It was a painfully simple plan, really, and everyone hopped on board quicker than she anticipated. All she had to do was teach Clark Woodward to love Christmas. The process of that began with a Christmas makeover of his house. After seeing his pitiful slump at Mel’s diner, she took to imagining quiet, lonely Decembers passing by him in a dark apartment in Dallas, complete with Hungry Man dinners and falling asleep on the couch. The sort of Christmas she only imagined in her nightmares. It was clear he’d fallen out of love with Christmas—Kate didn’t believe anyone naturally disliked the holiday—because it’d been too long since he’d had a wonderful one. She was going to reintroduce magic into his life, and by tomorrow morning when she was done with him, he’d have to agree to putting the festival back on.

It would be difficult, but she had an ace up her sleeve. Some people claimed it was impossible to change someone’s heart overnight, but Kate knew better. After all, she’d read Dickens.

“I think we’re all done inside. They’re finishing outside, but do you want to light ’er up in here?”

“Yes! Just one second…”

Kate sprinted for the top of the grand staircase, her muscles tingling. Everything had to be perfect, and this was the moment of truth. She nodded to Billy Golden, the load-in specialist for the festival, who’d been running point for her since his arrival this morning. He stood at the foot of the stairs with an electrical dial in hand, waiting for her signal. She held up her hands, as if preparing to conduct a symphony. “Okay. Now.”

Kate blinked, fully expecting that in the split second of her eyes being closed, she would open them to find herself completely immersed in the winter wonderland of her own creation.

“What have you done?!”

Oh, no. The voice of her target echoed through the grand foyer of the Eastlake Victorian-style manor, shaking the paintings on the walls and knocking crystals of the chandelier. All movement—including Kate’s heart—halted. Her eyes lowered, step-by-step down the carpeted, garland-strewn staircase, until she reached the tips of his mirror-shined shoes. She recognized his voice even without peeking at his face.

There was no noise but the driving, tinkling melody of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” It wafted through the house like the smell of fresh-from-the-oven gingerbread cookies.

Apparently, Clark Woodward didn’t appreciate music or delicious gingerbread because he let out another yawp of displeasure:

“And turn that music off!”

Without so much as peeking up from his shoes, Kate touched the pause button on the phone in her pocket, effectively silencing her Bluetooth playlist.