Christmas Cure

by Kristine Winters

Genres: Holiday Romance; Romantic Comedy; Time Travel Romance

Synopsis

A cozy holiday rom-com in which ER physician Dr. Libby Munro travels back in time to the previous Christmas during her hometown’s rumored-to-be-magical Christmas tree lighting ceremony, where she must confront her past choices—while navigating an unexpected romance that could rewrite her future.

He wasn’t on her Christmas wish list, but he’s just what Santa ordered.

When Libby Munro returns to her hometown of Harmony Hills—a holiday-obsessed village that feels like stepping into a Christmas card—she’s longing for an escape. A respite from her hectic job as a big-city emergency room doctor, and a change of scenery after a painful break-up. Maybe Harmony Hills’s festive charm will help her rediscover the holiday spirit.

What she doesn’t expect is Liam Young: the dreamy, green-eyed owner of the local bakery, whose smile rivals the glow of the town’s legendary Christmas tree. Or a run-in with Liam’s excitable pot-bellied pig, Mary Piggins, at the rumoured-to-be-magical tree-lighting ceremony. Libby’s knocked unconscious in the chaos and wakes up to find herself thrust into the past: specifically, to Christmastime, one year ago.

As she relives last Christmas, Libby begins to wonder if this is a second chance to change her life. With every snowflake-filled moment, the undeniable spark between her and Liam grows brighter. But if she’s going to rewrite her future, she’ll need to figure out what changes the past is asking her to make—and whether she’s ready to embrace the pull of home, and the promise of true love.

Perfect for fans of In a Holidaze and One Day in December, The Christmas Cure is the holiday rom-com that will make you believe in the magic of Christmas.

Release date: October 7, 2025

Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1: December 16, Present Year

1 December 16, Present Year
If I knew a potbellied pig named Mary Piggins would soon change my life forever, I would not have ordered extra bacon on my breakfast sandwich this morning. But I’ve yet to meet Miss Piggins, I’m starving, and I have only fifteen minutes before my break ends.

I’m an attending emergency physician and it’s mid-December, which is one of the busiest months in any hospital. Not only does the season bring snow and ice to town (we take daily bets on the number of ankle fractures from slippery sidewalks), there’s also the stress of the holiday rush. There are enough heart attacks this time of year to suggest Christmas may be an independent risk factor for sudden cardiac arrest.

It’s nine in the morning, and I’m two hours into my ten-hour shift. My third to last before I start my holidays. The plan was a visit home for Christmas with my boyfriend of two years, Dr. Austin Whitmore, a plastic surgeon with ocean-blue eyes whose chiseled jaw is the envy of many of his clients. However, due to the fact that Austin is now my ex-boyfriend, said plan has been demolished like a tray of holiday shortbread cookies in the doctor’s lounge. I’m not sure I have the stamina to go home carrying the three-month-old baggage of the breakup, along with my family’s Christmas presents. Especially because everyone thought Austin wouldn’t be my boyfriend this holiday season… he would be my fiancé.

Unfortunately, after I texted the family group chat that I had “relationship-related news” (yes, by text… sometimes my family can be, well, a lot), I was pulled into a mass casualty event and didn’t get the second half of the message sent. When I checked my texts later, there were three responses—a heart-eyed emoji from Mom, a confetti cannon from Dad, and a ring emoji from Amelia, with three exclamation points.

I replied to that text thread with a cringing emoji and an “actually, we broke up…” note, and before I could even turn off my phone, Amelia was calling. Then I had to somehow explain how a fight about toilet paper—“yes, Amelia, toilet paper”—ended my two-year relationship.

It began as a mostly teasing discussion about which direction the toilet paper is supposed to go onto the holder. Austin and I disagreed, both of us exceptionally confident in our choice. But the argument soon escalated, and epically. One moment we were fine, or as fine as a couple can be when faced with enormous work pressures and demanding schedules. The next moment, Austin was slamming the door to my apartment after I said, “I don’t know if I can be with someone who believes toilet paper positioning doesn’t matter!” to which he replied, “And I don’t know if I can be with someone who treats toilet paper placement like it’s a medical emergency!”

I thought it would be one of those arguments that went too far, but that we would come back from stronger than ever. With sheepish apologies and chuckles, agreeing that whoever changed the toilet paper roll would obviously decide. But a day of silence turned into two, then three, and when Austin texted, “Can I come over? Need to talk,” I knew it wasn’t going to be something we laughed about one day.

Our relationship may have ended with toilet paper, but our problems began long before that. Like when Austin told me—out of the blue, on vacation—that he wanted to move to L.A. Permanently. I did not want to move, and not only because I loved the hospital and my colleagues. I wanted to stay in Toronto, with its four seasons and vibrant cultures—it was home.

After the L.A. revelation, the microfractures in our relationship became easy to diagnose, though less easy to fix. I have always dreamt of doing a tour with Doctors Without Borders; Austin thought that was “noble and earnest,” and while he said he loved that goal for me, he didn’t share it. He isn’t sure he wants kids, especially now that he is in his forties; I was pretty certain I wanted to become a mother, at least once. He is a vegetarian who doesn’t touch sugar; I love bacon and anything sweet enough to make your teeth ache. Anyway, looking back now, it was clear we had some potentially insurmountable odds.

Breaking up over toilet paper, however, is ridiculous. When I finally recounted the story to Amelia, she replied, “You ended a two-year relationship… over two-ply?” It was four-ply (only the best for Austin), actually, but that hardly matters anymore.

No, I can’t handle the fishbowl feel of Harmony Hills this Christmas. I need some R&R, especially before I start my new job in the new year. A job no one knows I’ve applied for yet, except my best friend, Helena, who is currently sitting across from me as we scarf down a quick breakfast.

“So Helly, any chance you want to take a trip to Mexico with me?” I ask.

“Yes,” Helena immediately replies, before taking a bite of her breakfast sandwich. Helena “Helly” Perez, a physiotherapist, and I met a few years ago, shortly after I took the attending job. She was in line behind me at the cafeteria and ordered the exact same breakfast (double bacon and egg sandwich on a cheese biscuit, extra-large coffee with creamer and one sweetener) as me.

Despite being opposites in terms of appearance and upbringing—I’m tall, she’s short, with about six inches separating us; my hair tends to go limp in high humidity, while hers turns into a glorious crown of shiny dark curls; I was raised in small-town Harmony Hills, which no one has ever heard of, and Helena in downtown Toronto—we have a lot in common, including the love of extra bacon, and soon we were inseparable. She’s the first person I tell when something happens, and my last text every night.

“When are we taking this trip?” Helena asks, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

“I was thinking, like, for Christmas?” A smear of hot sauce transfers to my fingers, and I lick it off. Helena makes a face.

“What?” I ask, though I know what that face is about.

“You really are the opposite of a germaphobe,” she says, shaking her head. Unlike me, Helena is always trying to avoid illness. With a toddler at home and her work at the hospital, she doesn’t have any germ-free zones.

I shrug, ignoring the napkin she pushes my way. “It’s good for my immune system.”

“So you keep saying.” Helena laughs. She’s likely thinking about yesterday, when I complained that my stomach felt weird and was debating whether it was the dreaded norovirus, or because I hadn’t eaten for a few hours. A blueberry muffin fixed the problem, which proved it was hunger and not germs.

Helena folds the square paper napkin into a triangle. “Okay, back to this girls’ trip. If you’re thinking this Christmas, obviously I’m out. Sorry, friend.” She sighs in the way you do when you have a lot on your mind, folding and refolding the napkin a few times until the edges begin to rip.

“I knew it was a long shot, so don’t even worry about it.” I gently take the napkin from her and wipe my hands, flashing her an understanding smile as I do.

Unfortunately for both of us, I’m not the only one facing the combustion of my relationship. Helena and her partner, David, are going through a trial separation, but still live in the same condo and coparent. Conscious uncoupling, like Gwynnie and Chris did, Helena said, when she told me about her separation. But she and David have each agreed never to go more than forty-eight hours without seeing their three-year-old daughter, Adelaide, which makes a trip out of the country—especially at Christmas—impossible.

“I sure could use the break, though,” Helena continues. “Dells is awesome—don’t get me wrong. But she goes to bed at seven, and we don’t like the same music or movies. ‘Have a kid,’ they said. ‘It will be fun,’ they said. Ha!”

I chuckle, knowing that, despite the quip, Adelaide is Helena’s greatest joy. “I’ll bring you back a bottle of tequila. The fancy sipping kind.”

“I love you, and not just because of the promised tequila,” Helena says, blowing on her hot coffee. “But you should definitely go. Of course, it won’t be as much fun without me—obviously.”

“Obviously,” I say, for it’s true.

“So do this for us.” Helena grabs my hands in dramatic fashion. “Go drink margaritas at the swim-up bar and gorge on chips and guac. Make out with somebody, just because you can. I’ll live vicariously through you while listening to Cocomelon for the gazillionth time.”

“I’ll do it. For us,” I reply, and Helena nods solemnly, hand over her heart.

Like I said, Austin and I were supposed to be visiting my tiny blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hometown for Christmas. But now that I’m single, well, Harmony Hills—a town that treats all holidays, but especially Christmas, with extreme reverence—is not the place to be when your mood leans “bah humbug.”

Maybe only people who grow up in small towns will understand this, but Harmony Hills, while undeniably charming and picturesque, is a tough place to hide out. Your problems are everyone’s business and are easily magnified in the petri dish of small-town life, where the gossip mill is well meaning but robust.

Helly’s already back to work, but I have a few extra minutes so I get another coffee. Barb, the bubbly cashier who wears her silver-grey hair in an elaborate topknot and has a warm smile for everyone, scans my payment card.

“I like the hair, by the way,” she says. “What made you decide to go shorter?”

I reach up and tug on the newly shorn ends. I’ve had long hair most of my life, but this past weekend I lopped off seven inches. It was supposed to be a trim, but I told the hairstylist to do what she wanted. Just make me look like a different person, I said, not understanding until later that looking different wouldn’t make me feel different.

“Thanks. Time for a change,” I reply to Barb, forcing my smile not to slip.

The truth of “why” is more nuanced, as the truth usually is. After the haircut, I welled up at the piles of chestnut-brown hair on the linoleum floor, reassuring the panicked stylist that my melancholy had nothing to do with the shaggy bob. “It’s me, not you!” I said as I left the salon after tipping the poor woman double. That’s precisely the problem—I’m the problem. Or maybe Austin and our old-news breakup is the problem… it’s still a bit murky, if I’m being honest.

Four months ago, life was on track, and now I’m feeling lost about nearly everything. Well, except for loving the hospital’s breakfast sandwich (with extra bacon), recognizing that Helly’s my “person,” and knowing that I’m great at my job. I regret a lot at the moment, including the impossible-to-style haircut, but when wearing scrubs and with a stethoscope hanging around my neck, I don’t doubt myself.

Pausing at the cafeteria’s exit, I reach up with my coffee-free hand—I’m tall like the rest of my family, about five nine in bare feet—and grab the dangling end of sparkling silver garland. It’s grimy with age, like most of the hospital’s decorations, reused year after year due to budget constraints. I press the sticky tack firmly into the corner of the doorframe. Eyeing the restrung garland, I’m pleased I fixed it, until the sticky tack gives way and the garland hangs limp again. I sigh. Check my watch. Break’s over.

As I head back to the ER, I make two decisions.

One, I’m putting in my notice today. I haven’t heard back about the attending job I interviewed for at a hospital across town, but a nurse friend who works there said I’ll be a shoo-in. No point in pretending I won’t be leaving here after the holidays—it’s a big hospital, but not big enough for both Austin and me. Collateral damage of the breakup, but besides that, and like I told Barb, it’s time for a change.

Two, I’m going to Mexico for Christmas. Even if I have to go solo, and will disappoint my family during the most-important-to-them holiday of the year. But it won’t be the first time I’ve bailed for Christmas (in fact, I did it as recently as last year), so at least it won’t be precedent-setting.

Running away from my problems—especially to a beach, and bottomless margaritas and sunshine for days—sounds exactly like the perfect antidote for my bah-humbug Christmastime woes.