She nods, serious now in the way only your best friend can be. “Then don’t start something. Make something beautiful for the town. Be your sparkly, competent self. And if a certain grumpy horse whisperer eventually smiles at you in a way that feels like the start of a Christmas song, you can smile back and still keep your boundaries.”
I blow out a breath. “Who authorized you to be so wise?”
“Lucas,” she says dryly. “We should teach a class on long-distance.”
We sit in companionable silence for a beat, me watching the square as the snow deepens and lights begin to flicker on, her rocking gently because the baby is, as promised, performing a tap routine. A violinist in the gazebo starts warming up, thin notes threading through the glass.
“Okay,” I say, rolling onto my side and getting efficient, because nervous energy is best fed spreadsheets. “Morning plan: bakery b-roll at eight, choir kids at nine, goat parade at ten. Then if the roads cooperate, seniors’ sleigh ride in the afternoon. I can build a ‘Day in Chimney Gorge’ montage that bookends with bells and ends on the tree lighting tomorrow night. If the storm behaves.”
“Look at you,” Melanie croons. “Queen of the deliverable.”
I preen. “Long may I reign.”
“And, just…check on him,” she adds softly. “You don’t have to fix anything. But if you see him look like he can’t breathe, remind him how.”
My throat tightens. “Who authorized you to be so?—”
“Still Lucas,” she says, smirking. “He’s very generous with the wisdom.”
We sign off with air kisses and promises for me to text her a photo of the candy cane cookies and not of the handsome grump, because she knows me too well. After the call, the room feels larger, quieter. I open my laptop, build a quick shot list, scribble a few story beats in my notebook:
— Hands, bells, breath.
— Quilts, cocoa steam, kids’ mittens.
— Seniors’ smiles, careful wheels on snow.
— The moment between jingles when silence is soft enough to hear your own heart.
I tack a sticky note at the bottom: DO NOT FALL FOR THE MAN IN FLANNEL.
I underline it twice. It looks very official. It will absolutely work.
Down in the square, the violin has found its song. I watch a couple kiss under the gazebo lights, quick and shy and lovely, and then I close the curtains because I am not writing a music video; I’m writing a deliverable with a three-day turnaround and a budget of “please.”
From the nightstand, Lolly’s note winks at me.
“Thank you, Lolly,” I tell the empty room, nibbling another cookie. “Challenge accepted.”
Outside, the snow keeps falling. Somewhere across town, a man with steady hands is checking buckles and not smiling. I take a breath, slow and deep, and it tastes like cinnamon and something else—something that feels a lot like possibility.
Okay, Chimney Gorge. Okay, Peppermint Inn. Okay, Rhett.
Let’s sleigh this.
FOUR
RHETT
I am not nervous.
I am a professional adult man who runs a business with thousand-pound animals and a calendar that fills three months out. My hands are steady, my tack is clean, my loop is mapped. I am not nervous.
I had to pull out one of the older back-up sleighs to run the tours until the new one’s fixed.
I’m checking the same buckle for the third time when Jared strolls past like a smug little groundhog who’s seen his own shadow.
“She’s due at two,” he sing-songs, leaning on the broom.
