Mistletoe and magic, p.1
Mistletoe and Magic, page 1
Copyright
HarperNorth
Windmill Green
24 Mount Street
Manchester M2 3NX
A division of
HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperNorth in 2025
1 EDITION
Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2025
Cover design by Sarah Foster © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2025
Cover Illustration © Carrie May/Meiklejohn
Helene Sula asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008774349
Ebook Edition © October 2025 ISBN: 9780008774356
Version 2025-10-06
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008774349
Dedication
For Mom—who brought me the magic of England and
beyond when I was young, encouraged every journey,
celebrated every departure, and somehow made me brave
enough to live out my wildest dreams.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Chapter One
The Proposal/Promotion That Wasn’t
It started, as so many bad ideas do, with a spreadsheet. A carefully colour-coded one, naturally. Eva Coleman didn’t believe in chaos—she believed in structure. In neatly labelled tabs, in conditional formatting, in the quiet satisfaction of a cell turning green when a task was complete.
Column A was the timeline. Column B, the goals. Column C, the expectations her mother had lovingly but relentlessly installed in her brain since childhood.
By twenty-nine, she was meant to be:
Engaged (yellow—Richard kept hinting it’d be ‘soon’)
On track for promotion (yellow—trending red)
Homeowner (grey—pending divine intervention)
Planning a family (red—blinking)
On this particular December morning she was supposed to tick off two major boxes—proposal and promotion—she woke up early, wrapped in the comfort of her colour-matched pyjamas. She smiled at the ceiling, sighed and whispered to herself, “today’s the day.” Eva Coleman believed in signs. Not in a spiritual way or anything—she wasn’t about to start reading tarot cards or consulting star charts. But she did believe that the universe occasionally nudged you in a particular direction. Like when her favourite coffee shop closed unexpectedly the morning of her big presentation, forcing her to try the new place across the street where she discovered a lavender latte that became her new obsession. Or when her third-grade teacher moved her next to Timothy Allen, who shared his animal crackers and later became her first kiss behind the science lab in ninth grade.
And today the universe was practically screaming at her in size 14 font, bold and underlined. Eva could barely sleep the night before, too excited. Today was the day. She peeled back the covers and hopped out of bed, then replaced her crisp white comforter and bright white sheets to their rightful place. Shimmying out of her matching blue Nordstrom pyjamas and Ugg slippers, she turned on the shower and commenced the morning get-ready routine. Today she’d wear the outfit from her mom’s boutique—a crisp blazer and pencil skirt combo that her mother, Sandy, insisted made her look ‘professional without being intimidating’. She stared at herself in the mirror as she applied mascara with careful precision, then brushed her pale cheeks with the perfect shade of Charlotte Tilbury ‘Cheek to Chic’ blush in deep rosy pink.
“Today I’m getting a promotion,” she assured her reflection. “Tonight I’m getting a proposal.” She carefully wiped away the blush so it wasn’t too bright. Richard had once told her that her skin was a little too pale to wear such a bright colour. She hadn’t made the mistake again.
Eva sometimes wondered when she had last dressed for herself.
The thought of disappointing him made her stomach clench—the same feeling she got whenever she imagined her mother’s pursed lips and that particular sigh that meant Eva had fallen short.
But today would make it worth it. The fairy tale she’d earned was about to begin. She even pictured it: Richard down on one knee, the ring sparkling, and then the two of them riding away into the sunset on horseback, like the end of a movie she’d half-believed in since she was a girl. Her prince, her moment, her life at last neatly slotted into the spreadsheet’s green column.
She had followed every rule—stayed late at work, smiled when she wanted to scream, wore the right clothes, dated the right man. If she just kept checking the boxes, eventually she’d earn the fairy tale: the ring, the house, the life. That was how it worked, wasn’t it? Do everything right, and you’ll be rewarded.
Today, the reward was supposed to arrive on schedule. Promotion at noon; proposal at seven. Her mother had already texted twice: Any news? Remember to smile. Eva texted back a thumbs-up and swallowed the small panic at the back of her throat.
At work, she’d managed to parallel park without a single adjustment—a Christmas miracle on par with the parting of the Red Sea, at least in downtown Nashville. The office peppermint bark hadn’t run out yet. Her flawlessly applied Christmas-red nail polish (‘Cranberry Spritz’ by Essie) hadn’t smudged despite her rushing to type up meeting notes for the head of A&R. And tonight—tonight—was her two-year anniversary with Richard. She was wearing the lipstick he liked in anticipation. He was taking her to Kayne Prime. Another delightful way to celebrate getting a promotion at work. Everything felt beautifully, suspiciously aligned.
The Christmas spirit at Monarch Music was at full capacity. Garlands hung from every doorway. Someone was definitely burning a contraband pine-scented candle. ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ drifted faintly from the break room. Her desk was a cheerful contradiction—a miniature twinkling tree perched precariously between stacks of marketing briefs, a candy dish of peppermints next to scattered paperclips, and a bright yellow Post-it note where she’d written ‘CANCÚN!! — 3 DAYS!’ in her neat handwriting, underlined three times.
She was supposed to be finishing a draft of a sponsorship deck for the Brooks tour—a country singer known for rhinestone jumpsuits and glitter budgets. But instead, she was rereading a text from Richard.
Can’t wait to see you tonight. 7pm. Don’t be late.
Eva smiled and tapped her phone against her chin. He was going to propose. She was sure of it. Things were aligning perfectly, she’d done everything she was supposed to and now (finally) she was going to reap the benefits and write her own fairy tale ending.
Blake from promotions popped his head over her cubicle wall, his white teeth reminding her of fangs. “Hey, Eva, you’re doing the Secret Santa thing, right?”
She blinked, jarred from her daydream. “Yeah … why?”
“I forgot to get a gift. Any chance you could pick something up for me?”
“Blake. The party’s in an hour,” Eva crossed her arms but held a tight smile.
“I know, I know. You’re amazing. Just something festive and classy. Nothing too wei rd. Budget’s like … twenty?” Blake said, already walking away. You could barely tell from the front that he had honey blonde highlights, but from the back it was obvious. Eva sniffed.
“One day,” Eva muttered to her computer screen, “I’m going to say no to someone and the sheer shock of it will cause a minor earthquake in Middle Tennessee.”
Eva sighed, already reaching for her purse. Some distant part of her brain—the part that had once dreamed of writing stories instead of marketing copy—whispered that she could say no. But she’d never been good at refusing people, especially when they looked at her with that mixture of hope and expectation.
Besides, there was something comforting about being the person everyone counted on. It showed she was reliable, that she’d earned her place. Even if it meant feeling like she constantly had to prove she deserved to be here, that she was more than just Sandy Coleman’s daughter. More than the girl who had a family connection that got her the job.
Twenty minutes later, Eva returned from a gift shop three blocks away, out of breath, with a locally made cinnamon candle in hand. She’d seen another one she liked better, with hints of pine and cedarwood, but it was thirty-five dollars. Blake had only given her twenty, and she wasn’t about to subsidise his Secret Santa gift—not when she’d already stayed late three nights this week fixing his social media campaign errors. As she walked back through the entrance of the office, Eva scrolled through Instagram, pausing on a photo of her younger sister Lily’s baby announcement. “Baby #2 coming in June!” the caption read, with Lily, her perfect husband, their toddler, and their golden retriever all wearing matching Christmas jumpers. Eva’s youngest sister, Maddie, had got married six months ago in a Pinterest-perfect barn wedding. Both sisters, though years younger than Eva, seemed light-years ahead in the life checklist their mother considered non-negotiable.
“You’re the oldest, Eva,” her mother would say. “You should be setting the example.” But somehow, Eva—always the responsible one, always the rule-follower—had fallen behind in the race to traditional milestones. She was pushing thirty with no ring, no babies, no house with a picket fence. Just a decent job and a boyfriend who, after tonight, would hopefully make her mother stop introducing her as “my first, Eva, still no ring on her finger” at family gatherings.
Tara met her at the elevator when she returned, eyeing the small shopping bag as they walked back to her desk.
“Please tell me you didn’t just run an errand for Blake.”
Eva handed her the bag. “It was either this or watch him wrap a protein bar in tinsel again.”
“You are too nice.”
“I’m festive.”
“You’re like a human Hallmark movie,” Tara said, “except instead of saving Christmas, you’re saving grown men from their own incompetence.”
Eva grinned and cast her eyes down to her Post-it note of the Cancún countdown.
Tara paused, then said, “So … what are you wearing tonight?”
Eva blushed, her fingers subconsciously touching the empty space on her ring finger. “The green silk dress. The one with the sleeves.”
“Ooh. You think he’s going to do it?”
Eva tried to play it cool, but her voice cracked slightly. “I mean … we’ve been together two years. He booked the steakhouse. And he prompted me to have my nails done in a totally casual, definitely suspicious way.”
“Please. You’ve been walking on air all week.” Tara lowered her voice. “Did you find the ring?”
“No!” Eva whispered back, then reconsidered. “I mean, not exactly. But I found the browser history. Tiffany’s.”
Tara squealed, drawing glances from across the office. “I knew it! Two years is exactly when it happens. Adam proposed to me at two years and three days.”
“Speaking of Adam, weren’t you two supposed to go to Hawaii last month?” Eva asked.
“We did. Those photos I showed you of the sunset from our balcony? That was Maui,” Tara said, giving Eva a strange look. “Don’t you remember? I was talking about it for weeks.”
“Right, of course! The sunset was gorgeous,” Eva said quickly, embarrassed she’d forgotten. “I guess I’ve just been so caught up in planning for Cancún.”
She’d been so focused on proving herself at work—staying late, taking on extra projects, triple-checking every piece of copy—that she’d missed her friend’s vacation stories.
“You deserve it. When’s the last time you actually took a vacation?”
Eva tried to remember. “I took that long weekend to go with my parents to visit my grandma last Christmas.”
“That’s not a vacation, that’s an obligation,” Tara laughed. “I can’t believe you still have all your annual leave. Most people would kill for your vacation days.”
“I know, I know,” Eva said. “But there was the album launch, and then festival season, and then …”
“And then you just never prioritised yourself,” Tara finished for her. “Always trying to do the right thing for everyone else. When are you going to think about Eva?”
The words stung because they were true. While everyone else took their annual leave without guilt, Eva hoarded hers like evidence of dedication, proof that she wasn’t just coasting on her mother’s connections. “Well, Cancún’s going to change that. Sun, sand, and hopefully a big shiny rock on your finger. Then you’ll finally have caught up with your freakishly accomplished friend group.”
Eva smiled weakly. It was true—everyone in her circle seemed to have figured life out. Tara was happily married with a promotion already under her belt. Courtney—her best friend since first grade when she’d shared her own Dunkaroos after Eva forgot her lunch money— had her own catering business that was taking off. Even her college roommate Rachel, who once forgot to wear shoes to an exam, now had a thriving dental practice, twins, and a house in Belle Meade.
And then there was Eva—always reliable, always doing everything right, yet somehow still waiting for her real story to begin.
Tara glanced at her watch. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to meet with Jacqueline? The big announcement?”
Eva’s stomach flipped. Right. The promotion.
She smoothed her skirt, tucked her auburn hair behind her ear, and grabbed her notepad. As she walked to the conference room, she tried not to think about how much she wanted this—not just because of the title or the money (though both would be nice), but because it would mean she was finally enough.
She’d earned it. She’d stayed late. Covered everyone’s mistakes. Taken on the projects nobody wanted—like the glitter budget for a C-list country singer—without losing her mind.
She deserved this.
Twenty minutes later, Eva stepped out of the conference room with a hollow smile frozen on her face.
“You’re such a valued part of the team,” Jacqueline had said warmly, handing her a Starbucks gift card like a consolation prize. “But we’re looking for someone with a little more … edge for the new role. We want you to stay exactly where you are, Eva—you’re so good at it.”
She looked at Tara and shook her head.
“You didn’t get it?” Tara asked coming over.
“Nope. It went to Blake,” Eva said moving her mouse to wake up her computer screen.
“HIGHLIGHTS?! Eva, are you joking? You have to stick up for yourself. You can’t just let other people take the credit,” Tara said sitting on top of Eva’s desk.
“That’s easier said than done,” she said. “Blake’s been here longer than me anyway.”
“No, you handled that catastrophe with the beer and fried chicken song, you came up with the idea of the Instagram trend to show off your boots for the Mississippi Mischief band that made them go mega-viral, you single-handedly saved the day when Tucker what’s-his-face threw that beer bottle from The Stage’s rooftop.”
“I’m just doing my job,” Eva said. “Besides, everyone knows my mom got me here.”
“Yes, she did,” Tara turned Eva’s chair to face her with her foot, “but it’s you that’s put the work in ever since. Eva Coleman you are smart and capable. But hon’ no one can see that when you let people walk all over you.”
“It’s fine!”
Her phone rang and Tara hopped off her desk shaking her head.
“Monarch Music, Eva Coleman speaking.”
