Miss-ing You This Christmas, Part 1

Miss-ing You This Christmas
Part One
By Paige Turner

The drive from the airport had taken nearly two hours longer than it should have. Mark Holly drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as his rental sedan crawled through Pine Hollow, caught in slow-moving tourist traffic.

The town-if you could even call it that-consisted of one main street lined with brick storefronts that looked like they'd been frozen in time somewhere around 1952. Christmas decorations covered every available surface: wreaths on doors, garland strung between lampposts, twinkling lights in every window. An enormous Christmas tree dominated the town square, and someone had gone to the trouble of hanging what had to be thousands of ornaments on it.

It was aggressively quaint. Aggressively festive. Aggressively... everything.

It was exactly the kind of place that made Mark Holly's teeth ache.

The irony wasn't lost on him: a man named Holly, who couldn't care less about Christmas, sent to cover a town that clearly lived for it.

Mark pulled his car into a parking spot near what appeared to be the town's only bookstore and checked his phone. Still no signal. Of course. He'd lost reception about twenty miles back.

Mark grabbed his messenger bag and stepped out into the cold, his breath misting in the December air. Los Angeles didn't prepare you for this kind of cold. He pulled his wool coat tighter and headed for the bookstore, hoping they'd at least have WiFi. Through the window, he could see floor-to-ceiling shelves, a stone fireplace with stockings hung across the mantle, and-of course-a Christmas tree in the corner.

Winters Books was mercifully warm. A bell chimed above the door as he entered, and Mark surveyed the predictable interior: cozy to the point of claustrophobia, with armchairs clustered near the fireplace and tables stacked with books about holiday baking and small-town mysteries. A woman behind the counter looked up from her laptop, light brown hair pulled into a casual side braid.

"Welcome! Can I help you find something?"

"Actually, I'm looking for the Pine Hollow Inn. My GPS lost signal a few miles back." Mark approached the counter, his phone already out. He pushed his hair back from his face-it had gotten too long again, falling to his collar in dark waves.

"Oh, you're staying at Patricia's place? It's easy-just two blocks down Main Street, you can't miss it. Big white Victorian with the wraparound porch."

"Perfect, thank you. Do you have WiFi here?"

"Password's on the counter." She gestured to a small sign, then smiled warmly. "Are you here for the festival?"

"Working, actually. I'm a journalist covering it."

"How wonderful! I'm Emma, by the way. This is my place."

"Mark-" His phone started ringing as soon as it connected to the WiFi. Karen calling back. "Sorry, do you mind if I take this?"

"Go ahead." Emma turned back to some paperwork at her desk.

Mark answered, moving toward the window. "Karen, hey-"

"You hung up on me. What happened?"

"Lost signal. There's literally nothing for miles around this place." Mark lowered his voice. "Listen, I've seen the town. It's exactly what you'd expect. Christmas everything, probably fake snow machines and carolers on every corner."

Behind the counter, Emma's pen stopped moving.

"That's what readers want," Karen said. "Heartwarming small-town Christmas magic."

"Right. Magic." Mark couldn't quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Look, I'll make it work. Do the interviews, get some quotes about tradition and community, blah blah blah, the true meaning of Christmas. Same story, different town."

Emma's shoulders had gone rigid. She wasn't even pretending to work anymore.

"Don't be too cynical," Karen said. "Try to find something genuine."

"No promises." Mark glanced around the bookstore. "Between you and me, these small towns are all the same. Everyone's aggressively friendly, everything's 'special' and 'tradition,' but it's just... quaint for the sake of being quaint."

Emma's jaw tightened.

"Just write something good," Karen said. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Mark ended the call and turned back to find Emma looking at him with an expression that had cooled considerably from her initial welcome.

"All set?" she asked, her tone polite but distant.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Work calls." Mark pocketed his phone. "Thanks for the directions."

"Of course." Emma stood up from her desk. "You know what? Let me get you some hot cocoa. On the house. As a welcome to Pine Hollow."

"Oh, you don't have to-"

"I insist. It's a town tradition, welcoming visitors with something warm." There was an edge to her voice now. "We're very big on tradition here."

Emma disappeared into a back room and returned with a to-go cup, steam rising from the top. "Here you go. Careful, it's-"

She stumbled. The cup tilted. Mark saw it happening in slow motion: Emma's hand slipping, the liquid arcing through the air, his own hands coming up too late. Hot chocolate splashed across his chest, soaking through his button-down shirt and the t-shirt beneath. The sweet smell of cocoa filled the air.

"Oh my God!" Emma grabbed napkins from the counter. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened, the cup just-are you burned? Are you okay?"

Mark held his arms out, hot chocolate dripping from his torso. The shirt clung to his skin. "I'm fine. It's fine."

"Here, let me get you something dry." Emma was already moving to a closet near the back. "We have a lost and found. Can't have you walking around soaked."

She returned with a sweater. Knitted, in shades of red and green with snowflakes across the chest and a Nordic pattern around the collar and cuffs. A Christmas sweater.

"This has been here since last Christmas, no one's claimed it. You can keep it."

In the small bathroom, Mark peeled off his soaked shirt and pulled on the sweater. It fit reasonably well even if the cut was a little off: a little snug across the shoulders, too short in the arms, and too loose at the waist. But it was warm and dry. The Christmas pattern was ridiculous, but he was in no position to be picky.

Mark gathered his wet shirt and headed back out. Emma was behind the counter again, and when their eyes met, her expression was coolly neutral.

"Thanks for the sweater," Mark said carefully.

"You're welcome. Enjoy the festival." Her tone was perfectly polite and completely insincere. "If you leave your shirt here, I'll get it cleaned for you."

Mark left quickly, his wet shirt abandoned on the counter. He was pretty sure Emma had spilled that cocoa on him deliberately, though he couldn't prove it.

The wind hit him the moment he stepped outside. A sharp gust that sent his hair whipping around his face. Mark fumbled with his car keys, trying to unlock the door while holding his messenger bag.

He drove the two blocks and parked in front of a white Victorian house with a wraparound porch and a hand-painted sign. Grabbing his suitcase from the trunk, Mark headed inside, his hair still wind-blown and messy around his face.

The interior was exactly what he expected: floral wallpaper, antique furniture, the faint smell of lavender and cinnamon. A woman in her sixties rose from behind the desk and smiled warmly.

"Welcome to Pine Hollow Inn! You must be our guest from Los Angeles. I'm Patricia."

"Yes, that's me." Mark set down his suitcase, ready to check in and finally get to his room.

Patricia consulted her computer, then smiled even brighter. "Welcome to Pine Hollow, Miss Marks! We've put you in the Rose Room-it's our nicest suite, overlooks the town square. Perfect for getting inspired for your article! Now let me grab your key."

"I'm sorry, Miss-?"

She disappeared through a door behind the desk. Mark stared after her. He must've misheard her. Yes, that had to be it.

"Here we are!" Patricia bustled back with an old-fashioned key on a brass fob. "Room 3, top of the stairs and to the right. I'll have your bags taken up. In the meantime, the welcome reception just started in our dining room. Everyone's so excited to meet you!"

"The what?"

"The reception for festival participants and volunteers. I mentioned it in my confirmation email-didn't you see it?" Patricia was already coming around the desk. "No matter, you're here now! Let me take you in and introduce you around."

"Wait, I should probably-" Mark gestured vaguely at himself, and then towards the staircase.

"You look lovely, Miss Marks! Very festive. Come on, everyone's waiting."

Before Mark could protest further, Patricia had taken his arm and was guiding him toward a set of double doors. Mark caught a glimpse of himself in a decorative mirror as they passed.

The Christmas sweater was decidedly feminine now that he really looked at it, with its fitted waist and slightly flared hem, its half-sleeves. His hair, loose and voluminous from the wind, falling in dark waves around his face. His delicate features, cheeks rosy from the cold.

If you didn't look too hard, he looked like a woman.

"Here we are!" Patricia pushed open the doors to reveal a room full of people. "Everyone, this is our visiting journalist from Los Angeles!"

Faces turned toward them. Smiling, welcoming faces.

"This is Miss Holly Marks," Patricia announced proudly. "She'll be covering our festival for her publication. Let's all make her feel welcome!"

Miss Holly Marks.

The registration must have been entered backward. Holly, Mark S. instead of Mark S. Holly. And Patricia, seeing the Christmas sweater and the long hair, had assumed...

Mark opened his mouth to correct her. To explain the mistake. But Patricia was already introducing people, and they were coming forward to shake his hand, and the moment to interrupt politely had passed.

"I'm Sarah Mitchell, I run the bakery. Welcome to Pine Hollow!"

"Tom Walsh, fire chief. Great to have you here."

"Jennifer Hayes, I teach at the elementary school."

The names blurred together. Mark shook hands, smiled, tried to figure out how to correct this without making it mortifyingly awkward for everyone involved.

"Let me get you some cider," Patricia said, guiding him toward a refreshment table laden with cookies and drinks. "You must be tired from your drive."

"Actually, I should clarify something-" Mark started.

"Patricia, you didn't tell me our journalist was here!" A woman in her forties approached, elegant in a burgundy dress. "I'm Claire Donovan. I do costumes for the children's pageant. I'd love to talk to you about the creative process, if you're interested."

"Of course, I'd be happy to-"

"Holly!" Patricia handed him a cup of hot cider. "That's such a lovely name. Very fitting for someone covering a Christmas festival."

Mark took the cider automatically. The warmth of the cup seeped into his hands. Everyone was looking at him with such genuine welcome, such warmth.

He should tell them. Should explain right now that there had been a mix-up, that he was actually Mark Holly, male journalist from LA, and someone had gotten his name backward.

But the words stuck in his throat. It would be so awkward. Embarrassing for Patricia, who'd already introduced him to a room full of people. And he'd still be stuck here for three days, being the journalist who'd been mistaken for a woman. Small towns thrived on gossip.

Maybe... maybe he could just let it go for now. Fix it later, privately, when it wouldn't cause a scene.

"Thank you," Mark heard himself say. "Everyone's been very welcoming."

Patricia beamed. "We're so glad you're here. Oh! There's someone you should meet."

She waved at a man across the room. He was tall, early thirties, with dark hair and an angular face that was classically handsome. He wore jeans and a dark green flannel shirt, and when he turned toward them, his expression was politely reserved.

"Luke! Come meet our journalist."

The man approached with an easy stride. "Luke Shepherd, this is Holly Marks from Los Angeles. Holly, Luke runs the tree farm outside town. Has been in his wife's family for three generations."

Luke offered his hand. His grip was firm, his gaze direct. "Welcome to Pine Hollow."

"Thank you," Mark said, hyperaware of how his voice sounded, whether it would give him away.

Luke's eyes traveled briefly over the Christmas sweater, but his expression remained neutral. "First time visiting?"

"First time," Mark confirmed.

"Mm." Luke nodded once, then seemed to run out of things to say. An awkward pause stretched between them.

"Luke's tree farm is one of the most beautiful in the county," Patricia filled in brightly. "Families come from all over during the season."

"It keeps me busy," Luke said, his tone making it clear he wasn't interested in elaborating.

"You should interview Luke for the article!" Patricia offered. "Get a local business perspective-"

"Maybe. I'll have to see." Luke's response was noncommittal, almost dismissive. "We're pretty busy this time of year."

Another pause. Luke looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

"Dad!"

A little girl ran up to them. Maybe seven or eight, with dark hair in braids and a gap-toothed smile. She attached herself to Luke's leg, looking up at Mark with bright, curious eyes.

And just like that, Luke's entire demeanor transformed. His face softened, his posture relaxed. He rested his hand on the girl's head affectionately.

"This is my daughter, Lily," he said, and his voice was completely different now. Warm, gentle. "Lily, this is Miss Marks. She's a journalist visiting from Los Angeles."

"Hi!" Lily beamed at Mark. "Are you here for the festival?"

"I am," Mark said, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Luke.

"I'm in the pageant! I'm an angel and I have wings and everything!" Lily bounced on her toes. "It's going to be so good. Are you going to come watch?"

"I'll definitely be there," Mark said, meaning it. Lily's enthusiasm was infectious.

"You should sit with Dad! He always comes to watch me." Lily looked up at Luke adoringly. "Right, Dad?"

"Wouldn't miss it, bug." Luke said, smiling down at her. Then he seemed to remember Mark was there, and the warmth faded slightly. "We should let Miss Marks enjoy the party. Come on, let's get you some cookies."

"It was nice meeting you," Mark offered.

"You too." Luke's response was polite but perfunctory. He guided Lily toward the refreshment table without looking back.

"I see you've met Luke. He tries his best, but you can tell his heart's not in it anymore. He's been talking about selling the farm and moving somewhere easier."

Mark turned to find a woman standing beside him. Early thirties, hair in a side braid, wearing jeans and a green sweater. Her expression was amused, knowing.

And familiar.

The bookstore. The hot chocolate.

"You," Mark said.

"Me," the woman agreed. "Emma Winters. We met earlier, though we weren't properly introduced." She offered her hand. "Holly Marks, is it?"

Mark's stomach dropped. "Look, about the phone call-"

"Later." Emma's smile was sharp. "First, let me introduce my wife. Jess!"

A woman with short blonde hair and warm brown eyes joined them, slipping her hand into Emma's. "This is our visiting journalist?"

"Holly Marks," Patricia said, appearing beside them. "From Los Angeles. Holly, this is Emma Winters and her wife Jessica. Emma owns the bookstore."

"We've met," Emma said smoothly. "I lent Holly the sweater after a little accident earlier."

Jessica's eyes traveled over the Christmas sweater, and something knowing passed over her face, but she just smiled. "It suits you. Very festive."

"Everyone keeps saying that," Mark said weakly.

"Because it's true!" Patricia said. "Now, let me introduce you to Mayor Brennan..."

Patricia steered Mark away for more introductions. The room was warm, crowded, overwhelming. Everyone was friendly, welcoming, and completely convinced he was a woman named Holly. Through it all, Mark kept thinking he should find Patricia, should explain, should fix this before it went any further.

But every time he opened his mouth to make an excuse, someone else pulled him into conversation.

Mark accepted another cup of cider and tried to figure out his next move. Maybe he could take Patricia aside later, explain quietly, ask her to spread the word that there had been a misunderstanding-

"So."

Emma appeared at his elbow again, without Jessica this time. Her expression was bright with barely contained amusement.

"Holly Marks," she said, low enough that only he could hear. "Interesting name. Though when I searched online for journalists from Los Angeles with that name, all I found is one Mark Holly. Who is very much not a woman."

Mark's mouth went dry. "There was a mix-up with the registration-"

"Patricia got it backward," Emma said. "And when she saw the Christmas sweater and the hair, she assumed you were a woman." Emma's smile widened. "And you just... went with it."

"I was going to correct her-"

"But you didn't. And now you're in too deep to fix it without massive embarrassment all around." Emma looked delighted. "This is magnificent."

"Look, you've got to help me. Explain to Patricia privately-"

Emma shook her head. "No, I don't think I will."

Mark stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me." She shrugged on her coat. "You got yourself into this mess. You can get yourself out."

"But you're the one who gave me the sweater!"

"You're also the one who spent fifteen minutes on the phone talking about how backwards and pathetic this town is. About how our traditions are garbage and nobody with any taste would care."

Mark felt his stomach drop. "You heard that."

"Every word." Emma buttoned her coat. "So forgive me if I'm not rushing to save you from a little embarrassment. Maybe this will teach you something about assumptions."

"This isn't just embarrassing, it's-" Mark lowered his voice as Patricia passed by. "I can't keep pretending to be someone I'm not."

"Then don't." Emma pulled on her gloves. "Tell them the truth right now. I'm sure they'll understand." Her smile was sharp. "Though you might want to practice your apology. Somehow I don't think 'sorry I've been lying to you all evening' is going to go over well."

Mark glanced around the room. Sarah was hugging Patricia goodbye. The mayor was pulling on his coat. Jennifer was gathering her things. Everyone had been so kind, so welcoming. The thought of announcing now that he'd been deceiving them-

"I didn't mean to lie," he said quietly.

"And yet." Emma adjusted her scarf. "Good luck, Mark. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

She turned to leave, and Mark felt panic rise in his chest. "Wait. What am I supposed to do?"

Emma paused in the doorway. "About what?"

"About tomorrow! I have interviews scheduled around town, and-" He gestured helplessly at himself. "I can't show up like this."

"Like what? Wearing a sweater?" Emma's expression softened slightly. "Look, I'll stop by the inn tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty. I'll bring your shirt back and we'll... talk."

"Talk about what?"

"About your options." Emma's smile returned, mysterious now. "Just don't do anything drastic before then, okay? No midnight confessions or running back to Los Angeles."

"I wasn't going to-"

"Good. Because the roads are going to be terrible tonight, and besides, you have a story to write. Isn't that what you're here for?" She gave him a little wave. "See you tomorrow, Miss Marks."

She disappeared through the door before Mark could respond.

Mark excused himself and climbed the stairs to the Rose Room, his mind racing. Emma would help. She'd said she would. She'd bring his shirt back and they'd "talk" and somehow this would all get sorted out.

He just had to make it through one night. One night, and tomorrow everything would be back to normal.

Mark unlocked his door and stepped into the rose-papered room. His suitcase sat on the luggage rack. The bed looked impossibly inviting. Through the window, snowflakes glinted in the moonlight.

He set his phone on the nightstand and went to the window. Below, the town square was empty, the Christmas tree glowing softly in the darkness. It looked peaceful. Perfect.

Mark pulled the curtains closed and started getting ready for bed, trying not to think about tomorrow, or Emma's gleeful smirk, or the fact that at least once in the last few hours, he'd briefly stopped wanting to leave quite so urgently.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, soft and steady, covering Pine Hollow in white.

________________

Mark woke to pale winter light filtering through the lace curtains. For a moment, he forgot where he was-then memory crashed back. Pine Hollow. The inn. The party.

Miss Marks.

He groaned and pulled a pillow over his face. Seven-fifteen, according to his phone. Emma would be here in fifteen minutes with his shirt and whatever "options" she'd cryptically mentioned.

Mark showered quickly, grateful to scrub away the previous evening. He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt from his suitcase, ran a comb through his damp hair, and felt marginally more like himself. The Christmas sweater lay draped over a chair, a physical reminder of how spectacularly things had gone wrong.

A knock at the door, precisely at seven-thirty.

Mark opened it to find Emma standing in the hallway, holding a large canvas tote and a garment bag draped over her arm. She was dressed casually-jeans, boots, a cream-colored sweater under her winter coat. Her expression was unreadable.

"Morning," she said. "Can I come in?"

Mark stepped aside, and Emma entered, setting her bags on the bed. She glanced around the Rose Room with obvious amusement. "Very on-brand."

"Emma, please tell me you brought my shirt so I can fix this."

"I did bring your shirt." Emma reached into the tote bag and pulled out his button-down, cleaned and pressed. "But if you wear it downstairs, everyone in town will know by lunchtime that you lied to them last night. Sarah will cancel. Luke will cancel. You'll get nothing for your article except maybe some resentful quotes about city people who think they're better than everyone else."

She set the shirt on the dresser and unzipped the garment bag.

"Or," Emma continued, pulling out a dark green skirt and cream blouse, "you can commit to the role for three days, get the real story, and leave with something actually worth publishing."

Mark stared at the clothes. "You want me to keep pretending to be a woman."

"I want you to get the story you came here for. This is how you do it." Emma's voice was matter-of-fact. "Your choice. But if you're going to do it, we need to start now. Sarah's expecting you."

Mark looked at the skirt, then at his cleaned shirt, then back at Emma. This was insane. But she was right about one thing. If he came clean now, he'd lose everything. Three days of awkwardness versus going home empty-handed and explaining to Karen why he'd blown the assignment.

"Fine," he heard himself say. "What do I need to do?"

Emma's smile was satisfied. "Strip down to your underwear."

Mark's face went hot. "What?"

"I need to see what we're working with."

This was really happening. Mark pulled off his t-shirt and jeans, standing in his boxers and feeling absurdly exposed. "Okay."

Emma surveyed him with a critical, completely professional eye. "Not much body hair. That helps. Here." She handed him a pair of panties and a bra. "Bathroom's fine if you're shy."

Mark took the garments and retreated to the bathroom. The underwear were simple boy shorts in navy, the fabric softer and thinner than his boxers. He stepped into them, and they clung to him in ways that felt too intimate, made him too aware of his body. Less coverage, less barrier between his skin and the world.

The nude t-shirt bra was more complicated. He fumbled with the hooks, fingers clumsy, before finally managing to fasten it in front and rotate it around. The band settled around his chest, snug and constricting. The empty cups hung there, obviously empty.

Mark stepped out, and Emma was arranging items on the bed. She glanced at him and pulled out two flesh-colored silicone shapes. "Jessica will get a kick out of this. These are hers from a few years ago."

Mark blinked. "Your wife?"

"She doesn't need them anymore. Grew her own." She offered no further explanation, and Mark was too overwhelmed to follow up. "Go ahead."

Mark slid the forms into the bra cups. They had real weight to them, pulling on his shoulders in a way he hadn't anticipated. He looked down and saw the swell of breasts against his chest.

"Good." Emma stepped closer, adjusting the forms slightly, making sure they sat correctly. Her lips twitched. "Well, that's a look."

Mark followed her gaze. Women's underwear with a bulge clearly visible in front, contrasting with a bra with obvious curves, his bare legs. "This is insane."

"Probably." Emma handed him a robe, which he donned gladly. "Sit down. Let me see your hands."

Mark sat, and Emma took his hand, examining his nails with a critical eye. "You bite them."

"Sometimes."

"Nervous habit?" She pulled out a nail file and started working, the rasp rhythmic against his nails. "Or just bored?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really. Just making conversation." She filed each nail into a rounded shape, smoothing the edges. "You know, most people would have run screaming by now."

"I still might."

Emma smiled and shook a bottle of pale pink polish. "Too late. Hold still."

The brush strokes were cool and wet against his nails. Mark watched as each nail transformed from ragged to glossy pink. It looked absurd.

"Let those dry," Emma said. "Don't touch anything."

She moved behind him, and Mark felt her fingers in his damp hair. "What are you-"

"Relax. I'm not going to scalp you." The blow dryer started, hot air and the pull of a brush through his hair. "Though you really should use conditioner. This is like straw."

"I condition," Mark protested.

"Not well." Emma worked methodically, sectioning and drying, creating volume Mark had never managed on his own. Then came the heat of a curling iron, strands of his hair wrapped around hot metal. "So, Luke seemed interested last night."

Mark's stomach flipped. "He was polite."

"He was cold to you, actually. Which means he found you interesting." Emma released a curl, moved to the next section. "Luke doesn't do polite anymore. Not since Emily died. If he doesn't like someone, he just... disappears. The fact that he stayed and talked means something."

"He barely said ten words to me."

"Exactly. That's progress." The curling iron moved through another section. "Usually he just nods and leaves. You should feel flattered."

"I feel like I'm losing my mind."

"That too." Emma sprayed something that smelled chemical and sweet. "There. Don't look yet."

Before Mark could protest, she'd spun the chair away from the mirror. Makeup came next. Cool cream smoothed over his face, brushes sweeping across his eyelids, the strange sensation of someone else touching his face with such casual intimacy.

"Fair warning," Emma said as she worked, "I'm not a makeup artist or anything. But I can give you the basics. Enough that no one should look twice."

"Close your eyes." A brush swept across his lids. "Other eye." "Look up." "Down." "Stop squinting, I'm not going to poke you."

Mark tried to hold still while Emma worked. Foundation, powder, eyeshadow-he could feel the layers building, transforming his face.

"You have good bone structure," Emma observed, dragging liner along his lash line. "Feminine, if you work with it. Lucky you."

"I don't feel lucky."

"You will when this works." She stepped back. "Okay, you can look now."

Mark turned to the mirror.

The person looking back was... different. The makeup had softened his features, made his eyes larger, his cheekbones more prominent. The styled hair framed his face in waves. The breasts created curves under his bathrobe.

But he could still see himself underneath. His jaw was still there, defined and masculine even under the foundation. His shoulders were still broad. His hands, even with the pink nails, were too large.

He looked like a woman. Sort of. If you didn't look too hard.

"It's not perfect," Emma said, reading his expression. "But it doesn't need to be. People see what they expect to see. They'll expect a woman, so that's what they'll see." She pulled the tights from the bed. "Come on, these are easier if you sit."

The tights were a struggle. Mark had to shimmy into them, the sheer material clinging to his legs, compressing everything. Emma watched with barely concealed amusement as he nearly fell over trying to pull them up.

"Graceful," she said dryly.

"Shut up."

The skirt came next. Emma held it while Mark stepped in, then zipped it up the side. The fabric settled around his hips with unfamiliar weight, hitting just below his knees.

Mark struggled with the blouse, his fingers fumbling with the backward buttons. After the third failed attempt, Emma batted his hands away and buttoned it herself.

"I'm not going to be dressing you every morning, but we're running late."

The blouse fit snugly across the breast forms, but pulled slightly at the shoulders. Too tight there, too loose at the waist. Close, but not quite right.

Emma handed him the ankle boots. "Two-inch heel. Nothing crazy. But you're going to feel off-balance."

She was right. Mark stood and immediately pitched forward, his weight wrong, his center of gravity shifted. He took a few experimental steps. The skirt swished around his legs. The heels clicked on the floor. The breasts shifted with each movement.

"Smaller steps," Emma said. "You're walking like you're wearing sneakers. You'll trip."

Mark adjusted, taking shorter, more careful steps. It felt ridiculous. It felt unnatural.

It felt exactly like what it was: a man in women's clothing, trying not to fall over.

"Here." Emma fastened a small gold necklace around his neck. The metal was cool against his skin. Then clip-on earrings that pinched. "Stop fidgeting with them, you'll knock them off."

She handed him a brown leather purse. "Phone, wallet, keys, notebook. Everything you'll need for the day."

Mark transferred his belongings, the purse hanging strange and unfamiliar on his shoulder.

Emma stepped back and looked him over with a critical eye. "Okay. You'll pass. As long as no one looks too hard." She paused. "The jaw's still there. The shoulders are a bit broad. But between the makeup and the clothes and people's expectations..." She shrugged. "You'll be fine. Probably."

"That's not reassuring."

"It's not meant to be." Emma headed for the door. "Come on. Sarah's expecting you, and you'll walk slower in heels."

Mark grabbed his wool coat from the chair. "What about a coat?" he asked.

Emma glanced at it. "That'll be fine. It's cold out, no one's going to judge you for wearing a practical coat. Besides, I didn't think to bring one." She opened the door. "Ready?"

Mark looked at himself in the mirror one more time. The woman looking back was imperfect. Too angular in places, too broad in others. But convincing enough. Feminine enough.

Wearing a men's wool coat over a cream blouse and green skirt.

He touched his face, feeling the smoothness of foundation, the strangeness of his own features transformed.

"Holly," Emma called from the hallway. "Let's go."

The name sent a jolt through him. Not his name. Not really.

But for the next three days, it would have to be.

Mark-Holly-pulled on the coat and followed Emma out the door.

________________

The inn was quiet except for voices drifting from the dining room below. Mark descended the stairs carefully, hyper-aware of each step in the unfamiliar heels. The skirt swished. The breast forms bounced. Everything felt wrong.

Patricia looked up from the front desk as they reached the bottom. Her face broke into a warm smile.

"Good morning, Miss Marks! Don't you look lovely today. That color is perfect on you."

"Thank you," Mark managed, trying to keep his voice soft.

"Sarah called this morning-she's very excited about your visit. Said she's making a special batch of cookies just for you."

Guilt twisted in Mark's stomach, but he smiled and nodded.

Outside, the morning was cold and bright. They walked down Main Street toward the bakery, Mark taking careful steps in his heels. People waved as they passed.

"Morning, Emma! Morning, Miss Marks!"

Mark waved back, heart pounding. But no one looked twice. No one seemed to notice anything odd.

The bakery appeared ahead, warm light glowing in the windows. Through the glass, Mark could see Sarah pulling a tray from the oven.

"You've got this," Emma murmured, then turned towards the bookstore, leaving Mark alone on the sidewalk. He took a deep breath and stepped inside the bakery.

The bell chimed. Sarah looked up, and her face lit up. "Holly! Come in, come in! I'm so glad you could make it."

She pulled out a chair, already talking about her grandmother's recipe, the smell of cinnamon and sugar filling the air.

It was working.

________________

The interview went smoothly. Sarah was warm and enthusiastic, talking about her grandmother's recipes and telling stories while Mark took notes and sampled cookies that melted on his tongue. She never questioned anything, never looked at him oddly.

But then, toward the end of the interview, Sarah's smile faltered slightly.

"I hope you'll capture what makes Pine Hollow special," she said, refilling his coffee. "While we still have it."

Mark looked up from his notes. "While you still have it?"

Sarah's expression grew wistful. "The festival won't be the same without Luke's farm. But I understand why he needs to do what's best for his family."

"I'm sorry, what about Luke's farm?"

"Oh." Sarah looked surprised. "I thought everyone knew. He's selling it. After this season." She sighed. "His wife Emily's family owned that land for three generations. But since she passed... well, Luke's doing his best, but you can tell his heart's not in it anymore."

Mark wrote this down, his mind racing. "Do you know who's buying it?"

"Some tech company so they can build a data center." Sarah's voice dropped. "They're planning to bulldoze everything-build server farms across land where families have been coming for Christmas trees for decades. Can you imagine? Those windowless warehouses, visible from Main Street."

"That's... unfortunate."

"It's devastating," Sarah said quietly. "The farm is why tourists come here. They want the tree tours, the hot cider, cutting their own tree. It's authentic. Charming." She gestured around her bakery. "Without that draw, why would they come to Pine Hollow? My bakery, Claire's boutique, Emma's bookstore-we all depend on Christmas tourism. If that dries up..." She didn't finish the sentence.

Mark left the bakery with more than just cookie recipes in his notebook.

The pattern continued through the afternoon. Tom Walsh at the fire station mentioned in passing that the town's Christmas tree for the square had always come from Luke's farm. "Not sure where we'll get it next year with those server farms going in." Jennifer at the elementary school said wistfully that the kids loved the annual field trip to Luke's farm, but this year would be the last one. "Once you bulldoze it for a data center, there won't be anything to visit."

Everyone was trying to stay positive. Everyone was putting on a brave face. But underneath the Christmas cheer, there was grief.

By two-thirty, Mark understood: this year's festival wasn't just a celebration. It was a wake.

His phone buzzed. A text from Emma.

Emma: how's it going? u should talk to Claire Donovan at Magnolia Boutique, she does all the costumes for the pageant. great story there

Mark: a clothing boutique?

Emma: she's a costume designer and knows everyone. trust me, it'll be good for your article

Mark sighed and headed to the boutique. He'd met Claire briefly at the party last night-she'd been warm and stylish in her burgundy dress. Now, pushing open the shop door, he found her arranging a display of winter scarves.

"Holly!" Claire looked up with a bright smile. "Emma said you'd be stopping by. I'm so sorry about your luggage situation."

Mark blinked. "My what?"

"Your suitcase? Emma texted me this morning. Said the airline lost it and you've been making do with borrowed clothes." Claire's expression was sympathetic. "That must be so stressful, especially when you're on a deadline."

Mark's mind raced. What was Emma playing at? "Oh, that. It's... it's fine, really. Emma lent me some things-"

"Which was sweet of her, but let's be honest. Emma has many wonderful qualities, but fashion sense isn't one of them. Very... librariancore." She pulled out a measuring tape, paused, and then set it aside. "Let's do the interview first, then I'll get your measurements."

"I really don't think-"

"Nonsense. Consider it Pine Hollow hospitality."

The interview went well. Claire was articulate and passionate, showing him photos of past pageants, explaining her design process. But partway through, she too brought up the farm.

"This will be my last year doing Lily's angel costume," Claire said softly. "Luke mentioned they'll probably move after he sells the farm. Closer to a city, where there are better schools." She smiled sadly. "I understand. It's hard to stay in a place that reminds you of what you've lost."

Mark took notes, a picture forming. Luke wasn't just selling a farm. He was leaving. Taking Lily and starting over somewhere that didn't hurt.

"But enough sadness," Claire said, standing. "Let's talk about getting you some proper clothes."

"Claire, I appreciate the offer, but-"

"I insist. Really." Claire's smile was warm but firm. "Emma told me your suitcase might not arrive until after you leave. We can't have you stuck with one borrowed outfit. Stand up, let me see."

Before Mark could protest, Claire had a measuring tape out. She worked professionally, jotting numbers in a small notebook. Bust, waist, hips, inseam. Mark stood there, face burning, as she measured him like he was actually a woman in need of a wardrobe.

"Perfect," Claire said finally. "I'll put together some pieces for you. Professional but stylish." She waved away his attempted protest. "I'll have everything delivered to the inn first thing tomorrow. No arguments. We take care of visitors in Pine Hollow."

Mark left with a notebook full of quotes and a growing sense that Emma was orchestrating something beyond his control. What was she up to? Why tell Claire his luggage was lost?

He tried texting her, but got no response.

By the time he made it back to the inn, it was nearly six. Mark climbed the stairs to his room, his feet aching in Emma's boots. He just wanted to get out of these clothes, take off the makeup, and think.

He unlocked the door and stopped.

His suitcase was gone.

The luggage rack where it had sat that morning was empty. Mark checked the closet, under the bed, the bathroom. Nothing. His suitcase-with all his male clothes, his sneakers, his underwear-had vanished.

On the bed, carefully laid out, was a white nightgown. Cotton, with delicate lace at the collar and hem. Feminine and pretty and absolutely not his.

There was a note on the pillow in Emma's handwriting:

"You committed to three days. No backing out now! I'll give you your clothes back after the festival. The nightgown is a loaner-try not to spill anything on it. New wardrobe arrives tomorrow morning. You're welcome. -E"

Mark stared at the note, then at the nightgown, then at the empty space where his suitcase had been.

She'd taken his clothes. Emma had actually stolen his suitcase.

He couldn't leave now even if he wanted to. He had nothing to wear except what was currently on his body and whatever Claire delivered tomorrow. He was trapped.

Mark sat heavily on the bed, still holding the note. Part of him wanted to be angry. Part of him wanted to march down to Emma's apartment, wherever that was, and demand his suitcase back.

But a larger part of him recognized that Emma was right. He had committed. And some part of him that he didn't want to examine too closely wasn't entirely upset about being forced to continue.

He looked at the nightgown. White cotton, modest but undeniably feminine.

He was going to have to sleep in this.

Resigned to his fate, Mark began removing his clothes. The skirt first, then the blouse. The tights peeled off, leaving his legs feeling strange and exposed. The bra with its forms-the relief when he unhooked it was immediate, but his chest felt oddly light without the weight.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and stopped.

His body looked... different.

Not dramatically. Not in any single way he could point to definitively. But his waist looked narrower. His hips looked wider. His skin was smooth, what little body hair he had seemed lighter, finer.

Mark ran his hands down his sides. Did his waist actually feel smaller? The curve from his ribs to his hips more pronounced?

Couldn't be. That was just from wearing the tights all day, right? They'd compressed everything, redistributed his shape. It would go back to normal.

He touched his chest. The skin was soft, smoother than usual. And was there a slight swelling beneath his nipples? Or was he imagining it?

"You're imagining it," he told himself firmly. "It's been a long day. You're tired."

Mark pulled on the nightgown. The cotton was soft, sliding over his skin. It fell to mid-calf, the lace collar sitting delicately against his throat.

He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and saw a masculine woman getting ready for bed.

Mark washed his face, scrubbing away the makeup until his skin was bare and pink. His reflection looked back-features softer than he remembered. More delicate.

It was just the lighting. The exhaustion.

He climbed into the warm bed, the nightgown shifting around his legs. His phone buzzed.

Emma: don't be mad. this is for your own good. Claire's putting together a much better wardrobe than I could. u can thank me later.

Mark stared at the text for a long moment, then typed back.

Mark: u stole my suitcase!!

Emma: borrowed. you'll get it back Saturday

Mark: I could leave. buy new clothes and just leave

Emma: u won't. u want this story. maybe let yourself enjoy this just a little bit. sleep well, Holly. big day tomorrow!

Mark set the phone down without responding. He turned off the light and lay in the darkness, the nightgown soft against his skin, his body feeling strange and foreign.

Emma was wrong. He wasn't enjoying this.

Except-

He thought about the way Patricia had smiled at him that morning. The warmth in Sarah's voice. The easy way people had talked to him, opened up to him.

He thought about how natural it had started to feel, walking in the heels. Wearing the skirt. Responding to "Miss Marks" without even thinking about it.

"Three days," he reminded himself. "Two and a half, now. You can do this."

Outside, snow began to fall again. And somewhere in the darkness, Mark's body continued its subtle changes. Exhausted and confused, he slept through it in his borrowed nightgown, unaware that by morning, going back would be even harder than it already was.

________________

Thanks for reading! You can find all my stories, updates on future projects, and links to my reader Discord at http://paigeturnertg.github.io