? I’m with the mayor on that one. Couldn’t you do a Secret Santa thing or hire someone to dance to the Nutcracker or something?”

       “Those would have been useful suggestions a few days ago.”

       She laughs. “Fine. Don’t worry. It’s going to be awesome. Lots of single ladies who come in to ogle you and eat Nico’s food. Take photos. That goes for the whole holiday season. Especially of the lobster trap tree. That’s my favorite.”

       It’s a Hideaway Harbor tradition—an enormous tree made entirely of lobster traps with a glowing lobster at the top. Every year they make a big show of having one of the antique Hawthorne Fisheries boats ferry a costumed Larry the Lobstah to light the hideous tree, with plenty of pomp and circumstance and as little production value as an elementary school play. But you’ve got to keep the tourists, and my little sister, happy.

       “Ooh, and definitely get photos of Amanda Willis if you can,” she says, referring to the movie star who oversaw the tree-lighting in town square last weekend.

       “I’m sure that’s exactly why she came here. Because she wants us hiding behind telephone poles to snap photos of her.”

       “She probably wouldn’t mind. She seems really nice. I’ve heard she’s going to be around for a while.”

       “You’re not coming home for Christmas?” I ask, turning from the mirror. The tie is straight enough.

       “No,” she says with a snort. “Lars just got engaged, and I don’t need to hear Nonna flipping out every five minutes about my biological clock and her need for great-grandchildren. As if I don’t have three older brothers who are perfectly capable of impregnating women.”

       “Should I go around offering that tonight?” I ask. “Would you like a sample of the lobster ravioli, or maybe some semen? It would definitely be a new spin on holiday entertaining.”

       She snort-laughs, and I feel a pang of missing her.

       The last time I saw her, she’d been crying inconsolably over that blond asshole Lars. What she’d seen in a guy who spent his whole life chasing after birds, I’ll never know. What I do know is that he wasn’t good enough for my sister. Then again, no man could be.

       I’d told her so once before, and she’d asked, What about a girlfriend? Would you do the whole pompous, chest-beating thing if I had a girlfriend?

       I’d considered her question for a second before shrugging and admitting I probably wouldn’t. She’d retorted that I was a chauvinist grandma’s boy, I’d agreed, and we’d both had a laugh.

       God, I miss laughing with her.

       It was that asshole’s fault she left, even if he hadn’t accepted the job in Greece for her or driven her to the airport.
      No, I was the one who’d brought her there.

Four months ago, Rachelle and I had come to Hideaway for a weekend visit with my family. She’d made plenty of “quaint” plans, but I’d put them on hold so I could help my sister with her spontaneous move to Greece. I’d helped her pack, then driven her to the airport. Rachelle had elected not to come. Apparently, she’d pitched a fit about what a terrible boyfriend I was as soon as the car disappeared from view, first to Nonna, who’d been less than sympathetic, and then to a stranger in the café next door.

       I still don’t know exactly what the barista said to her, but when I came back, Rachelle was already packing her bags for a weekend at The Haven spa. She acted like the death of our relationship was old news. The only thing she wanted to talk about was the spa’s wellness treatments, and did I think her skin looked “old”?

       Naturally, I had questions about what the fuck had happened in the couple of hours I’d been gone. So I went over to Love at First Sip—stomped, I can hear my sister saying—and asked.

       The woman behind the front counter had looked so innocent I could hardly believe she was the one who’d screwed me over. She had one of those faces that made me think of the ceiling frescoes in Rome—long curly hair and sweet rounded cheeks.

A new soul, my grandmother would probably have said. Then again, my grandmother can be superstitious and has strange beliefs ingrained so deeply into her personality it would be impossible to change or update them.

       But this girl didn’t talk like an innocent. I can still hear her telling me that if I didn’t like getting down on my knees, I couldn’t possibly have satisfied Rachelle.

       The absolute nerve.

       Also completely untrue. Rachelle’s problem with me was that I’d prioritized my sister over her, which I was totally unwilling to apologize for. Family is everything to me. Rachelle’s inability to accept that meant we would never have worked out long term.

       “Enzo?” my sister says. “Earth to Enzo. Are you still there?”

       “Yeah,” I say, leaving the bedroom. “The event doesn’t start for a couple of hours, but I’m going to head over to the shop to remind Nonna to get along with everyone. Don’t be surprised if you never hear from me again.”

       She laughs. “The worst that’ll happen to you is a swat from a wooden spoon. That woman worships the ground you boys walk on. Always has.”

       “She feels the same way about you,” I tell her. “She banned three people from the deli on your behalf.”

       She makes a sound of disbelief. “It was all because of you and that awful woman you were dating.”

       “Is this where you tell me no one’s good enough for me?”

       “Oh, there are plenty of women who are good enough for you. You just have awful taste. But I love you anyway. I’ll drink some ouzo in your honor.”

       Greek ouzo isn’t the same as the Italian stuff, but I don’t say so.

       I also don’t tell her that I haven’t dated at all since Rachelle and I broke up four months ago. After our break up, I went back to New York City, and I barely had any downtime before I stepped right into another crisis, this one at work. The situation was more complicated than I’d let on, but I had, technically, quit my consulting job. By then, I already knew things weren’t going so hot in Hideaway Harbor. So I did what any good grandson would.

       I came home to help fix them.

       When you’re going through back-to-back crises, getting laid is the last thing on your mind. But the dominoes have all stopped falling—I’m not going to look for a new job until Hidden Italy starts turning a healthy profit—which means I’ve started noticing my months-long dry spell. It’s gotten bad enough that a Victoria’s Secret catalogue can make my blood heat.

       I know better than to screw around in my home town, though. I’ve made that mistake before. Won’t be doing it again.

       “You do that. Saluti.”

       “Down the hatch,” Aria replies, and I can tell she’s smiling. “Don’t be too much of a grinch.”

       I make no promises as I end the call and then put on my outdoor things.

Here goes nothing.

       I step out of the apartment, lock the door, and then glance down the hall at the door of the unit with the street-facing window. I know a woman lives there—the other night I was walking home and looked up from the street and saw her silhouette dancing. Her apartment was dark other than the glow of a Christmas tree, so I’d only seen her shadow, pirouetting gracefully and without any self-consciousness.

       Until she looked down and spotted me on the street. She’d shut her curtains like I was some pervert, which had made me feel like one. But that wasn’t why I’d been watching her.

       It was one of those stolen moments when you get a glimpse into a stranger’s life—not the polished version they show the world, but them, through and through.

       I’m curious about her now.

       I’d like to know why she was dancing at midnight, her body gliding in concentric circles.

       Acting on impulse, I head back into the apartment and scrawl a quick note into a blank notecard. I fold it and then prop it against her door on my way out.

 

***

 

       It’s cold as a witch’s tit tonight, colder than it should be for early December, but instead of heading straight to Hidden Italy, I make my way to the stone bridge spanning the spring that supplies the town with water. It’s the famous Wishing Bridge. Locals, known as Hidies, and tourists have been coming here for years to whisper their wishes and express their love for their significant other or a secret crush by attaching a lock to one of the detachable metal spokes supporting the railing. They’re always covered with them, practically from top to bottom, even though the town removes them regularly.

       It’s a place for desperate people, and I feel stupid as soon as I get there. I’m not a man who believes in wishes. Action is the only thing that matters.

       But this place reminds me of the innocence of childhood. Of when I was young enough to think a jolly old man in a fancy red suit, trespassing, could solve my problems—or that a wish, made on a bridge, could change a life.

       I’m not that person anymore. Still, I’m here, so I stand at the edge, looking down at the water—freezing my ass off, if I’m being truthful—and say, “I want a miracle.”

Then, louder, “I can make a miracle happen.”

       Because I’m Enzo Cafiero, damn it. The man who makes miracles happen. I may have been humbled professionally, but my name still has to mean something. I need it to.

       “Someone’s watching us,” I hear a voice hiss in an undertone nearby. “Put on your pants.”

       I sigh, remembering this is also a make-out spot—and sometimes a public sex spot. I came here often enough when I was younger and looking for a place I could get some action without getting caught.

       I turn to leave, and nearly collide with a woman.

       It takes me only three seconds to register which woman. It’s the barista from Love at First Sip. The woman who took a hammer to my relationship and then questioned my virility in front of my neighbors.

       She’s in a thick coat, mittens, and boots, but there’s nothing concealing her hair. It’s long and curly and lush, surrounding her face and covering her shoulders. Her hair’s what makes her look like one of Michaelangelo’s or Raphael’s angels. From the dim glow of the lights at either end of the bridge, I can see her eyes are a deep mossy green, a color that makes me think of being lost in the woods.

For a second, I’m speechless. Was she this beautiful four months ago? Surely I would have noticed. A man notices when a fist pounds him in the face, and that’s what her beauty is, a fist to the face, or maybe the gut.

       Then again, the low lighting does something for her, along with the setting of the stone bridge. She looks unreal. As if she’s a Christmas angel sent in response to my wish…

       The thought instantly pisses me off, because I should know better. Nobody cares about mortal wishes, neither the ones we keep silent, nor the ones we shout to the skies. And the only person who can solve my family’s problems is me. It’s always been that way, from the day my mother left. Or maybe the day we realized she was never coming back.

       The woman gives me a baffled look. “What are you doing here?”

       The way she says it makes me bristle. The magic of the bridge fades away, and I’m so angry at myself for having momentarily believed in it that I snap. “This is my hometown. What are you doing here?”

       There’s a hurt look on her face, and for a moment I feel guilty, until her features harden and she says, “You willingly left. I moved to Hideaway Harbor because I love it.”

       “Do you also enjoy watching strangers have sex?”

       Her eyes widen and she steps back, nearly colliding with the stone railing of the Wishing Bridge. It’s too low, and if she’s not careful, she could careen right off it.

       Alarm sets my heart hammering within my ribs, and I grab her hand to pull her away from it. She bounces against me, her body molded to mine for half a second—long enough for me to smell her hair. Spicy and sweet, like one of those candles my sister left all around the apartment. I breathe it in deeply, the cold air stinging my nose.

       The woman jerks away from me, her eyes ablaze.

       “You nearly fell,” I say quickly.

       “I did no such thing.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you some kind of…” Her gaze darts around before she whispers, “pervert?”
      For a second, I’m rendered speechless, both by the question and the way it was delivered. Then the injustice of the accusation registers. “First I don’t know how to please a woman, and now I’m a pervert? I can’t keep up.”

       “The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

       I wave toward the edge of the bridge. “There’s a couple down there having some fun. I was trying to save you from a peep show. Then again, maybe that’s why you’re here. You and your boss obviously get off on messing with people’s love lives.”

       It’s not a fair thing to say, but I wasn’t raised to fight fair. I was raised to win.

       From the way she’s looking at me, though, she doesn’t see me as a winner, just as an asshole. Then her eyes focus on something behind me. I glance back to see a couple of twenty-somethings, now fully clothed, creeping up the other side of the bank, almost level with the bridge. The man’s smoking a cigarette.

       She sneezes as the smoke reaches us and then starts coughing. She wheezes out “allergic” before asking in an undertone, “They were really doing that?” There’s a hint of innocence in her response, which makes me feel a softness toward her I stifle.

       “I tried to warn you,” I say. “It’s a known hookup spot.”

       She arches her brow. “So what are you doing here? As a Hidie, you should have known.”

       I shrug. I’d prefer for her to write me off as a pervert than to guess the truth—that I’m scared I’m going to fail my family, and I’m superstitious enough to have found myself here tonight.

       “Maybe you were right, and I just wanted to take in the view,” I lie.

       She shakes her head and looks at me like I’m an idiot. I’m familiar with that look: I’m on the receiving end often enough from Nonna.

       “You expect me to explain myself to you,” I say, “and I don’t even know your name. Maybe we should start there.”

       “I’m not telling you my name.”

       I lift my eyebrows. “That hardly seems fair. You know my name.”

       “Because you marched into the coffee shop like an arrogant jerk and announced it like it was supposed to mean something. I’d forget it if I could.”

       I smile at her, somewhat enjoying myself. “But you can’t, can you? You clearly haven’t forgotten me at all, if you’ve been carrying around a grudge all these months.”

       Her cheeks turn a pretty pink. She points a gloved finger at me. “You’re the one who had his grandmother ban me from her store. That’s low.”

       “I don’t tell her what to do,” I say with a snort. It’s true enough. Nonna Francesca doesn’t ask for permission, never has. By the time she issued her “ban,” I’d already returned to New York following my disastrous weekend visit in Hideaway. I didn’t even learn about it until Giovanni called to tell me he’d torn down the flyer our grandmother had posted outside of Hidden Italy. Apparently he’d done it while Nonna was getting her hair curled. But this woman doesn’t need to know all of that. “You really won’t tell me your name?”

       “No.”

       “Okay, fine. I’ll call you Devil Woman. It suits you.”

       Her lips pinch together. “You know, the Sip may only be hosting the second day of the Advent calendar, but it’s going to be the one everyone talks about. You’re not going to get much of a crowd tonight.”

       There’s a smug look on her face, like she knows something I don’t.

       “Are you talking about Santa Speed Dating?” I ask archly, laughter bubbling up. “You think that’s going to blow a classy cocktail party out of the water?”

       I’ve seen the flyers, along with everyone else in town. They must have ordered them by the truckload, because they’re everywhere I look. It feels like the shirtless Santa on them is stalking me. I stopped by Hard to Find Bookstore yesterday because Will wanted to know if they had his book in stock, and there was a thick stack of them by the cash register.

       On the poster, Santa’s velvet coat is open to show his abs, and beneath his dancing feet it reads:

 

Santa Speed Dating, December 2 at 7 p.m.

Dress festive!

Santa found Mrs. Claus, and you could find your soulmate too!

(beards, hats, and coats available)

 

       I shook my head in amusement, because the scheme had Eileen all over it. Although I hadn’t spent much time in Hideaway since she lost her husband, Murray, I heard all about her matchmaking schemes from my grandmother and my two single brothers. Especially after Lars got with Charlie.

       Devil Woman is still looking at me with victory all over her face, so I say, “I saw those ridiculous flyers.”

       She stiffens, and laughter bursts out of me before I can stop it. It’s the complete affront in her expression.

       “You made them, didn’t you?” I ask. “Who posed for you?”

       “It’s a stock image,” she snaps. “Eileen and I designed it together.”

       “Are you going?” I ask. “Or is there a Mr. Claus at home who didn’t make the cut to be a model?”

       “I’m going. You’re definitely not.”

       “You’ve got that right. You couldn’t pay me to go,” I retort. “And I’m sure most of the guys around town would say the same.”

       She gives an aggrieved sniff, looking down at the gently flowing water beneath us. “Shows how much you know. We sold out within hours of distributing the flyers. We’re thinking about doing a second round so we don’t leave anyone disappointed.”
      “You’ll leave people disappointed, all right. You ever been speed dating?”

       “Have you?” she asks pointedly, her eyes full of fire when they meet mine again. A breeze brushes one of those impossible curls across her face, and I have the unhinged urge to brush it behind her ear.

       “No,” I have to admit. “But I can’t imagine you get past useless pleasantries if you only have five minutes.”

       “Sounds like it would be your ideal form of dating.”

       I laugh, because damn, I obviously got off on the wrong foot with her. And then I stepped that wrong foot straight into a pile of shit.

       “I’m sure it’ll be great,” I say. “Really…festive.”

       Her scowl deepens. “You say that like it’s a dirty word.”
      I shrug. “You know this town loves their celebrations. Anything to please the tourists.”

       “The tourists are why we get to have all of this.” She throws one arm wide, almost like she’s going to burst into song. “A little place like this wouldn’t have this much entertainment without them. Or so many great restaurants and bars.”

       “Yeah, lucky us,” I say wryly. “Some of them might even choose to stay forever, like you. The newest residents always shout the loudest about what a great place this is. But they don’t have much to say about the cold winters or the gossips. Not a word about the pageantry and showboating.”

       She stares at me mutinously, her lips parting. No doubt preparing some really pointed barbs.

       I hold up a hand to ward off her inevitable outrage. “Listen. Your enthusiasm is admirable. It’s just a little misplaced.”

       She plants a hand on her hip, the rounded curve visible even through her coat. “I see you’re still mansplaining. Rachelle told me all about that.”

       “Who?” I ask, distracted momentarily by the sight of her hand firmly gripping her hip, though her self-righteous fury quickly tugs me back to awareness.

       “You don’t even remember her name?” she asks incredulously.

       “Of course I do. But I try not to dwell on the past. And don’t you think that’s a low blow?”

       “Yeah, well, you’ve earned it. Wouldn’t you be bitter if I’d shown up at your office to yell at you?”

       “Not really. I would have enjoyed watching security escort you out.”

       I watch, fascinated, as her posture straightens. “Just like I’m going to enjoy watching your event crash and burn,” she snaps. “People around this town want festive. They want fun! That’s why they’re going to be bummed out by your party. If anyone even shows up at your place tonight.”
      “Why wouldn’t they?” I ask, suspicious.

       She lifts one shoulder. “I haven’t seen any flyers for it. Just the town calendar and the notice near your store’s sign.”

       “Word of mouth,” I say, but my heart’s beating faster. Shit, I should have thought about flyers. I’m not operating at one hundred percent, and it’s showing. This was a thoughtless screwup.

       “I heard you don’t even usually decorate your store for Christmas.”

       “How would you know?” I ask. “The flyer may have come down, but I’m guessing you’re still banned.”

       Her mouth firms into a line, her lips soft and pink and full even like this.

       It seems unfair for such a difficult woman to look like she does.

       She huffs, then says, “As if I’d want to go to a place that serves dry sandwiches.”

       Fuck me, I actually laugh. “You know, that’s my little brother’s cooking you’re insulting.”
      If I’d wanted contrition, it’s clear I’m going to be disappointed.

       She looks me straight in the eye. “I was hoping it was yours.”

       Another laugh tries to escape, but I swallow it down. “I’m not a cook. I’m a…” I trail off, because I don’t know what I am anymore, and I certainly don’t owe her any explanations. “I moved back about a week ago. Temporarily. To help my family.”

       “Lucky us,” she says dryly.

       I grin in response, which seems to be the exact opposite of the reaction she was hoping for.

“Oh, just go away and leave me in peace,” she says.

“Ah,” I say knowingly. “I see now.”

      She came to the bridge with a goal, one she has yet to meet. There was no concealing the scandalized expression on her face earlier, so I’m guessing it wasn’t a rendezvous for sex beneath the stars.

      She’s here to make a wish.

      “Don’t let me get in your way,” I say pointedly. “Go ahead and make your wish.” I lean casually against the railing, making it clear I have zero intention of leaving.   

      From her flustered expression, she obviously wants privacy, but I’m not going to leave a woman out here alone in the dark. My grandmother raised me to look after other people. It’s been my role for so long, I don’t know how to stop.

      “Go on then,” I say with a shooing motion. “Wish.”

      “You’re a jerk,” she says, her cheeks pink in the spare light.

       “You wouldn’t be the first person to think so.”
      “I need to be alone.”

       “And I’d be a real asshole to leave you here by yourself, knowing there could be weirdos and flashers hiding underneath the bridge. Can’t do it.”

       “That’s not why you’re staying,” she says fiercely. “You just want to get the last word. Rachelle told me all about that too.”

       I shake my head, smiling tightly. Feeling the burn just like I’m supposed to. This time, I have to admit they both have a point. And since I do like getting the last word, I say, “Rachelle’s not your friend. She probably forgot your name within five minutes of meeting you.”

       “Oh, so she’s like you?”

       I laugh. “We already established that you never told me your name.”

       “You could have asked someone.”

       I raise my eyebrows. “People were already whispering about you calling me a bad lover in front of half a dozen people. You think I wanted to encourage the rumor mill?”

       She has the grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t say you were a bad lover. I said if you didn’t—”

       “Oh, I remember exactly what you said. My brother emailed me the following week’s Lady Lovewatch column, which featured a direct quote. So thank you for that.”

       Lady Lovewatch is the anonymous gossip columnist for our local paper. It’s all very good-natured and civilized, until it’s about you.

       Devil Woman balls her gloved hands into fists. “Since you want to discuss the past, I remember exactly what Rachelle said. That you only care about yourself.”

       I straighten up to my full height. “Hardly. She didn’t like that I cared so much about my family, but blood runs thicker than water.”

       She flinches as if I’d hit her. “Not always.”

       There’s something sharp about the way she says it. Still, my need for the last word pulses inside of me. “When you’re Italian American, always.”

       “No wonder she broke up with you,” she says, lifting her chin like a prizefighter.

       A tired sigh escapes me. “Look, let’s cut this conversation short. You don’t know me. You don’t know this town. You’re an outsider, a tourist who decided not to go home. You’ll always be an outsider.”

       “At least I’m not an asshole.” She whips away from me, one long curl brushing across my arm, and runs off the bridge.

       A feeling of remorse settles into my chest. I was in the wrong, but I wasn’t wrong. A person can’t get the lay of the land that quickly when it comes to something as intimate, as intertwined, as a small town. She may think I’m arrogant, but isn’t it arrogant to assume you know what’s best for a bunch of people you don’t even know?

       At the same time, I’ve stayed away from Hideaway Harbor for years. What right do I have to still call it mine?

       I wait a few minutes to make sure she’s long gone before I set off. She must have come on foot, because I don’t hear an engine turn over.

       I’m about to leave the bridge when I notice a folded piece of  pink paper on the ground. It’s dry and unmarred, freshly dropped. Devil Woman must have lost it as she fled.

       Curious, I stoop to pick it up and open it.

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Make a wish on the Wishing Bridge.

 

Beneath it, in neat, tiny writing, I see:

 

Lose my virginity to a rando so I can be ready for Mr. Perfect.

 

       Holy shit.

       I drop the note as if it had burned me.

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Christmas at Hideaway Harbor is a series of six spicy romantic comedies. The books are interconnected standalones and can be read in any order. Books by Angela Casella, Evie Alexander, Sara L. Hudson, L.B. Dunbar, Lydia Michaels and Enni Amanda. 

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Pre-order The Holiday Hate-Off HERE.

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