Juniper Carver stormed into her editor’s office, her heels clicking against the linoleum like tiny gavel strikes. “Max, tell me you’re joking,” she said, dropping a stapled memo onto his cluttered desk. “Snowflakes and Soulmates? Seriously?”

Max Stevens, a middle-aged man with a coffee-stained tie and the air of someone who’d been in the newspaper business long enough to lose the sparkle of idealism, didn’t even look up. He clicked his pen twice, underlining something on a manuscript. “Nice to see you, too. How’s the holiday season treating you?”