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1
Hell hath no fury like a writer scorned by a book critic.
But Sophie Bartholomew-Kaur-Hughes (pseudonym: Sophia Hart) wouldn’t waste another moment thinking about Evan Wolfe and his obnoxious, snarky, completely unfair review.
Tipping her head back to catch a snowflake on her tongue, Sophie smiled at the beautiful winter’s night around her for a good long moment. And then, with a defeated sigh, she thought about Evan Wolfe’s obnoxious, snarky, completely unfair review.
The one about her latest romance had gone live yesterday on his online newspaper column—The Lone Wolfe Review—and was already the most read article on The Sun’s website. The review was very catchily titled, “Hart Attack: Why Sophia Hart’s Dashing through the Snow Made Me Want to Die.”
Jackass.
She thought she got one over on him when she created the villain in her last book (the villain’s name was Kevin Wolfe, and similarities to any person living or dead was entirely coincidental). But Evan Wolfe had gleefully referred to that in his review as evidence that imitation was the greatest form of flattery. Dear Ms. Hart, he’d written in his column, I invite you to use my full, real name next time. Don’t be shy. He was completely incorrigible.
Sophie’s fists clenched in the pockets of her winter coat. Stop it, Soph. Focus on the happy things.
That’s right; she wasn’t going to squander a single thought more on Wolfe. Because tonight … tonight was one of her most favorite nights of the year. It was December 23rd, the night of her annual Christmas party.
Standing at the base of her driveway, Sophie took a deep breath and looked up at her cozy little log cabin. To buy this place, she’d scraped together funds from advances and royalties, an inheritance her grandma had left her, and profits from her now-defunct side hustle making tarot cards from recycled wine labels. She’d never regretted spending money on any one of the five luscious acres that made up this place. Unlike her apartment in Portland, here in Starlit Grove, she could look outside and see no one at all. Just miles and miles of trees and open sky.
Sophie had gone all out for the party, naturally (her childhood nickname wasn’t Little Elf for nothing), and in the indigo dark of early evening, she had to admit to being pretty damn happy with her efforts.
Twinkling white lights were wrapped around the posts and beams of her porch and icicle lights hung from the eaves of the slanting roof. She’d wrapped a lit garland around the entrance frame, and her door had an enormous light-studded, music-playing wreath on it that winked on and off in time to an instrumental version of “Jingle Bells.” Mini potted pines flanked the two steps up, and these, too, were draped with twinkling lights. As if she were in a Hallmark movie, crystal flakes of pure white snow drifted gently from the inky sky above, landing delicately on her nose and the roof of the cabin. Faint strains of her pop holiday music playlist floated down to her from inside the cabin, infusing everything with just a touch of Christmas magic.
Sophie crossed her fingers at her sides, feeling that tiny flurry of nerves she always felt before any social event. “Hey, universe. If this is going to be the best Christmas party yet, please give me a sign.”
On cue, a mournful howling sounded from the forest behind her, echoing through the still, crystal clear night. Wolves were extremely rare in this part of Oregon; it was likely a dog or a coyote. But that didn’t matter to Sophie. She had her sign.
Feeling sparkles of anticipation as the wind picked up and dusted her dark, wavy hair with more snow, Sophie adjusted the slim glitter belt around her waist (the finishing touch to her outfit: cream sweater dress with bell sleeves and brown knee-high boots with a four-inch heel). Then she walked back into the comforting, warm cocoon of her winter cabin to wait for her friends.
Marco, Jonah, and Peyton were the first to arrive. They got there thirty minutes before the party began, just like they did every year. They’d all been best friends since college, and Peyton had been the first person she’d told about her very first book deal junior year. That phone call from her literary agent telling her she’d sold her book was still one of the top three moments of Sophie’s life.
Her friends flung the door open—they didn’t need to knock, and they knew her well enough to know she didn’t lock the door when she was expecting company—and then Jonah announced, “Like the three wise men, we have arrived bearing the most important gifts of the evening.” Dapper as ever in a button-down shirt, reindeer-print bow tie, and suspenders that held his silk pants up, he looked at Sophie. “Booze, more booze, and sugar.”
Marco laughed and walked forward to kiss Sophie’s cheek. He was dressed more sedately in jeans and a burgundy sweater that set off his dark complexion and locs. “Let me translate. We brought three different kinds of wine and sangria, two bottles of port, and a half dozen different kinds of eclairs, cookies, macaroons, and liquor chocolates.” He quirked a thick eyebrow and shot a reproachful look at Peyton, who was unwinding her gold ankh print scarf and hanging it up. “I was not responsible for this overabundance.”
“Hey!” Peyton rushed forward to wrap
