What’s worse than finding coal in a Christmas stocking? Finding my boyfriend at my brother’s wedding…with another woman.
Naturally, I react the only way I can—I dump the cheater and make a three-point plan to wreck his peace on earth.

1. Snowball his personal life into chaos.
2. Ice his career faster than a gingerbread cookie at the North Pole. 
3. Roast his chestnuts over an open fire…metaphorically, of course.

But here’s the star on top of this Christmas tree disaster: I’m not the only one trying to crush my ex like the year-old candy cane at the bottom of my purse. 
Enter Elliot, my ex’s work rival, whose grudge is as sharp as my own.
We toast to treachery. We plot under the poinsettias. We…kiss under the mistletoe?
Somewhere in the spite before Christmas, I start wondering if maybe, just maybe, payback is no longer at the top of my holiday wish list.
Elliot is.

Kissing? It’s the express lane to spit-swap city and cootie central, according to my kids.
The real danger, though, is catching a bad case of feelings.

Exacerbating that danger is the fact that somewhere in my heart lurks a hopeless romantic, a sneaky little love-cheerleader out of place in my otherwise pragmatic life. It’s the force advocating for late-night-romance-novel-reading sleep deprivation. And it’s a silent rebel stirred awake by the insanely hot voice of the guy next door.

I've got that mushy part of myself locked down deep, nearly forgotten beneath my day job herding grown yet child-minded men who think the epitome of podcasting excellence is butt jokes, and actual child-wrangling at home.

But when my daughters prod me to kiss a bunny at the farmer’s market, I assume it’s harmless.

Until I sprout a fluffy little cottontail.

Turns out cooties are real. Even scarier, so are feelings.

Brace for a whirlwind magical mayhem, kiddie calamities, and a fairy-tale finale that forty-three-year-old single-mom Daisy Walsh never saw coming in this Marshmallow-adjacent tale.