Chapter 1: The Curse of Christmas Past

The first mistake I made was agreeing to wear the elf costume.

It was December 25th, 10:00 AM, and I was pinned between my mother, Elaine, who was beaming maniacally, and my younger sister, Daisy, who was live-streaming our descent into seasonal madness on I*******m.

We were standing in the middle of my parents’ overly festive living room, a room that currently smelled of pine, passive aggression, and burnt sugar cookies, and I was wearing green velvet leggings and a tunic with tiny jingle bells sewn onto the collar.

“Say cheese, Sloane!” Mom chirped, adjusting the pointed hat that was currently digging into my scalp.

“I’d rather say ‘I quit’,” I muttered, wrenching myself free. “I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman. I should not be dressed as a supporting cast member from the North Pole.”

“Don’t be such a grinch, honey,” my brother, Peter, called from across the room. He was currently wearing a respectable cardigan and an expression of smug marital bliss as he handed his wife, Jessica, a mug of cider.

Jessica, sweet and perfect Jessica, had bought the whole family matching novelty reindeer pajamas the previous year, which was likely why Peter was deemed sane enough for the sweater this year, while I was relegated to elf duty.

The real reason for the elf costume, of course, was my solo status. In the Holbrook family classification, Christmas status ranked as follows: Married (Triumphant), Engaged (Imminent), Dating Seriously (Promising), and Single (Needs Extensive Festive Intervention).

“Where’s that lovely young man you mentioned, Sloane?” Grandma Holbrook, bless her oblivious heart, materialized at my elbow, clutching a plate piled high with questionable holiday fudge. “The nice accountant? I thought you were bringing him.”

“Oh, that was last month’s lovely young man, Grandma,” I sighed. “He turned out to have a collection of porcelain dolls and the personality of a dish sponge. I had to let him go.”

My mother shot me a warning glance. “Sloane is just focusing on her career right now, Mom.”

“Nonsense!” Grandma declared, taking a bite of fudge. “A girl needs a date for New Year’s Eve! You can’t go through the whole holiday season alone. It’s an American tragedy! Look at poor Susan, she’s on her sixth date this week, just trying to find someone for the ham carving!”

Aunt Susan, the family’s resident serial dater, winked from the kitchen doorway. “It’s true, ladies. The holidays are a survival sport. I need someone who can competently carve a ham and knows how to use a corkscrew. It’s a surprisingly high bar.”

The whole scene, the judgment, the matching sweaters, the insistent Christmas music, was suffocating. I needed air. I needed to escape the collective judgment of the Holbrook women and their endless quest to pair me off before the gingerbread went stale.

“I’m heading out,” I announced, peeling off the cursed elf hat. “I need to return this sweater I bought Peter. It’s the wrong size.”

It was a lie. Peter was perfectly sized. I just needed a civilian zone, free of tinsel and marital smugness.

Mom’s eyes widened. “But the Christmas ham! And what about your single aunt, Brenda? She’s bringing her lovely neighbor!”

“I’ll catch up,” I promised, already halfway out the door.

The moment I stepped onto the snowy, quiet street, a wave of blessed calm washed over me. It was just me, the cold air, and the promise of a quiet few hours away from being pitied for my independence.

I drove aimlessly, eventually pulling into the packed parking lot of a local department store. Maybe I’d buy myself a new book. Maybe I’d just sit in the car and listen to something that wasn’t a carol.

Inside, the store was chaotic with post-Christmas returns. I was navigating the aisle near the electronics section when I saw him.

He was tall, wearing a thick, olive-green jacket, and wrestling a massive flat-screen TV box. His dark hair was messy, and he had a frustrated, yet ridiculously handsome, scowl on his face. He grunted, lost his grip, and the box began to tilt, threatening to crush a display of clearance ornaments.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, instinctively jumping forward and pushing my shoulder into the cardboard corner.

He righted the box, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. He turned and gave me a dazzling, exasperated smile that made my chest momentarily seize.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice deep and unmistakably Australian. “That was a near-death experience for both me and that ceramic Santa.”

“You’re welcome,” I managed, trying not to notice how charming the sweat on his brow made him look. “I’m always happy to save a Santa.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I hate buying stuff the day after Christmas. The crowds, the energy… It’s a minefield. Especially when you’re forced to buy a new TV for your sister who dropped a gingerbread house on her old one.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “I’m here because if I had to hear one more question about my lack of a serious boyfriend for New Year’s, I was going to throw myself into the tree shredder.”

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that turned a few heads. “Ah, the familial guilt trip. The true meaning of Christmas.”

“It’s a nightmare. Valentine’s Day is bad, sure, but the holidays are the Olympics of Judgment. It makes you feel like you need a decoy, a distraction. Just someone you can confidently tell your relatives, ‘Yes, this is my date, stop asking about my uterus.’”

He looked at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His gaze was intense, analytical. “A decoy, huh? A reliable date for every holiday of the year. Someone who wants nothing serious, only survival.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed, feeling instantly understood.

“I’m Jackson,” he said, extending a hand over the massive TV box. “And I think I may have just found my solution to the hell of New Year’s Eve, the trauma of St. Patrick’s Day, and everything in between.”

I shook his hand, feeling a strange jolt that definitely wasn’t electricity from the TV.

“Sloane,” I replied.

Jackson’s smile widened. “How do you feel about committing to a year-long holiday treaty with a complete stranger?”