Happy New Year!

Greetings Book Friends,

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday, whether it was cozy, chaotic, quiet, or somewhere in between🥳

In this month’s edition of the Bookish Swoon, I’m sharing the second and final part of my Christmas story, Becoming Mrs. Claus. If you’ve been waiting to see how it all comes together, this one’s for you. If you’ve just joined, you can go back to November’s post to read part one.

Thank you for being here, for reading, and for spending a little part of your holiday season with my stories. Here’s to good books and more stories in 2026.

Happy reading💕
Sera

Becoming Mrs. Claus - Part Two

Emma lasted exactly three days before the chimney thing became a problem. On day four, she tried to ignore it. Just a weird tingle when she drove past the old factory with the smokestack. Probably nothing.

Day five, she’d felt an actual pull toward a residential chimney and had to force herself to keep walking.

Day six, she was driving when she saw it.

A brick chimney. Old-fashioned, substantial, with smoke curling out in thick, aromatic clouds. Her hands started tingling so intensely she nearly rear-ended a Prius.

“Here we go,” she muttered, pulling into the parking lot. “I’ll just go check it out.”

The sign read: Nowak’s Smokehouse - Traditional Polish Meats Since 1928.

Through the window, Emma could see a man. Looked to be in his thirties, impressive beard, stained apron, tending to what looked like hanging sausages. The chimney smoke was definitely coming from inside.

This is it.

Her heart pounding, Emma pushed open the door. A bell chimed. The smell of hickory smoke and meat hit her immediately.

“Help you?” The bearded man looked up from his work, friendly but focused.

“Hi, I, um—” Emma’s hands were practically vibrating. She shoved them in her pockets. “Do you work with the chimney? Like, personally?” She cringed.

He looked confused. “The smoker? Yeah, every day. Why?”

“Just curious. About... the smoke. Mostly the chimney.” More cringing.

“O-kay.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “You want to try a sample? Fresh kielbasa, my grandfather’s recipe.”

“Sure, why not?”

He handed her a small piece on a toothpick. Their fingers brushed.

Nothing.

No glow. No warmth. Just the faint grease of sausage and the tingle in her hands that was already starting to fade.

Emma’s heart sank.

“Good, right?” The man grinned. “Three generations of Nowaks, all smoking meat the traditional way. I basically live in here. My whole life is smoked meats—the way the smoke penetrates the casing, the fat rendering just right...” He kissed his fingers. “Perfect.”

“It’s very... smoky,” Emma managed.

“Best part of the job! I mean, my girlfriend says I smell like a smokehouse 24/7, but that’s the price of perfection, you know?” He laughed. “You want a pound? Half pound?”

“No thanks. I’ll be back soon. Probably,” Emma said, trying to be polite as she backed toward the door. “But thank you. Great chimney, by the way.”

She practically ran to her car.

That night, she called her grandmother.

“I think the magic is broken.”

“What happened, sweetheart?”

“I found a chimney. A big one. My hands went crazy. But there was nothing between me and the guy. No glow. No connection. And he wouldn’t stop talking about his perfect smoked meat.”

Her grandmother’s laugh tinkled through the phone. “Oh, Emma. The magic doesn’t make mistakes, dear. Sometimes there are, well, I guess you could say, false positives. Chimneys that aren’t your chimney.”

“How am I supposed to know the difference?”

“You’ll know when you find the right one. Trust me.”

“Well the kielbasa guy isn’t the one, that’s for sure. And thank goodness. The North Pole would smell like a smoked meathouse.”

“He’s not the one, sweetheart. Keep looking.”

Emma groaned. “What if there are, like, fifty chimneys in this town? Am I going to be drawn to all of them? And if there aren’t any here, will I have to travel all over to find the right one?”

“The right one will feel different,” her grandmother said gently. “I promise.”

Emma tried to ignore the chimney pull for the next few days. She really did.

But on Saturday afternoon, driving past downtown, she felt it again. Stronger this time. More insistent.

And there it was: a wood-fired pizza oven with a beautiful stone chimney, smoke and heat billowing in the December air.

Napoli’s Pizzeria - Authentic Italian Pizza.

“No,” Emma said out loud. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again.”

But her car was already turning into the parking lot.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, getting out and heading to the door.

The door opened and a man emerged. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, dark curly hair, flour on his forearms, genuinely gorgeous smile.

“Ciao! Welcome. Please, come in.” Italian accent. Of course.

“Hi. You make the pizza?”

“Not only do I make the pizza, I own this place,” he grinned. “Luca Napoli. Fourth generation pizza maker. You like pizza?”

“Everyone likes pizza.”

“Ah, but everyone does not know good pizza. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Before she could protest, he was ushering her behind the counter. The restaurant was small, cozy, with an enormous stone oven dominating the wall behind the counter where the pizza was made. The chimney rose through the ceiling, and Emma could feel the heat radiating from it.

“This oven,” Luca said, patting it affectionately, “was built by my great-grandfather built it. Brick by brick. We fire it every day, keep it at exactly 800 degrees. The perfect pizza temperature.”

“That’s... hot.”

“We like to say, hot like passion.” He laughed, pulling a pizza from the oven with a long paddle.

He cut a slice and handed it to her on a small plate. Their hands brushed. “Try it,” he said. “I think you’ll love it.”

Still nothing.

Emma bit into the pizza, which was, admittedly, incredible.

“It’s good, right?” Luca beamed.

“Very good.”

He grinned. “Excellent pizza makes people happy, you know? Because I put my heart in every single one.” He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically. “My nonna, she always says, ‘Luca, you marry the oven before you marry a woman,’” he shook his head and laughed.

Emma forced a smile. “Do you ever... leave the restaurant?”

“Why would I leave? This is my life. Six days a week, I’m here. Making dough, tending the fire, perfecting the crust.” He kissed his fingers. “This is love.”

“Right. Love. For pizza.” He was not the one. Great chimney, no connection.

“Exactly,” he grinned. “You want another slice?”

“I should go.”

“Wait!” He grabbed a business card. “Tuesday is half-price margherita night, so make sure you come back, okay?”

Emma took the card, thanked him, and left.

In her car, she sat for a long moment, staring at the chimney smoke rising into the sky. Then she called her grandmother.

“It happened again.”

“Oh dear.”

“Gorgeous Italian pizza chef. Amazing chimney. Completely wrong.” Emma dropped her head against the steering wheel.

“Emma—”

“I can’t keep doing this. I’ve been rejected by two chimneys in less than a week. Do you know how that feels?”

“You haven’t been rejected, Emma. The magic is just... helping you narrow it down.”

“Well, it’s terrible at its job.” Emma sighed. “Also, having an Italian pizza chef as Santa is probably not the best idea anyway.”

There was a pause. “Why not?”

“Because Santa should smell like cookies and hot cocoa, not garlic and marinara sauce.”

Her grandmother was definitely laughing now. “You’re overthinking this, dear. Now take a deep breath.”

Emma took a shaky breath. “What if I just keep following random chimneys forever, getting disappointed by perfectly nice men whose only fault is not being the one I'm supposed to find?"

“You’ll find him,” her grandmother said softly. “I know you will. And when you do, you’ll know immediately. It won’t feel like the others.”

“How?”

“Because it won’t just be the chimney calling to you. It’ll be him.”

A week later, she’d been walking aimlessly through downtown, bundled in two sweaters despite the relatively mild December day, when she saw it. The chimney. Red brick, old-fashioned, with heat shimmering from the top.

Her hands started tingling.

This chimney was different. It wasn’t attached to a house or a restaurant. It rose from a small industrial building with large windows and a hand-painted sign: Nilsson’s Glass Studio.

Through the windows, she could see the glow of furnaces and shelves lined with glass ornaments—snowflakes, icicles, delicate blown spheres in shades of blue and silver. And there, backlit by the orange glow of what looked like a small furnace, was a guy about her age. He was gathering molten glass on the end of a long pipe, his face intense with concentration, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Emma’s chest felt warm. Then hot. Then like something was trying to claw its way out from the inside.

Could this be it?

Her grandmother said it would feel different.

She stood outside for a full five minutes, trying to talk herself out of going in. But her feet moved on their own, and before she knew it, she was walking inside. Heat rolled over her, carrying with it the sharp scent of molten glass and hot steel.

“Be right with you!” The guy called out without looking up. He was in the middle of shaping something, turning the pipe constantly, the molten glass responding to his movements like it was alive.

Emma watched, transfixed on the way he moved. Like a dance. Confident and graceful. And the heat coming off the furnace. Somehow she knew that was called the glory hole, and it made the whole studio feel like Christmas Eve by a fireplace.

Finally, he set the piece in what looked like a cooling oven and turned to face her, pulling off heavy gloves.

“Sorry about that. Once you start a piece, you can’t really stop.” He grabbed a towel and wiped his face. “What can I help you with?”

Their eyes met.

Her world tilted.

Emma grabbed the edge of the counter to steady herself. The tingling in her hands intensified, and for just a second, just a fraction of a second, she could have sworn she saw a soft golden glow emanating from her palms.

The guy dropped his towel. His eyes went wide. He saw it, too.

“Are you okay?” Emma managed to ask, even though she could barely breathe.

“I—yeah, I just—” He stared at his own hands like they’d betrayed him. Had his done the same thing?

“Did you see that?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“See what?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Did you have something in particular you want to look at?” He shoved his hands in his pockets, but Emma could see them shaking.

“Um. Maybe the ornaments?”

“Right. Yes. Ornaments.” He gestured vaguely at a display shelf, nearly knocking over a delicate glass angel. “They’re all handmade. I do custom work, too. If you want.”

When he handed her a business card, their fingers brushed.

The glow was unmistakable this time. Golden light, just for a second, right where their skin touched.

He yanked his hand back like he’d been burned. “I should—I have something in the annealer—”

“Wait—”

But he backed toward the furnaces. “You can just look around. I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared behind a partition, and Emma heard something clatter, followed by muffled cursing.

She looked down at the business card in her shaking hand: Erik Nilsson – Nilsson’s Glass Studio - Custom Ornaments & Art Glass.

Emma practically ran out of the studio.

That night, she called her grandmother.

“I think I found him.”

“Oh, sweetheart! That’s wonderful! What’s his name?”

“Erik. Erik Nilsson. He’s a glassblower.”

There was a pause. “A glassblower?”

“I know. I thought the chimney thing would lead me to a chimney sweep, like your Dick Van Dyke situation, but—”

“Emma.” Her grandmother’s voice was delighted. “Glassblowing studios have chimneys for the furnaces. The magic did lead you to him. You found your chimney man!”

Emma started laughing. “Can we not call him that? It’s not even the same kind of chimney.”

“The magic has a sense of humor, dear. Now tell me—what happened when you met?”

“He saw the glow on my hands, but I never expected his hands to have the same glow. And he knows something happened. We both panicked. He went to the back of his shop, and I ran out the door.”

Her grandmother laughed. “You’ll have to go back.”

“I can’t. He looked terrified.”

“Emma, the magic chose him for a reason. He’s meant for this. For you. But you have to give him time to understand.”

“What if he doesn’t want to understand?”

“Then you’ll help him. Now go back to that studio and talk to him.”

Emma went back the next afternoon.

She’d rehearsed what she was going to say. Something casual. Something that wouldn’t scare him. Maybe just ask about custom ornaments and see if he wanted to talk about what happened?

But the moment she walked through the door, she saw his face and the way his blue eyes widened. The recognition followed by the panic.

“Hi,” she said, trying to sound normal. “I wanted to ask about—”

“Kiln’s broken,” he blurted out. “We’re actually closed. For repairs. Starting now.”

“Your sign says you’re open until—”

“Emergency repairs.” He was already backing toward the workshop area. “You should go. It’s not safe. Fumes.”

“I don’t smell any—”

But he was gone, disappeared into the back.

Emma stood there, staring at the empty space where he’d been. She could hear him moving around, the sound of glass clinking, like he was hiding behind his work.

She left, but she didn’t go far. Just around the corner, into the alley that ran behind the building, right under that beautiful brick chimney that had drawn her here in the first place.

If he was going to run, he’d come out the back door. And this time, she was ready.

Sure enough, five minutes later, the back door creaked open. Erik poked his head out, looked both ways, and started sneaking toward the parking lot.

Emma stepped out from behind the dumpster.

“AHHH!” He jumped back, dropping his keys.

“We need to talk. About what happened yesterday, when we touched,” Emma continued, stepping closer. “About why your hands glowed.”

“They didn’t. That was just the reflection off the glass.”

“Erik.” His name felt right in her mouth, like she’d known it forever. “Please. I know you felt it, too.”

He stared at her, his back literally against the brick wall, right beneath that chimney that had called to her. “Who are you?”

“I’m Emma. And I know you’re thinking that what happened seems impossible, even insane, but I need you to listen to me for five minutes. Please?”

“I really should get back inside—”

“Your hands glowed yesterday,” she interrupted. “And you felt something when we touched. Something you can’t explain. And you’ve probably been having weird dreams, or knowing things about people you shouldn’t know, or feeling drawn to—”

“How do you know that?” His voice cracked. “How could you possibly know any of that?”

Emma took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“Because it’s magic. Real magic. And it happened because we’re,” she paused, trying to find the right words. “Because we’re meant to do something together. Something important.”

“Magic,” he repeated flatly. “Like abracadabra magic? Like pulling rabbits out of hat magic?”

“Yes, exactly. More magic than Penn & Teller.”

He nodded. “And we’re meant to do something together.”

“Yes.”

“Even though we just met yesterday.”

“I know it sounds crazy—”

“Oh, no. 'Crazy' isn't even in the same zip code as where this conversation is heading. But I think the most terrifying thing about all of this is, part of me wants to believe you.”

At least he hadn’t run off. He stared at her like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “What kind of magic are we talking about?”

“Christmas magic.”

He blinked. “Ohhh, right. Christmas magic. Like elves and reindeer Christmas magic?”

“Exactly like that, actually.”

Erik slid down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, his head in his hands. “If you need me, I’ll just be down here having a complete breakdown.”

Emma sat down next to him, careful not to touch him. “You’re not. I promise. This is real.”

He took his time, breathing in deeply and slowly blowing out until he finally said, “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, that I believe you. About the magic. What does that have to do with us?”

Emma hesitated. How were you supposed to tell someone they were going to be Santa Claus?

“Do you know why you can’t stop making Christmas ornaments? Even in the middle of summer?”

He looked up at her. “Because they were my grandmother’s designs. Because she died when I was thirteen and making them makes me feel close to her.”

Emma’s chest tightened, and she nodded. “The magic told me. When we touched, I saw, no, I felt—” She stopped, seeing the look on his face. “I’m sorry. That must feel like such an invasion.”

“You saw my grandmother?”

“Not exactly. I just... knew. About her. About the ornaments. About why this matters to you.” She met his eyes. “Her name was Astrid?”

His eyes brightened. “How?” Then after a beat said, “Ah. The magic.”

“Right. The same magic that made your hands glow. The same magic that’s been pulling you toward Christmas your whole life, even when you didn’t understand why.”

The silence stretched between them for a while before he finally asked, “What does it want from me?”

“It doesn’t want anything. It’s offering something. A purpose. A partner.” Emma swallowed hard. “Me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I have this genetic thing. It’s called the Matrilineal Inherited Lux Factor. MILF for short,” she snorted. That silly acronym would always make her laugh. “I know how it sounds, but it’s an actual medical term, believe it or not.”

Despite everything, Erik laughed, too. “You have the MILF gene.”

“I do. Huh. That’s the first time I’ve admitted it out loud.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“That I’m meant to become Mrs. Claus. And when I met you, when we touched, the magic recognized you as my match. As the person who’s meant to be Santa.”

Silence.

Erik stared at her. Then he started laughing again, harder this time. “You’re telling me I’m going to be Santa Claus.”

“I know it sounds strange.”

“Strange? How about completely impossible? Like something out of a Hallmark movie written by someone on hallucinogens?”

“Yes,” Emma admitted. “All of those things.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t know. The magic chooses. But it chose you, Erik. And I think,” she gestured at the building, at the chimney rising above them. “I think maybe it’s because you already understand. What it means to bring people joy. To carry on someone’s legacy. To make Christmas special.”

He was quiet again, staring at his hands. “My hands really did glow, didn’t they?”

“Yep.”

He searched her eyes with his. “This isn’t some elaborate prank?”

“I swear on my grandmother’s life. And my grandmother is literally Mrs. Claus, so that’s a serious oath.”

Erik’s head snapped up. “Wait, what?”

“My grandparents. They’re Santa and Mrs. Claus. They have been for eighty-three years. And they’re ready to retire, but they can’t until the magic found the next pair. Which is us. Me and you. Apparently.”

“This is...” His voice trailed off and he stared out, as if he was putting the pieces together. He ran his hands through his hair before he brought his bright blue eyes back to hers. “This is the weirdest Wednesday I’ve ever had.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.” Emma pulled her knees up to her chest. “For what it’s worth, I found out I had the MILF gene at Thanksgiving dinner in front of my entire family. While my grandmother very seriously kept saying ‘I’m a MILF’ and had no idea why everyone was dying laughing. Also, she saw Mary Poppins 38 times because of Dick Van Dyke as the chimney sweep, which is apparently why I’ve been stalking random chimneys for the past couple of weeks.”

That got another laugh out of him. “You’ve been stalking chimneys?”

“Stalking is such a strong word,” she giggled. “And hey, the magic made me do it.”

“So you were drawn to my chimney.”

“Yes. The furnace chimney. Which I didn’t even know was a thing glassblowers needed.”

“We need several, actually. The glory hole, the annealing ovens, the main furnace...” He shook his head. “I can’t believe your grandmother’s Dick Van Dyke obsession is genetically linked to furnace ventilation systems.”

“The magic has a sense of humor.”

“Apparently.” Erik looked up at the chimney above them, smoke and heat still rising from it. “Your grandmother sounds amazing.”

“She is. And she wants to meet you. If you’re willing.”

“Will she explain how I’m supposed to become Santa Claus?”

“Yes.”

Erik closed his eyes. “If I say yes to this meeting, am I agreeing to... everything?”

“No,” Emma said firmly. “You can say no. The magic offers, it doesn’t force. If you don’t want this, the magic will find someone else. Eventually.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d wait. Or maybe the magic would choose someone else for me, too.” The thought made her chest ache in a way she wasn’t ready to explore yet.

Erik opened his eyes and looked at her. The intensity in his gaze made her feel like he could see straight through to everything she was trying not to feel. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs, and for a moment made her acutely aware just how close they were sitting.

“Do you want this, Emma?” he asked softly. “The Santa thing?”

“I think so,” Emma said honestly. “It terrifies me. But I've been so cold lately… a bone-deep cold that nothing could touch. What’s weird is, when I walked into your shop yesterday and felt the heat from your furnaces, I was warm for the first time in months. Not just warm. Right. So yeah. I think I want this."

“Because of the magic?”

“Because of what the magic is offering. Purpose. Adventure. A way to bring joy to millions of kids.” She smiled. “Plus, apparently I get to work with someone who makes really beautiful glass ornaments.”

“They are beautiful,” Erik agreed. Then said, “I need time. To think about this. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

“Would you want to come back inside? I need to check on a piece in the annealer. I could make coffee, if you’re interested. I have a hot plate inside.”

“You make coffee on a hot plate?”

“I work with 2000-degree furnaces all day,” Erik said with a grin. “A hot plate is nothing.”

Emma stood up and offered him her hand. He stared at it for a moment, then took it.

The glow was gentler this time. Warm instead of shocking. Like coming home.

“So,” Erik said, not letting go of her hand. “Your grandmother is really Mrs. Claus?”

“Really.”

“Does she live at the North Pole?”

“Upstate New York, actually. They commute.”

“That’s practical.”

“Oh, they’re very practical. It’s a whole thing.”

Erik pulled her toward the back door of the shop. “Okay. Coffee first. Then you’re going to explain everything. And I mean everything. Starting with why the magic is called the MILF gene.”

“Oh God,” Emma said. “It’s going to take a while.”

“I’ve got several hours before the piece is cool enough to remove from the annealer.”

As they stepped back into Nilsson’s Glass Studio—the heat, the orange glow of the furnaces, the shelves of delicate ornaments catching the light—Emma felt something settle deep in her chest. Something that felt like certainty.

She’d found him. Her chimney man. Just not the kind her grandmother had obsessed over.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d found her too.

Erik led her to a small office area sectioned off from the main studio floor. There was indeed a hot plate, and a French press, and a mini fridge that hummed loudly.

“This is my very professional break room,” he said, gesturing around.

“It’s perfect,” Emma said, and meant it.

He began measuring grounds with the same careful precision he’d used with the molten glass. As he made the coffee, Emma noticed the photographs on the wall. A woman with kind eyes, standing in front of a kiln. The same woman, teaching a very young Erik, how to hold a blowpipe.

“That’s her,” Erik said quietly, following her gaze. “Astrid. My grandfather was Anders. After they immigrated from the Netherlands, my opa took up glassblowing. Said it reminded him of working with his hands back home, even though he'd been a carpenter there. They taught me everything I know.”

“They’d be proud of you.”

“I hope so.” He poured coffee into two mugs, both slightly irregular, clearly handmade. “These were some of my first attempts at glass cups. They’re not great.”

“They’re honest,” Emma said, wrapping her hands around the warm glass. “That’s better than perfect.”

Erik looked at her over his coffee. “Okay. Start from the beginning. And don’t leave anything out.”

Emma took a deep breath. “So. It all started when my brother suggested I might have a thyroid problem...”

And as she told him everything—the MILF gene, the Thanksgiving dinner chaos, her grandmother’s Mary Poppins obsession, the eighty-three years of Santa-ing, all of it. Erik listened. Really listened.

And when she finished, he said, “I want to meet your grandmother.”

Emma’s heart soared. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, if I’m going to lose my mind completely, I might as well meet Mrs. Claus first. Plus, I have questions about the whole Dick Van Dyke thing.”

“You’re not losing your mind.”

“Emma, my hands are literally glowing right now.”

She looked down. He was right. Both their hands were emanating that soft golden light where they rested near each other on the table.

“Huh,” Emma said.

“Is it going to do this all the time?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Erik laughed. “This is totally bananas.”

“Completely.”

He smiled and reached over to hold her hands in his.

And Emma knew, magic or no magic, glowing hands or no glowing hands, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

In a glass studio, in December, holding hands with a man who might just be her future, sitting beneath the chimney that had called her here. And she wasn’t cold at all.

Copyright © 2025 Sera Cassell. All rights reserved.

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