Two homes, two holidays, and one spontaneous switch changes everything for women in this warm and festive holiday romance perfect for readers of The Holiday Honeymoon Switch and A Winter Wish.
Release date:
October 20, 2026
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
384
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The request from her manager cut through the impression Phoebe’s coworker Darren was doing of him at last night’s holiday party. Brandon, her boss, had had a little too much jingle juice and had teared up telling the team how much he appreciated them all. Phoebe’s immediate fear was that Brandon had heard her laughing at the impression.
Don’t be silly, she chided herself. He probably just wants to talk about the Sanderson project.
Her coworkers continued conversing jovially about the party as Phoebe hurried between their desks to Brandon’s office.
“I’m so sorry, I should not have been laughing at—well, technically, you did say all those things, but I’m sure Darren didn’t mean for you to overhear, and I certainly wasn’t—”
Brandon didn’t indulge her nervous chatter the way he usually might have.
“Can you close the door?”
Jarred by the unexpected tone, Phoebe closed the door and then sat stiffly on the edge of the seat.
“What’s up?” A minute ago, Phoebe would’ve bet money that Brandon was calling her in here to congratulate her for having completed the Sanderson project ahead of time. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
“I didn’t say anything weird at the party last night, did I? Because I limited myself to two drinks after what happened last—”
“It’s not that.” He looked uncomfortable, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, his face puckered under his round glasses. “It’s… This is hard, Phoebe.”
“What is it? I’d offer to help if I knew what we were discussing.”
“It’s about your side project.”
“My…?” Phoebe felt her brows scrunch in confusion. “Which one?”
She’d had countless side projects over the years, from tutoring middle school students to starting a pickleball league to selling sourdough bread.
“Wait, is this about the sourdough?” Phoebe leaned across the desk to playfully swat Brandon’s arm. “I told you I’d give you a bread-baking lesson! All you had to do was ask.”
“It’s not the sourdough.” Brandon closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. “You are fired, Phoebe. I’m sorry.”
There was a long, loaded pause. Finally, Phoebe raised her eyebrows knowingly.
“Oh, I get it,” she whispered. “Someone is getting fired, and you need me to practice with you. Who is it?”
Brandon stared, his lips moving soundlessly.
“Sorry, I’ll play along.” Phoebe gave her head a little shake to get into character. “Oh my God, Brandon, what do you mean I’m fired? What did I do?”
“Phoebe, you—” Brandon looked down at his hands, then back up at Phoebe. “You are fired.”
I know, Phoebe mouthed, winking.
“Tell me what I did wrong!” Phoebe hesitated, then stood up dramatically, sending her chair crashing to the floor behind her.
Brandon cleared his throat. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been posting content about marketing, and that goes against the noncompete clause you signed when we hired you.”
Phoebe’s brain whirred. Wait. My marketing content? That actually was one of Phoebe’s side projects.
“I’m confused.” She righted her chair and sat back down. “Are we still role-playing?”
“We never were.” Brandon peered up at her sadly. Phoebe slowly put the pieces together.
He was firing her?
“You are actually firing me? Phoebe Keller? But I’m…” She gestured around the office as if to indicate that she was a fixture here. “I’m a good employee.”
“Again, you signed a noncompete clause.”
She’d never even considered that the marketing content she posted online could be a problem. “That’s just social media! I didn’t think—”
“You’ve made money from content that’s directly related to what we do here.” Brandon’s face was resigned. “Not to mention, over the years you’ve been, at times, argumentative, some might say negative—”
“Only when I disagree with something!” Again, Phoebe struggled to keep up with Brandon’s accusations. Negative? She’d been taught to be outspoken, to lean in—how many times had her professors and mentors advised her to speak up, not to sit shyly in a corner while the men in the room fearlessly spouted their ideas?
“—and inappropriately familiar with clients—”
“The clients love me!”
“Didn’t you call Ed Walters, the senior vendor manager for one of our biggest clients, a—quote—‘hunka hunka burnin’ love’?”
“That was when he grew out his sideburns.” Phoebe’s voice trailed off to a whisper. “He looked like Elvis.”
“Lastly,” Brandon heaved a deep sigh and continued, “some might say you are scattered to the point of being disorganized and leaving tasks unfinished.”
“But I’m—” Phoebe felt her mouth tremble before she could make her excuses: I’m an overachiever. Ambitious. A lifelong learner. A gifted student!
Suddenly, all of the adjectives she’d heard about herself from others all her life seemed, possibly, untrue. Because overachievers didn’t get fired, did they? But being an overachiever was one of her most defining traits. Without that, Phoebe wouldn’t even know who she was.
Brandon straightened a stack of papers on his desk.
“Am I actually fired, or is there some type of HR training I can do to fix this?” Phoebe asked once she was certain her voice wouldn’t wobble.
In lieu of an answer, Brandon scrawled his signature at the bottom of one of the papers, then handed Phoebe the pen. “Sign here. Then clear out your desk. I’m sorry, Phoebe.”
After signing, her hand trembling across the page, Phoebe said sadly, “Merry Christmas, Brandon.”
Ten minutes later, Phoebe was out on the sidewalk, ears ringing with her coworkers’ shock and dismay, clutching a cardboard box containing a few notepads, some loose pens, a space heater, and her desk snacks.
She spun around to gaze at her office building one last time. It was small by downtown Seattle standards but sweet, with a modest Christmas tree twinkling in the lobby.
Three years gone, just like that. Phoebe had actually liked this job. How could she have been so thoughtless? Well, she hadn’t expected anyone at work to care about her social media accounts. As if her little vlog posts were an actual threat to a respected marketing firm. She’d felt smug about it, like she was doubling down on the hustle. She’d had a full-time job and a lucrative hobby. Did she regret it? Would she take it back if she could? She wasn’t sure. She had always needed to work hard in order to keep her mind occupied. Without her side projects, her off-work hours could start to feel endless.
But actually getting fired? She hadn’t had that one on her bingo card for this year. Or ever.
She was mulling this over as she and her cardboard box found a seat on the bus, feeling the slow burn of mortification spread through her, when her phone buzzed. It was her family group chat.
Kayla: SURPRISE!!!
Phoebe saw the attached picture and choked on her own saliva, which resulted in a prolonged coughing fit. The person sitting next to her got up and moved to the back of the bus.
When she could breathe again, she looked back at the photo of Kayla and her boyfriend, Ryan, and zoomed in on the diamond on Kayla’s left hand.
What?
Kayla and Ryan were only twenty-four years old! Phoebe liked her little sister’s boyfriend just fine, but she had never entertained the idea of them getting married this soon. Probably because, as the second eldest, Phoebe had assumed she would be the one to get married next. Not that she had any takers at the moment, but…
Her other three siblings flooded the group chat with reactions and congratulations.
Her mom sent a long message about how she’d been the first to know, since Kayla had FaceTimed her immediately, and that they would have a celebratory toast with Ryan and his parents at the upcoming Hanukkah party.
Her dad simply replied, Nice!
As Phoebe trudged from the bus stop to her apartment building, arms aching from the weight of the box, a tangled swirl of feelings tried to make themselves heard.
Of course, she was happy for Kayla. Ryan was a nice guy, and they’d been together for four years. If she had stopped to think about it, she would have seen this coming. But she couldn’t deny that a part of her, deep down, felt like she was supposed to get married before the youngest of her siblings. A race to the altar was an absurd concept, of course—her life wasn’t a Jane Austen novel—but the five Keller siblings were, some might say, competitive. Their parents had fostered a competitive culture. When the siblings were kids, their parents would time them to see who could get their shoes on fastest. In high school, they gave monetary rewards based on who got the highest grades each semester.
So it wasn’t like Phoebe was actually jealous that Kayla was engaged before her. A sense of competition with her siblings was simply ingrained in her.
As the elevator whisked her up to the tenth floor, Phoebe looked down into the box of detritus from her desk. There was no denying it: At this year’s family Hanukkah party, Phoebe would be the loser.
The thought of admitting that she’d lost her job as everyone cooed over Kayla’s engagement ring was so deeply unappealing that, by the time she unlocked her front door, Phoebe had decided she was skipping the party this year.
With a box of crackers, a log of goat cheese, and a very full glass of merlot, Phoebe settled onto the couch.
Should she delete her marketing account and beg Brandon for her job back?
The thought felt like an insult. She was proud of the work she’d done. Plus, she was nearing twenty thousand followers, and she didn’t want to mess it up.
Half of the crackers and cheese gone, crumbs littering the front of her sweater, Phoebe sank into the couch cushions and held her phone in front of her nose. 19,876. Seeing the number made some of the tension leave her body. It was a data point that gave her the external validation she’d always craved. Maybe getting fired was the push she needed to get her own business off the ground.
The thought of having a goal—starting her own business—was like a helium balloon, lifting her spirits up, up, up. If she had something to focus on, a goal to achieve, then she wouldn’t have to sit around feeling sorry for herself. That had always been Phoebe’s MO: Feeling bad? Accomplish something! Don’t indulge the bad feelings! Make something of yourself!
And you know what? It always worked.
The family group chat popped up again. This time, it was Sam, the sibling she was closest in age to (he was twenty-nine to Phoebe’s thirty), offering earnest congrats. Knowing Sam, there wasn’t even a hint of snark behind his words. He was a good egg.
With a sigh, Phoebe looked back at the photo of Kayla and Ryan. The radiant delight in her little sister’s face made Phoebe’s heart soften. She hearted the picture and then texted, Congratulations, sis! I’m so excited for you.
She felt a little better after sending this message. But it was immediately followed by an Instagram message from her coworker—former coworker—Ellie, saying how angry and sad she was to hear the news.
Ellie: Brandon is out of his mind. You could do his job better than he does!
Phoebe hearted the message but didn’t respond. She didn’t have the energy to talk about this right now. So she did what she always did when she felt bad about herself: She started a list.
Marketing consultancy brainstorm
She began the first bullet point, paused, and scratched it out. Her mind was blank. Starting a new project usually filled her with happy energy. So why did she feel like a storm cloud was building inside her head?
Okay, she had to get out of here. Out of this weird, mopey mindset. Out of… Phoebe glanced around her living room. It was a nice apartment, the open living space bordered by a redbrick wall on one side and tall, airy windows on the other, currently providing an excellent view of the pitch-black, rain-drizzled night. But she suddenly felt stifled. Penned in.
She could actually get out of here.
No job. No desire to go to the family holiday party. It was the perfect time.
She opened Google.
Last-minute getaway
Beach destinations far away from Seattle
Cheap flights from Seattle
After a solid half hour of sifting through search results and swiping through pictures of random resorts, Phoebe felt deflated. She didn’t have endless funds. She didn’t know where she wanted to go, or for how long. Just somewhere far away, preferably where she knew no one.
Perhaps somewhere with an abundance of single men.
She laughed at herself. Dating was practically one of her hobbies. She loved meeting new people. Going to a swanky cocktail bar with a handsome man, charming him with her funniest anecdotes? It was a delightful way to spend an evening. But it never exactly panned out. One date rarely turned into two. Her longest relationship had lasted less than four months.
She didn’t know what she was doing wrong in the dating department. She enjoyed the dates, but it was like there was a wall inside her that she didn’t know how to dismantle. Some people weren’t meant to fall in love, were they? Phoebe felt, on some level, that she was destined to be a fun aunt, a single cat lady—minus the cats, because she was allergic. It was okay, though, because she had her work to sustain her. As long as she was accomplishing her professional goals, climbing a ladder of achievement, she didn’t need a relationship. Some people were better off single, and Phoebe figured, at this point, that she was one of them. She could sort of imagine the feeling of being in love, as if she’d known it once, like a song she’d heard but could no longer recall the melody.
But that didn’t make sense, because she had never been in love. As far as she knew.
Phoebe shoved these thoughts away, downed the rest of her wine, and turned on a cooking show. Maybe she’d spend the holidays teaching herself to make soufflé.
Five minutes later, her hand found her phone again. She opened Instagram without conscious thought. She should probably delete the app—clearly, she had a problem.
And then she saw it: an ad for something called Live Bravely. It was a home-swapping service.
Ready for your next getaway? the ad read.
How? Phoebe wondered, not for the first time, if her phone was spying on her. And of course, it was. I spend a few minutes googling last minute getaways, and then Instagram shows me this ad?
Creepy… but helpful. Phoebe downloaded the app immediately.
In big, bold letters, it announced, SWAP HOMES FOR THE VACATION OF YOUR DREAMS. LIVE LARGE WHILE SAVING MONEY. FIND YOUR BRAVE TODAY!
She swiped through an elegant condo in Copenhagen, a log cabin in Nebraska, and then…
Phoebe sat up straighter, cracker crumbs raining from her chest.
It was a tiny pink house with a red front door, surrounded by a lush lawn. To one side were a cozy outdoor sofa, a table, and chairs underneath a teak pergola, from which hung a rusty old horseshoe.
Phoebe scrolled through the photos quickly, heart pounding.
On the lawn was a firepit with two chairs. Inside was a snug galley kitchen with open shelving; a minuscule living room filled with plants, books, a love seat, and a television; and a bedroom that was mostly overtaken by a bed covered in a fluffy white duvet and a colorful crocheted blanket.
The last picture showed a rusty gate opening onto a long country road with vibrant trees arching overhead. It looked incredibly peaceful.
The driveway, the caption said.
Phoebe glanced out her window at the jarring sound of two cars honking at each other on the street below. Rain lashed against the dark window.
She looked back at the house and scrolled until she found the location.
Come stay at my Flamingo Cottage in sunny High Springs, Florida!
Phoebe typed as fast as she could:
Hi! Is your house available for the holidays?
Rockin’ around the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday,” Arden sang under her breath, bopping her head to the beat as she tied a perfect red bow around a gift bag.
She uncapped her gold glitter Sharpie and wrote in looping cursive, “Happy holidays from Principal Blake!”
Humming happily, she added the bag to the pile that surrounded her. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her living room in her plaid Santa pajamas, black hair in a claw clip on top of her head. She counted the gift bags.
Twenty-three. That’s everyone except the cafeteria workers. Oh, and the bus drivers!
Arden ticked the next name off her list and began filling another bag with chocolates, gift cards, a mini–potted succulent, and a small jar of her homemade raspberry jam.
Her phone rang, the sound cutting through the opening notes of “Jingle Bell Rock.”
The name Principal Blake flashed across the screen. And it was a FaceTime call.
“Shoot.” Arden sprang to her feet and checked her reflection in the mirror above the sofa. She released her hair from the clip and shook it out around her shoulders.
She answered the phone. “Hi!”
“How’s my favorite teacher?” A handsome older man greeted her from the front seat of his car.
“You’re not supposed to say that.” Arden couldn’t help the flush that crept into her cheeks. “You’re not driving, are you?”
“No, I just parked in front of Chelsea’s.”
“Colsie’s,” Arden corrected automatically, naming the quaint coffee house in High Springs.
“Right. Listen, so sorry to bother you, but I wanted to check in about the gift bags. Thank you again for helping me put those together.”
“Of course! They’re all finished,” Arden squeaked. Tiny white lie. “See, here they are!” She showed him the pile of gifts, one for every teacher and staff member at the elementary school where they both worked. She was proud of her handiwork and couldn’t wait for her colleagues to receive them. Even if she wouldn’t get the credit.
“Wonderful. What would I do without you?” Principal Blake—Peter—grinned at her. Arden glowed. Then he added, “Do you think you could bring them here to Colsie’s?”
“What? Now?” Arden had assumed she would just bring them to the staff holiday party tonight.
“Yes.” After a beat, he added, “If that’s convenient for you? I’m sure you have plans for the day.”
As she hesitated, looking down at her pajamas, he waved over his shoulder to someone walking by his car window. That’s how it was living in a town as small as High Springs: You saw someone you knew every time you went anywhere.
“I can definitely do that,” Arden found herself saying. So she still had a few gift bags to make, and she wasn’t even dressed yet. For him, she could make the impossible happen.
Plus, it had been ages since they’d done anything like this—anything that could possibly be construed as a date. Sharing a cup of festive coffee at Colsie’s, with the café all decorated for Christmas? Sign her up.
Just over thirty minutes later, Arden rushed into the café balancing a box overflowing with gift bags. She was mortified at having left Peter waiting for half an hour, but he was engaged in a lively conversation with three men she recognized from around town.
“So sorry,” she said breathlessly, setting the box on the table in front of Peter. “Here they are!”
“And here you are.” Peter smiled up at her. The anxiety left her body, replaced by a feeling of liquid warmth. He waved goodbye to the men and gestured for Arden to sit down.
“These look lovely, Arden!” There was real pleasure in his voice as he poked around in the nearest gift bag. “Is this your homemade jam?”
Arden nodded, feeling her cheeks flush with delight.
“Well done! What a thoughtful touch.”
The way he said it made her so happy that she felt like she might float away from the table. His words of affirmation meant everything to her. She had made an extra bag for him, knowing how much he loved her jam. Recalling that she’d signed his card with a heart next to her name, she scooted the box toward herself. She didn’t want him to find it now.
“Excited for the party?” she asked, just for something to say. He sipped his cappuccino without asking if she wanted something to drink. She glanced back at the chalkboard menu by the cash register. Try our gingerbread latte!
“Mm.” The noncommittal tone of his voice made Arden’s heart sink. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about that. Would you happen to have time to hang up the staff appreciation wall we talked about?”
Talked about? Arden recalled that he’d mentioned the idea, and then she had strung together photos of teachers and staff along with appreciative quotes from students and parents. She’d even glued on little pictures of snowmen, menorahs, and Christmas trees.
“Didn’t you say you were planning to install it before the party tonight? I left it in your office.”
“Yes, and I really wanted to get to it, but some things came up.”
Arden waited for him to elaborate, but he just gazed out the window for a moment, lost in thought. Then he turned to her.
“You know that restaurant in Gainesville, the Italian place with white tablecloths? Could you give them a call for me? Reserve a table for two tonight?”
It took Arden a moment to articulate a response. For starters, she was not his assistant. So she had made him a dentist appointment once. And taken his car in for an oil change. Since when did she make dinner reservations for him? And also… tonight?
“What about the holiday party?”
“Of course I’ll be there. We’ll make it a late dinner. Say, eight o’clock.”
Did he say we? Arden felt a swell of hope. Her imagination fluttered away, painting a gorgeous scene of the two of them seated at a candlelit table, holding hands as a waiter presented them with a bottle of wine and another played the violin…
The violin? Arden shook herself out of this fantasy. But the hope in her chest remained, expanding like a balloon. She straightened her shoulders.
“Sure, I can give them a call. Should I say the reservation is for a special occasion, or…?”
Peter let air out of his lips. “Pffft.” It sounded exactly like a balloon deflating. “I wouldn’t call it a special occasion, no. Sheila’s back in town and wants to talk.”
“Sheila?” Any remaining hope was stamped out by this information. Peter was seeing his ex-wife?
He drained the rest of his cappuccino and then leaned in conspiratorially. Arden could smell the coffee on his breath and the aftershave on his jaw. The effect was intoxicating; she tried. . .
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