Merry Ex-Mas

by C.C. Dador

Genres: Family Life; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Which man from her past will make the perfect Christmas present?
 
Fall in love. Again. And again. This irresistible holiday time loop rom-com is perfect for fans of In a Holidaze and The Holiday Swap.
 
All Marygrace Silva wants for Christmas is a date to impress her big, boisterous family. Instead, a disastrous setup and an awkward run-in with her ex-best friend Robbie leave her wishing for a holiday miracle instead.
 
Then a slip on the ice lands her in a time loop—reliving Christmas Eve with a different ex each time. There’s Flynn the finance bro, Dale the rising music star, Jamie the fitness influencer.
 
Glamorous? Sure. Perfect? Not so much.
 
Between caroling and cookie baking, Marygrace is checking exes off her list—but somehow, Robbie keeps showing up too. Maybe the love she’s been searching for has been there all along…
 
With a sprinkling of sugar and just the right amount of spice, this romance about family, friendship, finding your voice, and the promise of “what-if” is a holiday treat you won’t want to miss.
 
Read for these tropes:

• Holiday romance
• Friends to lovers
• Small town romance
• Time loops
• Second chance romance
• Big family

Release date: September 29, 2026

Publisher: Requited

Print pages: 320

Sample

Whoever’s in charge of Christmas miracles, take note: I’m standing next to my dream holiday date.

The scene: the sunlight-drenched storefront of Hopewell Crossing Bakery decorated with cozy gingerbread houses displayed under glass domes, trays of glistening sugar cookies atop garland-wrapped countertops, and a jazzy version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” playing softly over the speakers.

And my date: this man in a snuggly holiday plaid sweater that emphasizes his strong jaw and broad shoulders, paired with hip-hugging slacks that show off his other generous assets. He basically screams Hey, bae, I’ll keep you warm these cold winter nights.

And as if my mouth weren’t already watering, in one hand he’s holding a gleaming chocolate ganache cupcake topped with the most adorable little Christmas elves, and in the other, a holiday-red coffee cup crowned with a fluffy cloud of whipped cream and red and green sprinkles. Absolute perfection.

I inhale the toasty, cinnamon-and-sugar-spiced air and get a whiff of his musky, vanilla-scented cologne.

As he looks me up and down, tingles radiate all over my body. Our eyes meet.

“Excuse me,” he says with a shy smile. “Could you, uh, refill the creamer?”

I blink. “Creamer?” I echo. Is that code for something risqué?

His brow furrows. “Yeah, creamer for your coffee station?”

I follow his gaze toward a counter with napkins and glass jars full of sugar. “But I—I don’t work here,” I stammer, then curse as the large tray in my hands wobbles from the mountain of pastries, cookies, and cakes I’ve piled on it.

His brown eyes widen as he takes in my tray.

“I thought you were restocking,” he says. “My mistake, I’m so sorry.”

I blow a strand of dark hair off my face as it hits me: This smokeshow of a guy saw my tray and mistook me for a bakery employee.

Great. I cringe. He’s actually caught me in the middle of my post-break-up self-care ritual—the one where I head to an Asian-French self-service bakery café, park myself at a table with bottomless coffee and a steamy book, and grab two of everything from the glass displays. Two mochi jelly donuts. Two hazelnut croissants. Two pecan tarts. And so on.

My tray is the Noah’s ark of baked goods.

And it’s not even my first helping, either.

Sure, the guy I was seeing wasn’t anything serious or long-term—we got together after drinking shots of something called Trick-or-Tequila at a Halloween party—but the rejection still requires pastries. Especially since I spent Thanksgiving with his family and Mom made it no secret she was excited I was finally bringing someone home for Christmas. Heck, I was excited to be finally bringing someone home for Christmas, too, until his text popped up on my phone this morning right before he was scheduled to arrive in Hopewell Crossing:

Luke: Hey… So I can’t make it, I’m sick.

Marygrace: Oh no! I can bring you some soup to help you feel better! And we can get to mom’s a day later so you have a chance to rest up.

Luke: … Listen, I was just trying to let you down easy. I don’t think this is going to work out.

Marygrace: What? What am I going to tell everyone? They’re expecting you at Noche Buena.

Luke: Tell them I have tinselitis or something, I don’t care.

Yeah… I’m pretty sure tinselitis is a fake illness.

Meanwhile, Coffee Cream Guy winces and repeats his apology. “I’m very sorry. You just really look like you work here, and I thought you were restocking the shelves.”

I glance down at my mostly black attire and, unfortunately, understand how he made that mistake. Being dumped right before the holidays doesn’t inspire the best fashion, and I’m in what I would call my couch potato aesthetic: black leggings, a cozy black oversized sweater, and red Christmas Crocs, which apparently screams “bakery employee” in addition to “existential crisis.”

“Just because she’s wearing black,” a familiar, self-assured voice says from behind me, “doesn’t automatically make her ‘the help.’”

I stiffen. Brooke Basco, the queen of my high school, has entered the chat.

I’ve only been in Hopewell Crossing since late last night—and less than ten hours later I’m already running into old high school acquaintances. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised since it’s a small town and everyone’s home for the holidays.

Good thing Brooke’s never been one of those cliché mean girls. Nope, Brooke’s perfectionism makes her intimidating in other ways, and if it weren’t for Olivia, I’m not sure we’d even be friends. She always had the best grades, the best hair, the best everything—and now the best boyfriend.

Her cherry-red nails rest lightly on Coffee Cream Guy’s shoulder. “Marygrace, it’s so good to see you,” she says, looking effortlessly chic in a Burberry scarf and fitted jacket.

Meanwhile, I’ve shown up dressed like the before picture in a makeover montage.

Maybe it’s memories of high school, when all I wanted was to impress girls like Brooke. Or maybe it’s because I’ve just been dumped right before Christmas. Either way, I’m full-on panicking like I’ve been caught red-handed.

My crime? Eating my feelings.

I lower my baked-good-laden tray like somehow that will hide the evidence. “I’m going to a party and made a quick pit stop for goodies,” I blurt, then immediately regret it. If I’m attending any party, it’s a pity party of one. But I’ve stepped in it now with a white lie, so I might as well double down.

“I’m actually late, so I should go,” I add with a high-pitched giggle that does nothing to hide my discomfort as I angle my tray toward the cash register.

Brooke’s brows pinch in gentle concern, but before anyone can say anything else, a girl dressed in all black with a red apron joins us.

“Excuse me, miss,” she says excitedly to me. “You’re in luck! We found a slice of Black Forest cake in the back. Do you want me to put it on your table?”

She nods toward my table in the corner—piled with empty plates, a half-full coffee mug, and the latest Yuletide Court romantasy novel open and face down. It was one of the books I scooped off the stack I’d brought with me on this trip.

Both Brooke’s and Coffee Cream Guy’s eyebrows lift. That table doesn’t scream “on my way to a party.” It screams “this girl is about to hibernate here until spring.” So much for my quick “pit stop” story.

Brooke’s boyfriend covers his mouth to hide his smirk.

I wish the bakery’s floor would just open and swallow me whole into a doughy, fondant-covered pit of shame.

But Brooke, being the ever-gracious person she’s always been, steps smoothly into the awkward silence and goes along with my lie.

“Could you please get a box for the rest of her tray?” she asks the server kindly. “She doesn’t want to be late for her party.”

I’m not sure why this small act of kindness has me on the verge of tears, yet here we are.

The server nods—still looking a little confused—and heads into the back.

“Well, I’ll let you get to your party,” Brooke says, giving my arm a light squeeze. “You’re still coming tonight, right?”

My belly flutters at the reminder of our friend Olivia’s bachelorette party this evening. Leave it to a spotlight queen like Olivia to have her bachelorette party on December 23 and her wedding day on December 26—then again, everyone’s in town for the holidays, so I get it.

Brooke’s eyes alight. “Oh! I heard you have a plus-one! I can’t wait to meet your date.” She looks around like my date is in the bakery.

And now I die. I groan inwardly, recalling how excited I was to update my wedding RSVP with an actual honest-to-goodness plus-one. And now that Luke has bailed on me, I’m going to let down my mom—again—and I’ll be solo for Olivia’s wedding. Maybe I can opt out of the wedding due to a strong case of tinselitis.

And since I’m already on Santa’s naughty list for lying about my pastries, I don’t reveal to Brooke that I no longer have a date for Olivia’s wedding. I’ve already embarrassed myself twice this morning—a third time would surely result in some kind of fine or penalty from the universe.

“Can’t wait!” I say as enthusiastically as a mall Santa on Christmas Eve.

With one more arm squeeze, Brooke sashays away with her walking Pinterest board of a boyfriend, and I brace against a counter and take a few deep breaths. Rationally, I know it’s not the end of the world being caught wallowing in misery by someone like Brooke Basco, but emotionally I’m a mess, and my feelings are gut-punching my brain at the moment.

Just once. Just once I would’ve liked to bring someone home for Christmas. Just once I’d like to fit in with the rest of my perfect siblings. Is that too much to ask, Universe? But since I don’t expect the universe to answer my questions, I whip out my phone to text my cousin SOS instead.

“Marygrace?” a new but equally familiar voice asks from behind me. “Is that you?”

I pause. It’s like I heard a record scratch and time stands still—seems I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today. Whoever’s in charge of Christmas miracles clearly has the worst sense of humor. I swallow and spin around.

My ex–best friend stands tall and smiling like he’s genuinely happy to see me—though there’s a careful edge to it, just enough to remind me we’re not pretending the past never happened.

“Robbie,” I manage, trying to control the wobble in my voice. I look around nervously, wondering who else from high school is in the bakery. Mrs. Pham, my English teacher? Or maybe Mr. Anderson, my choir director? Robbie and I spent a lot of time with him, so that would track.

I inhale deeply and force a smile at someone I haven’t seen in person in years. Someone who I used to spend almost every waking moment with.

Someone who insisted he wanted to help me, and instead made me feel inadequate.

As my shock wears off, my head tilts with appreciation. Wow, those years have been extra kind to him.

No longer the lanky boy I knew in high school, he’s filled out. His face has matured, too. I knew Robbie when he still had baby fat on his cheeks. The twenty-six-year-old Robbie has leaned out, toned up, and sharpened in an attractive boy-next-door kind of way. Perhaps more striking is his confidence. I haven’t kept close tabs, but from what I’ve heard, Robbie is a big-time musician on Broadway, and it shows—he’s got a strong presence about him that he didn’t have in high school.

But it’s not what’s different about Robbie that surprises me. It’s what’s the same.

The same light brown hair kept just a little too long, just a little too careless, with strands styled upward and back that add an inch or so to his height, though he doesn’t need it. The same straw-colored complexion with a tinge of pink underneath, like he’s just run a mile. And the same amber-brown eyes that bring me right back to all our childhood memories, ending in that big blowup senior year.

A flood of unpleasant thoughts fights its way to the front of my mind, reminding me of past events I hate to revisit. I’m already dealing with a shitty start to the holidays. Things are supposed to get better from here, not worse.

“Those mocha rolls look amazing.” Robbie’s smile doesn’t falter as he takes in my tray. “But doesn’t your mom do all the baking for your Noche Buena party?” he asks, glancing meaningfully at my overflowing tray.

My pulse quickens. Of course, he remembers my family’s traditional Filipino feast we have on Christmas Eve. He used to come every year. Ironically, Robbie was the only person I ever managed to bring home with me for that dinner, even though he was always just a friend. That streak was supposed to be broken this year, until my date came down with a fake illness. Something like hope fills my chest.

“Yeah, of course,” I say. “You should totally stop by.”

The offer is out of my mouth before I even have a chance to fully think it through.

Robbie’s cheeks flare pink, and his gaze drops to the floor. “I’m not sure—”

I rush to cut him off. “No. Right. I’m being silly.” I don’t think I can survive another rejection today. Apparently, I’m so worried about disappointing my mom, I’m not above putting myself and an old, estranged friend in a super embarrassing situation. What a morning… I’m mistaken as a bakery employee and now I’m looking extra desperate in front of Robbie. What next? A chocolate pie launched in my face?

He presses the toe of his sturdy brown boot into the floor, and my chest softens. The motion reminds me of the Robbie I knew growing up: the shy boy who would tell jokes to cheer me up. I know this is what he does when he’s feeling awkward.

He takes a breath and grins at me—not just smiles, grins. Having grown up with him, I know there’s a difference. Whatever he’d been pondering clearly got shoved back down. Which is good—no need to focus on my awkward invitation. I’ll spare him from having to reject me, and I’ll save myself from being rejected again.

“That’ll all look killer on your feed,” he says, gazing at my bakery tray. I nod, both flattered and shocked he’s been on my social media. He’s not wrong. It’s sort of a hobby of mine to post food aesthetics—especially coffee drinks. This morning, though, I’d just planned on getting my eat on.

“They don’t call me the queen of qua-ssants for nothing,” I joke. Photos of cute croissants next to steaming lattes in pretty mugs are one of my favorite aesthetics to post.

I wince and rebalance my tray in both my hands. Pastries can get heavy.

“You okay?” His expression tightens. “Your tray looks like a workout.”

“I’m fine.” I pretend to lift it like a weight. “This is my type of fitness class.”

He smirks. “I’d prefer to do curls with chocolate bars, too.”

Classic Robbie and his cheesy jokes. I can’t help but laugh. He joins me, and for a moment it’s like old times.

But as soon as our laughter fades, the discomfort seeps back in. I haven’t seen Robbie in almost eight years, and here we are joking with each other? The last time we spoke face-to-face we were arguing, there were raised voices. Tears. Then we both went to different colleges and never spoke again. Now I’m not sure how I feel, except my instincts are quietly whispering time to go. There’s too much baggage here. Too much history.

I lift my baked-goods-piled tray. “Seriously, this is getting heavy,” I say, motioning toward the cash register.

He grabs an empty tray off a nearby counter and, despite my protests, relieves mine of several cinnamon rolls and sugar-dusted brownies.

“Come on,” he says, setting his tray at the cash register, but not before grabbing a few cranberry scones. “For my folks,” he adds.

My heart warms at the mention of his parents. The Morrows were always super nice to me. Even after the infamous blowup with Robbie, the few times I saw them before I left Hopewell Crossing for college, they’ve been happy to see me.

“Are you in town for long?” I ask. “I thought your folks went to visit you in New York for Christmas.” That was one of the reasons I never bumped into Robbie when I was home for the holidays.

It’s subtle, but his shoulders tense. “We have some family business this year,” he says. When he doesn’t elaborate, I know better than to push.

He glances at his smartwatch as we finish checking out. “Actually, I need to get going.”

He hands me the cinnamon rolls he took off my tray, and only then do I realize he paid for them.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “Can I buy you a coffee or a snickerdoodle?” One of his favorites growing up.

His eyes glaze like he’s picturing a plate chock full of cookies, but he shakes his head. “Thanks, but you know me. Once I start, I won’t stop.” He pantomimes Cookie Monster.

I snort at the old reference. “Nom, nom, nom,” I tease, feeling dorky. I missed this version of Robbie.

We both laugh again. His eyes crinkle. “It’s been a long time since those Big Bird days.” He hesitates. “If you have time… maybe I’ll see you around?”

Our eyes meet, then just as quickly he looks away.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I’d like that.”

“Great. Well, we know where to find each other,” he says, his lips quirked in that shy smile of his.

A soft warmth rolls through me. We do know where to find each other. I can picture his parents’ front porch right now, wrapped in strings of white lights and garlands, a large blue-ribboned wreath on the front door covered in tiny instrument-shaped ornaments—just like it’s been every Christmas as long as I can remember.

With one last wave, I watch Robbie leave. I’m surprised to realize my chest feels a little lighter than it did before I walked into this place. I take a deep breath and smile. The idea of spending time with Robbie again actually gives me a little hope that maybe this Christmas won’t be as terrible as I’d originally thought after being dumped.

Maybe there’s a chance we can fix what went wrong between us.

It’s not like I can change the past anyway. But the future? I have a little control over what comes next, don’t I?

My pocket vibrates and I’m relieved to see a text on my phone: Sorry just saw this. Please don’t do anything dramatic. I’m on the way.

Hey, babe!” A pair of soft hands covers my eyes. “Am I catching you in the naughty section again?” I roll my eyes. My cousin calls the cooking books I’m obsessed with my food porn.

I slide the Confessions of a Latte Lover photography book back onto the shelf.

I’m not sure why my cousin finds sneaking up on me in the bookstore funny, but Juliet gets a pass. She’s always been my personal sunshine and someone I can text SOS and she’ll be there, no questions asked, at the drop of a hat.

Or at least when her shift as a nurse is over.

The half hour I waited for her wasn’t totally bad; our favorite bookstore, Once Upon a Shelf, just happens to be next door to the bakery and is the perfect retreat after a morning full of social embarrassments.

Juliet laughs and releases me. “It’s so easy to sneak up on you here. You’re completely absorbed in either the romance section or cookbooks.” She makes air quotes when she says cookbooks, since we both know I browse these books for the photos not the recipes.

I clap a bookstore tote bag swinging on her shoulder. “Looks like you did a little shopping yourself? I thought you were coming right to see me?” I say, reaching for it. She smacks my hand away, cheeks going pink.

“Excuse you. Don’t be snooping in bags around Christmastime,” she chides. “You were distracted, so I took a moment to grab some important items.”

I chuckle. “And Merry Christmas to you.”

She’s looking cute and festive, a pink sweater dress and thick leggings peeking out from underneath her puffer jacket instead of her usual scrubs. Hold up. “When you said you were at the hospital today, I thought you were working.”

She lifts her shoulders. “Nope. I had an appointment. Thankfully I finished just in time to see your SOS text. But now you do need to give me a ride home, since I told Lisa to drop me off here.”

“Nothing I wouldn’t do for my BBFF,” I tease. That’s our cousin code for Blood Best Friends Forever. We thought of it back when we were little and it’s stuck ever since. Even though I live three hours away near the university and she’s still here in Hopewell Crossing, we’re always there for each other when disaster strikes. For me it seems to strike a lot more often than for her, since she’s been married to her wife Lisa for two years and the only romantic drama she experiences is on the sappy movies she and Lisa watch together. Must be nice.

“Ready to head home?” she asks. “You can tell me all about your morning and that jerk who ditched you on the drive.”

I shake my head. “No, and I’m definitely not ready to break the news to Mom.”

“You haven’t told her yet?” Juliet asks, eyes wide. “Why?”

Luke’s text came when Mom and I were clearing the table after breakfast. She was so happy talking about menus and place settings for tonight that I couldn’t bring myself to pop that bubble.

“You have to tell her when you get home.” My cousin looks me in the eye. “You’re going to be okay, Mimi. I can be there when you do.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the most disappointing Silva family member.”

“And neither are you,” Juliet insists as she steers me toward the exit.

At the front of the store, one of the clerks beams at us. “Congratulations,” he says in our direction. “My coworker just told me the good news.”

I pause and scrunch my nose. That clerk couldn’t have been talking to me. Congratul. . .