NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Icebreaker , a sparkling and cozy holiday romance set in an ambitious small town. Clara Davenport wants to solve Fraser Falls’s biggest problem. According to Jack Kelly, Clara is Fraser Falls’s biggest problem. All Clara Davenport has ever wanted to do is climb the ladder at Davenport Innovation Creative, her family’s toy business. Everything was going according to plan, until the company was accused of stealing a doll design from an independent toy maker, creating a flurry of bad publicity. With a promotion dangled in front of her like a carrot to a reindeer, Clara is tasked with charming the locals of the small town to solve the PR nightmare, by any means necessary. Jack Kelly would be happy to never hear the name Davenport ever again. Less than a year after a guy in a fancy suit appeared on his doorstep with a sleigh-full of promises, the company that once falsely claimed they wanted to sign him to their small business program has copied his design. So when Clara prances into town hoping to convince Fraser Falls that her company is not the enemy, Jack is determined not to be fooled by Davenport twice. But Clara has a plan to win over the community only to realize that beneath Jack’s frosty demeanor lies the key to the town’s heart—and maybe her own. “Small town charm meets enemies-to-lovers tension and hearts are about to melt.” —B&N Reads Hannah Grace is an English author, writing adult contemporary romance between characters who all carry a tiny piece of her. When she’s not describing everyone’s eyes ten-thousand times a chapter, accidentally giving multiple characters the same name, or googling American English spellings, you can find her oversharing online or, occasionally, reading a book from her enormous TBR. Hannah is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Icebreaker , Wildfire , and Daydream and a proud parent to two dogs. Chapter 1: Clara Chapter 1 CLARA I CAN’T DENY THAT TECHNOLOGY has done miraculous things for human beings in every aspect of our lives. Living in the twenty-first century has given me an unimaginable advantage over my ancestors (with the small exception of getting on the property ladder without the assistance of my parents) and I accept that I live a life that my relatives, with their humble beginnings, would hardly believe. But even as I start my day in my beautiful West Village apartment, I can’t escape the bone-deep jealousy of those family members who never had to wake up to twelve different people texting them “Have you seen this?!” and four missed calls from their father. It’s a shock to the system that not even a cold plunge could achieve, and the twisted sense of terror that coiled in my gut when I saw three different social media platform links in my inbox lingers as I head into the boardroom at Davenport Innovation Creative headquarters. Monday is my least favorite day for a work crisis, but a Monday crisis on only my second week back in my role? The stuff of nightmares. I drop myself into a chair in the back corner of the room facing the window and place one of two coffee cups on the table in front of me and the second to my left. The overhead lights glare off the glass stretching from one side of the room to the other. My reflection sits to the right of the Empire State Building, the rest of the city lit up around it beneath the gloomy November sky. At 7:58, all my colleagues who undoubtedly also had their morning schedule ruined by this impromptu meeting pile into the room, taking their seats and muttering among themselves. The floor shakes as an overstuffed Birkin lands in the empty space beside my pumps. I smile at Sahara as she sits in the chair next to me and practically lunges at the coffee I bought her on my way into the office. She takes a sip and sighs contently. “I love you, Clara Davenport.” “You love coffee,” I respond, dodging her hand as she tries to playfully ruffle my hair. My dad finally enters with Roger, the VP of publicity, and takes his usual spot at the head of the table, which, thankfully, keeps me out of his eyeline. After the world’s fastest debrief, Roger clears his throat and draws attention to the buffering screen behind him. “Good morning, everyone,” he says, his deep voice bellowing around the room with ease. The face of an older woman appears behind him with a large play button covering her nose and lips, a face I’ve seen a dozen times this morning. Her blond hair is so icy it’s practically silver; a wide, voluminous lock frames her face and sits behind her ear, the rest looks like it’s tied up in a French twist. I can’t assign an age to her, not accurately, at least. Sixties, maybe? Her skin is white but lightly tanned, with a glow that speaks to a foreign vacation somewhere a hell of a lot hotter than here. Her eyes are bright behind thick brown cat-eye glasses; the telltale lines of time gather at t