Page 47 of Blood and Bells

“Those feel like two very different conversations.”

Frank walks into the living room, taking in the cozy chaos of my decorations as he shrugs off his thick winter coat. The penguins on his novelty sweater earn him a small smile before he sets the thermos on the coffee table and twists the lid open, filling the air with spiced brandy and its nutmeg and orange.

“I came prepared,” he adds, producing two enamel mugs from his coat pocket like a magician who knows his audience.

“At least someone is.”

I drop onto the armchair as he pours us both a generous measure.

“We cleaned up after the reindeer stampede,” he says. “And I heard about the Hollow of Mischief. And...well, Nick.”

I groan. “Please don’t start.”

Frank chuckles, but there’s a knowing glint in his eye. “I’m just saying, it’s not every day a Draven vampire takes an interest in a human. It’s unusual, but not unheard of.”

I curl my fingers around the mug, staring into the steam.

“There was a Draven in the 1600s who fell for a baker’s daughter,” he says. “The poor girl used to sneak loaves of garlic bread to him. Neither of them knew he was allergic. Broke out in hives every time they kissed. The town diagnosed ‘mystery bakery hives’ and thought her beignets were fatal.”

I huff out a laugh. “That’s tragic.”

“They figured it out eventually,” he says. “Lived happily ever after. Less garlic.”

My smile doesn’t quite stick, and Frank notices.

“Holly,” he says, his voice softer now, “you don’t have to handle all of this on your own.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“You are,” he cuts in gently. “You came to Willow Creek to prove something. To yourself, to your mom…to everyone really.”

I look away, finding the photo of my mom on the mantle. It’s not just the ache. It’s the standards. The kind that turns ‘good’ into failure if it isn’t perfect.

“This job matters,” I say quietly. “If I pull this off—if the Winter Wonderland is spectacular—then it’s not luck, or connections, or…” I shrug. “It means I’ve actually earned it.”

Frank nods. “I know it does.”

He pauses, long enough that I know he’s choosing his next words carefully.

“And I do need you to pull this off,” he adds. “The tree, the gala, the whole festival. Willow Creek’s counting on you.”

My stomach knots.

“But,” he continues, steady, “I asked you to give this town something special. I didn’t ask you to be your mom. There’s a difference.”

“It doesn’t feel like there is.”

“That’s because you’ve set the bar somewhere in the stratosphere,” he says. “And now you’re trying to reach it on your own.”

I don’t answer.

“You don’t get extra credit for making this harder than it needs to be, Holly. And you don’t have to prove you belong here by burning yourself out.”

A short, sharp breath escapes me. “I only got this job because my mom put a word in for me. And you’ve been very clear you want the best Winter Wonderland Willow Creek’s ever seen.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“That’s true,” he says. “I do.”