I feel my throat tighten. “Thanks.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “The sponsors are going to eat this up. They’re sending two reps tonight—big city folks with money and absolutely no tolerance for cold. We’ll bundle them up and stuff them full of Lolly’s cookies and then you get to wow them with your little films.”
“No pressure,” I say faintly.
“You’ll do fine,” Rhett says quietly behind me.
I twist in the chair to look at him. His gaze is steady, soft around the edges in a way I suspect is reserved just for me.
“Traffic’s already up on the donations page,” I tell him. “Toy drive, food bank, local shop links. We’re trending under #ChimneyGorgeJubilee.”
He grunts. “Trending.”
“It’s good,” I assure him. “Trust me.”
His eyes dip for a second, like maybe he’s thinking about how our almost-private moment is now fueling a regional tourism spike, but when he looks back up, there’s a tiny smirk there.
“At least they can’t see my face,” he says.
Keely’s eyes dart between us like she’s watching her favorite ship sail. “You two are very ‘enemies-to-lovers, cabin edition,’ you know that?”
“We were never enemies,” I protest.
Rhett snorts. “You broke my sleigh.”
“You glared at my boots,” I counter.
“Chemistry,” Keely sings.
Mayor Turner claps her hands. “All right, lovebirds and marketing elves. The Jubilee schedule is tight. Ivy, you’ll be up on stage with me before the tree lighting so we can tout the campaign. Rhett, the sponsors ride with you for their ‘authentic sleigh experience’ at six sharp. No glaring. Smoldering only.”
“Smoldering is just glaring with better PR,” I mutter.
“Exactly,” she says, delighted. “Now go. Rest. Change into something cute and camera-ready. Today we make Chimney Gorge famous.”
Outside,the square is buzzing. Kids chase each other around snowbanks. A choir warms up on the gazebo steps, their harmonies floating through the crisp air. Lolly’s bakery table is already mobbed by people clamoring for the candy cane cookies.
Rhett and I step out onto the sidewalk together.
“You okay?” he asks again, a constant thread through all this chaos.
“I think so,” I say, hugging my purse to my chest. “It’s…a lot. In a good way. They’re happy. The sponsor’s happy. My boss is happy. It's like the holy trinity of PR.”
“And you?” he presses.
I look up at him. At the man who opened his cabin and his past to me. The man I kissed in front of a fire and woke up tangled with on his couch. The man who will be driving a sleigh full of sponsors tonight like he’d rather be driving back up the mountain.
“I’m…” I start, then smile. “I’m happy too. Also deeply, deeply emotionally compromised.”
“Good to know,” he says, mouth twitching.
We fall into step along the edge of the square, watching the town hum around us. People call out to Rhett—thanks for the rides, can’t wait for tonight, my grandkids are still talking about the bells. He nods, deflects, grumbles in that way that somehow makes them love him more.
Every few steps, our hands brush.
Eventually, they don’t just brush.
His fingers lace through mine, casual and sure, like this is the most natural thing in the world. For a heartbeat, I forget there are people around us, eyes, expectations, cameras.
