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)
Lord have mercy.
“Looks like it,” I reply, hoping my voice sounds stronger than the ache inside of me.
Mrs. Kincaid cuts in before either of us can find our footing.“Your cart needs to be finished by five. Age range and family list are already assigned. Drop-offs happen Christmas morning!”
She fixes me with a look that’s sharp but not unkind. “But you already know how this works, don’t you?”
She pauses, eyes flicking between us.
“Oh, and Savannah?”
“Yes?” I brace myself.
Her smile softens. “Your mother always finished early.”
The words slip past my defences.
My breath stutters, grief rising fast and unfiltered. It’s all of it. Being back in Pineview. The house. The mug. The whiteboard. The memory of my mother’s voice layered over everything like it never left. I stare at the floor, willing myself not to break.
Erik shifts closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, firm and grounding. “She would be so happy you’re here,” he assures me, quietly.
Something in my chest gives way just enough to breathe again. I nod once, gripping the clipboard like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
Erik stands, beside me, as if he knows grief doesn’t need fixing. Only company.
The toy store sits at the edge of Main Street, its windows crowded with displays that look like they’ve survived every decade since I was born. Stuffed animals stacked into smiling towers. Plastic trains looping endlessly around a fake snow village that has absolutely never seen a zoning permit. A handwritten sign is taped crookedly to the door:
SANTA’S ANONYMOUS — TOY SHOPPING TODAY
Funded by Community Donations
The letters are uneven, the tape yellowed with age, like it’s been holding on out of sheer loyalty.
“Some things in Pineview are apparently immortal,” I joke, slowing as we approach.
Erik huffs a quiet laugh beside me. “Mrs. Levin would take that as a compliment.”
“She threatened to haunt anyone who modernized this place,” I reply. “Very explicitly.”
“So did everyone else.”
Through the window, I spot her behind the counter. She’s small and sharp-eyed, gray hair pulled into a tight bun that hasn’t shifted since the nineties. Mrs. Ruth Levin. She’s barely five feet tall, built like a bird with opinions, and wearing her usual red cardigan, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched low on her nose as she writes something meticulously on a receipt pad.
She looks exactly the same. It comforts me.
Mrs. Levin always felt like the grandmother I never had. She’s petite, Swedish, and perpetually smells like ginger and wool. She used to slip ginger crisps into my coat pockets when she thought my mother wasn’t looking, winking like we were accomplices. For later, she’d whisper. Life makes you hungry.
The bell jingles as we step inside, and warm air rushes over us, carrying the familiar scent of plastic, cardboard, and something sugary near the register. The store hums with purpose, volunteers comparing lists, parents quietly dropping off new toys, and teenagers hauling boxes toward the back room like this is just another December morning, because for them, it is.
Mrs. Levin looks up immediately. “Well, well, well,” she smiles, peering over her glasses. “If it isn’t Savannah Diane Joy, back in Pineview. To what do we owe the honor?”
My chest tightens at the sound of my full name, but luckily for me, Pineview is filled with sassy old women with great comedic timing.
“Hi, Mrs. Levin,” I chuckle. “It’s really good to see you.”
“You too, dear.” She studies my face like she’s flipping through a photo album in reverse. “You look like your mother,” she says finally. “Not how she looked at the end. How she looked when she laughed.”
The words hit clean and sharp.
I swallow. It’s a compliment I’m happy to receive. “Thank you.”
She nods once, satisfied, then turns her attention to Erik. “And you? You’re late.”
“Barely,” he scoffs.
“Barely is still late,” she replies, but there’s affection tucked into it. “The donations came in early. It’s a good year this year..”
Erik pulls an envelope from his coat pocket and holds it in the air. “This is ours. Ages four to eight.”
She taps it once with a finger. “You always were practical.”
He smiles like it’s a compliment he’s earned.
Mrs. Levin’s gaze slides back to me. “You shopping, or supervising this one?”
“Shopping,” I quip. “With this one.”
“Hm,” she hums and nothing else.
Erik grabs a cart, metal rattling softly as he pulls it free. He rests his hands on the handle like it belongs there, like he belongs here. “All right,” he prepares himself. “The Christmas Kindness Drive budget says ages four to eight. Where do you want to start?”
I hesitate, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. Close enough that I can smell his clean soap and something woodsy underneath it all. It’s familiar in a way that feels almost rude.
He is breathtaking. Even under unforgiving fluorescent lighting, the kind that exposes everyone else, he somehow looks better for it. His face is all sharp planes and quiet confidence, angular enough it feels unfair, like he was carved with intention instead of born. The stubble along his jaw isn’t just there; it traces downward, dark and thick along his throat, inviting in a way that makes my thoughts go slow and very unhelpful.