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)
Underneath it, the sponsor’s logo sits quietly, the call-to-action link already racking up clicks.
“You’ve given us a story,” the mayor says, voice a little thick. “Not just ‘come spend money.’ You reminded people why they love this season. That’s worth more than any banner ad.”
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.
It’s just him and me.
The PR elf and the sleigh man.
The content creator and the man who somehow became my favorite story.
“Tonight,” he says, keeping his eyes on the tree being decorated in the square, “after all this—sponsors, lights, whatever the mayor has planned—if you’re not too busy being famous…”
“Yes?” I prompt, heart skipping.
He squeezes my hand. “I’d like to take you for a real ride. No cameras. No campaigns. Just us.”
Warmth floods me, soft and deep. “I’d like that,” I say. “A lot.”
“Good,” he says.
For a second I imagine it—the town quieting down, the stars coming out, just the two of us and the horses and the bells and a stretch of snowy road that doesn’t feel like an ending, but a beginning.
My phone buzzes again.
Another notification.
Another share.
Another stranger rooting for a mystery couple in cozy socks.
Let them.
They don’t know our names, but they know the feeling. The quiet. The warmth. The way something soft can find you in the middle of a storm.
I squeeze Rhett’s hand and smile up at him.
“Ready to sleigh this?” I ask.
He groans. “You had to.”
“I did.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
And for the first time all week, the idea of going back to Saint Pierce tomorrow doesn’t feel like walking away from something.
It feels like step two in a story that’s just getting started—one where the road between Chimney Gorge and home is just another path we’re going to figure out.