Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
His lips twitch. Briefly. Like a shooting star: blink and you miss it.
“Rhett,” Mayor Turner says, placing a mittened hand on his flannel-clad arm, “we need the exposure. Not…overexposure,” she adds delicately, “but some. Perhaps Ivy could keep things tasteful?”
“I have very tasteful vibes,” I say. “Ask anyone in my office. My vibe is a warm sugar cookie that also pays taxes.”
He studies me. Up, down, pause at my cocoa-dusted scarf as if questioning my life choices on a cellular level. “You city people come up here, you want a postcard and a quick fix. But out here we don’t do quick. We do right.”
The words should irritate me. They do. And yet the stubbornness in them also clicks into place with something equally stubborn inside me that refuses to go back to the agency as the girl who lost Christmas.
“Then let me do it right,” I say, softening. “No fake snow. No lip-synced jingles. We tell your story. Why you run this place. Why it matters. No faces on camera if you hate that. Hands, horses, bells. We keep it authentic.”
The big chestnut nudges my shoulder, warm and impossibly heavy. I squeak and lean into it. “Hi. I’m Ivy. I break antique runners and then pitch content.”
“That’s Donner,” Rhett says, deadpan. “He likes sugar.”
“Same,” I say. “It’s one of my core values.”
A twenty-something guy with a dusting of freckles darts by with a broom. “I saw the spill! You okay?” His name tag reads Jared in block letters.
“Just marinating in cocoa,” I tell him.
“Cool,” he says, clearly meaning not cool at all, and keeps sweeping.
Rhett sighs, that resigned sound of a man who knows the path of least resistance now involves me. “If I say yes, what do you need?”
I blink. “Yes?”
“Conditional,” he warns. “We can talk about…something. Limited. Quiet. No faces.” He glares at my phone peeking out of my pocket like it’s a tiny gremlin. “And you don’t get in the horses’ way.”
I grin so hard a second marshmallow falls off my body. “Deal. I am the least in-the-way person you’ll ever meet. I float like a snowflake. I—ow!” Donner has helpfully tried to chew on my scarf.
“You’re wearing a candy-cane pattern,” Rhett says. “He thinks you’re a walking buffet.”
“Relatable.” I gently wrestle my scarf back from Donner’s enthusiastic lips. “Okay, logistic question: do we have a place we can film that’s not icy and perilous to clumsy PR people?”
“Barn,” he says. “Afternoons are quieter. Mornings are rides for the preschool groups.”
My phone buzzes. Margo, my boss. I ignore it, then think better and pick up. “Margo! Hi! I’ve arrived and am currently, uh, embedded on-site. I’m with Rhett Ryder now.”
There’s a pause. “You mean the handsome grump with the horses? Do not flirt with vendors, Ivy.”
“I would never,” I say, staring straight at the handsome grump in question while a horse mouths my sleeve. “Our focus is authenticity. We’re thinking long shots, texture, restrained branding—”
“Good,” Margo says. “The sponsor wants a deliverable by Sunday. That’s three days. Make content. Make it merry. Make him agree to something photogenic.”
“On it,” I say. “We’ll—ah—ring in something perfect.” I hang up and beam at Rhett. “Tiny deadline. Nothing terrifying. We’ll just…sleigh it.”
Jared groans. “Do you…do you talk like that all the time?”
“Only when I’m awake,” I tell him.
“Storm’s coming,” Rhett says, cutting through my pun-haze. He gestures toward the sky, which has drifted from postcard blue to iron gray while we’ve been standing here negotiating with horses. “If you’ve got filming to do, start today. Roads get dicey when it blows in from the ridge.”
“You get storms often?” I ask.
“Enough,” he says. “You staying in town?”
“Peppermint Inn,” I say. “Do they give out candy canes at check-in? Be honest.”
“Yes,” Mayor Turner says, patting my arm. “And hot cider on the hour. Tell Lolly I sent you. Also,” she adds, looking between us with a smile too wide to be strictly mayoral, “if you need anything for your, ah, project, the town is here to help.”
Rhett’s jaw ticks. “We’ll manage.”
“We’ll manage,” I echo, surprising us both by sounding like I mean it.
He relents with a sigh. “Come on, PR Lady. You can shadow while I tack up. You keep quiet, don’t spook the horses, and if you must pun, do it under your breath.”
“I can do quiet,” I say, following him into the warm, hay-scented barn where strings of white lights loop from beam to beam and glossy harnesses hang like jewelry. “Also, under-my-breath punning is one of my specialties.”
He glances back at me, mouth curving that whisper of a smile again. “I’m starting to believe you.”
“About the quiet?”
“About the specialties.”
Heat flickers under my scarf—part embarrassment, part…not embarrassment. I shove the feeling down, focus on the task. Save Christmas. Secure sponsor. Do not ogle the man who looks unfairly good in flannel and a knit cap.