Kindling Kissmas

Getting snowed in with my brother’s best friend wasn’t on the Christmas concert set list.

My life as pop star Rebecca Rios is one big glittery front. When my team books me last minute for a gig, cancelling my family plans, I snap. One breakdown and a snowstorm later, I’m hiding at a lodge that looks like a Hallmark movie brought to life.

Then Reese Marchiano knocks on my door—my brother’s best friend, firefighter, and my crush all wrapped up in a Christmas bow. Now we’re snowed in together, decorating cookies, hunting for a missing Christmas star, and falling for each other between sips of hot cocoa.

But my team won’t stop calling. They want me back. And when Reese accidentally tells me my niece has been sick—news I missed because I’ve been too busy chasing fame—I realize it’s cost me everything that matters.

Now I have to choose between the spotlight that’s suffocating me or a cozy mountain town where nobody wants my autograph ... just my heart.

Can I trade stage lights for starlight and find my way home for Christmas?

Chapter 1: Rebecca

Maybe I’m on Santa’s naughty list this year because, apparently, a silent night is too much to ask for.

I didn’t want to perform so close to Christmas because, for once, I hoped to be home for the holidays. However, I remind myself that this is what I signed up for.

The applause still rings in my ears as I step off the stage in Las Vegas, sweat cooling on my skin, adrenaline pumping through my veins. I love the music, the connection with thousands of fans singing my lyrics back to me, the way the piano keys feel under my fingertips when I lose myself in a melody.

Everything else? Not so much.

My manager, Lilith, intercepts me before I make it to my dressing room, the earbud connecting wirelessly to her phone like a permanent accessory. She ends the call and plasters on the smile that means I’m about to hate whatever comes next.

“Great show, Becca. Listen, slight change of plans for
Christmas.”

My stomach sinks like a low note. “No.”

“I landed you the Progress Project gala on Christmas Day.
It’s a huge opportunity—”

“You promised.” My voice cracks, and I hate how desperate I sound. “You promised me Christmas with my family.”

Lilith’s expression doesn’t budge. “This is non-negotiable.
This contract will open huge doors. Huge! Besides, it’s for sick children.”

Except it’s not. Not really. I’ve done my research on the Progress Project, and their “charitable donations” are about as real as my stage name. Most of the money lines pockets, not research labs or other programs for kids and their families.

“I can’t do it … it’s shady, Lilith.”

“Then you shouldn’t have let me sign the contract.”

“I didn’t let you—”

She’s already walking away, scrolling through her phone.
“Car leaves at six a.m. for the flight to New York.”

I stand there in the hallway, surrounded by crew members packing up equipment and the cage in my chest tightens around my heart.

How did everything in my career go from being about the music, to being about me … to being about Lilith? Oh, right, when I got caught up in celebritydom and let her take over the day-to-day management of my life.

The countdown is on with only two days until Christmas.
Instead of decorating cookies with my nephews or watching my niece’s eyes light up over presents, I’ll be performing for people who couldn’t care less about actual charity.

How can I get my life back?

My breath turns shallow. The dressing room spins. I’m suddenly suffocating amidst the flowers from sponsors I don’t know, gift baskets from brands that want me to post about their products, and a rack of flimsy designer dresses
I didn’t pick and don’t particularly like.

Pressing my hands to my temples, I try to push away the headache that builds.

My phone beeps repeatedly with info from Lilith, even though my team will have me where they want me to be when. I have people who manage my itinerary, meals, wardrobe, and sleep schedule. I wouldn’t be surprised if I turn around and find someone there reminding me when to use the bathroom.

It’s become too much.

No questions asked. No discussions, just instructions. They give marching orders. Meanwhile, this is supposed to be my gig.

Now, Lilith expects me to perform on Christmas Day.

But I can’t. Not this year.

Taking a deep breath, I grab my purse, scoop up Pookie from her velvet cushion, and bolt for the parking garage.

I mutter, “Come on, girl. We’re getting out of here.”

Pookie yips—a sound like a squeaky toy—and burrows into my arms.

Lilith’s key fob is on the table next to the crystal bowl of chocolate-covered raisins she insists I have on my rider—candy she claims are her favorite but doesn’t eat.

I don’t think. I just go.

Practically dashing through the labyrinthine halls of the venue, I find my way to the parking garage. This is the first time I’ve been alone—well, I have Pookie—in as long as I can remember. I pass a few employees clad in black, but no one looks twice at me. Likely, because seeing me out of context, that is, surrounded by an entourage, doesn’t tip them off that THE Rebecca Rios just hustled by, practically at a sprint. Or, they’ve been trained not to interact with the talent. Lilith has scolded more than a few well-meaning staff at events for bothering me. To be fair, she’s more of a pest than someone who wants a signature or selfie for their granddaughter.

After clicking the button on the key fob a few times, causing the door lock beep to echo in the underground space, I locate Lilith’s rental.

It’s been a while since I’ve been behind the wheel, but I press the accelerator and take off like Rudolph on his first trip leading Santa’s sleigh.

The city lights blur past as I drive, Pookie perched on the passenger seat of the hybrid car, her tiny body shivering despite her rhinestone-studded jacket.

“I know, Pooks. I know.”

We’re on the run and I’m not mad about it, but it’s enough to rattle my mini pug’s nerves.

My phone buzzes incessantly in the cupholder. Lilith. My publicist. My social media manager. Everyone wants a piece of me, needs something, and demands my time.

I can’t breathe. As if I’ve been chewing on tinsel.

Can’t think. It’s like I have my twinkle lights in a tangle.

“I just want one normal Christmas. Is that too much to ask?” My voice bounces around the car’s interior. “My mouth literally waters at the thought of baking cookies with Mom. The idea of sitting by the fire Dad builds with our stockings hanging on the mantel is as cozy as a greeting card. Watching my brother try to assemble toys on Christmas Eve without the instructions because he’s so stubborn makes me look forward to laughing with Lindy, his wife. Being Auntie Becca, not Rebecca Rios, for a day sounds like a dream.”

The phone buzzes again and again. Each time, I keep driving. I don’t look back. Before I know it, several hours have passed.

The phone rings, trills, beeps, barks at me.

Pookie, having given up on me making a U-turn, snores softly in the passenger seat. I tune the car’s radio to a Christmas station, but the incessant demand of my phone interrupts the cadence of “Oh Holy Night.”
Without thinking, I roll down the window and chuck my phone into the darkness. The dog rouses and sits at attention, scowling at me for letting in an arctic blast. I roll up the window.

The immediate silence is glorious. Then terrifying.

“Oh no. Pookie, I just threw my phone out the window.”

She tilts her head with concern.

Alone on the road, I pull over, retracing my path, squinting into the snowy darkness. Fat flakes drift through my headlight beams, and the faraway glow of an urban horizon suggests that I’m somewhere in the mountains.

When did that happen?

Rapidly turning into a chilly penguin, I manage to search for five minutes, pacing up and down the road’s shoulder, before giving up.

I’m not equipped for this, never mind dressed for it. My stage outfit—a sparkly pale blue and white dress Lilith dubbed “sexy snow princess” that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent—offers zero warmth. My heels are ridiculous. And Pookie’s rhinestone jacket is outrageous, even for a spoiled little pug.

I get back in the electric car and keep driving before it conks out.

The phone is gone, buried under fresh powder or smashed on the freeway. Either way, I’m officially unreachable.

“Well, Pookie, looks like we’re going old school. No GPS. No maps. Just us and the open road.”

Except the open road is quickly becoming a winter wonderland.

About a dozen Christmas carols on the radio later, a sign appears like a Christmas miracle for a place called Timber’s Edge Inn.

I follow the signs, all trimmed with Christmas lights and evergreen swag, along a winding road before a sprawling three-story building comes into view.

“Thank goodness,” I say, worried that I was soon going to have to send out an SOS—though I’ve never had to use a smoke signal before. But the wisps of smoke coming from the chimney suggest warmth and that’s all I need right
now.

Maneuvering toward the carport, the building looks like Hollywood’s top Christmas movie set dressers paid a visit.

Twinkling lights outline every roofline and window. Evergreen garlands drape across the porch, tied with enormous red velvet bows. A pair of massive wreaths hang on the front doors, and through the windows, I spot a Christmas tree that has to be at least twenty feet tall and topped with a bright star. A life-size nativity scene nestles under the boughs of towering pines, with landscape lighting setting it aglow. Nutcrackers framing the door stand like sentries and baubles and garlands sparkle.
I take the first deep breath I’ve been able to take in hours, days, weeks, months?

It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I need.

But I can’t walk in as Rebecca Rios. I rummage through the car, finding Lilith’s baseball cap and grab a pair of sunglasses from my purse. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and wince. Sunglasses at night during a snowstorm? I might as well hang a sign around my neck that says Celebrity in hiding.

A Santa hat sits in the back seat—a prop from a recent social media video appearance. I swap it for the baseball cap and ditch the sunglasses.

That’s slightly less conspicuous.

My pug looks at me like I’ve gone sledding off the edge. Perhaps I have.

“Ready, Pookie?”

She whimpers when I open the door. Snow covers the parking lot and her paws barely touch the ground before she scrambles, trying to climb back into my arms.

“I know, pugcess. But you need a potty break before we go inside.”

The lobby is even more magical than the exterior. A fire crackles in a stone fireplace. Garlands, decorations, and ornaments cover every surface. The scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air, and soft instrumental Christmas music plays from hidden speakers. A ceramic Christmas village spreads across a multilevel surface, including a building that looks like the inn. Poinsettias add splashes of color against rough pine and stone surrounding a massive hearth strung with stockings. Nearly every surface sparkles with Christmas surprises.

A woman behind the desk—dressed like Mrs. Claus, complete with wire-rimmed glasses—beams at me.
“Welcome to Timber’s Edge Inn! Are you checking in?”

“Do you have any rooms available?”

From behind the reception desk, she reviews a computer screen wrapped to look like a Christmas gift. “You’re in luck! We just got a cancellation due to the storm. Looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas!” She doesn’t even blink at my Santa hat or the tiny dog shivering in my arms.

But once she recognizes who I am, I’m afraid all bets on this celebrity remaining incognito will be off. My spirits dip, but I can practically hear Lilith’s voice hissing in my ear, reminding me this is what I wanted.

But is it? I really just wanted to share music with people—not be party to questionable charity organizations raking in money with a Christmas gala, being on the road three hundred days a year, and we won’t even get into my personal life—though the tabloids do and Lilith lives for it.

The sweet woman behind the counter asks, “How many nights?”

I hesitate, surfacing from my spiraling thoughts. I need to get home. I drove in completely the wrong direction, and without GPS ... “Only one night?”

“Perfect! I’ll need a credit card and ID.”

My brain hits the panic button. Using my credit card means my handlers can track me. I fully intend to return to real life. Mostly. I just need a break. But what choice do I have?
I hand over my personal card, not the corporate card Lilith monitors, and my driver’s license. The woman glances at it, then back at me, and I brace myself for the recognition, the squealing, the requests for selfies.

Instead, she merely smiles. “Rebecca Rivers. What a lovely
name.”

I experience a full-body hiccup.

“You’re in room twenty-three. Second floor, to the right. We serve a full, and dare I say delicious, breakfast from seven to ten. Also, we have Christmas activities all day tomorrow that you won’t want to miss!”

“That’s so nice.”

I wait for it. The double-take. The whisper to a coworker who passes behind the desk. Nothing.

“Thank you,” I manage.

Even the teenage girls in the lobby—exactly the demographic that usually spots me instantly—don’t look twice. They’re too busy decorating gingerbread cookies and laughing with their families.

What I’d like to be doing tomorrow.

When I enter room twenty-three, it’s like waking up in a Christmas dream. Garlands frame the window. Stockings hang on the mantel. The canopy surrounding the four-poster bed is draped in soft velvet. In the corner, stands a small tree with white lights and delicate ornaments.

I set Pookie down, kick off my sky-high heels, and collapse onto the mattress.

For the first time in months—maybe years—no one knows where I am. There aren’t any demands. No camera flashes.

No tired smiles.

Just peace. And Christmas.

I’m fast asleep and dreaming of sugar plums in no time.

Then, a knock on the door jolts me awake.