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)
“So,” I say, pulling out my notebook. “Tell me why you do this, Rhett Ryder.”
He adjusts a bridle, long fingers steady. “Because my granddad did. And because people forget how it feels to slow down until they’re in a sleigh under a quilt with the bells going and the horse’s breath puffing in the cold. Then they remember. And they breathe.”
I stop writing. It’s the first thing he’s said that’s not a prohibition or a judgment, and it lands warm in my chest. “That’s…beautiful.”
“It’s just true,” he says, no brag in it. He hands me a pair of work gloves. “You’re going to hold a lead rope.”
“I am?”
“You want authenticity?” He nods to a gentle gray mare whose eyelashes are longer than my last situationship. “Meet Comet.”
I pull on the gloves, aware of the way they swallow my hands. “Hi, Comet. I’m Ivy. I swear I’m not edible.”
Rhett places the rope in my palm, his gloved fingers brushing mine. A small, ridiculously festive hum zips through me, like someone plugged me into a string of lights. For a heartbeat, his gaze meets mine and my brain forgets every crisis-management bullet point it’s ever learned.
“Don’t let go,” he says softly.
I nod, gripping the rope like it’s the last candy cane on Earth. Outside, the first snowflake drifts past the barn door, lazy and certain. I breathe in hay and pine and something new, something that feels like possibility.
Okay, Chimney Gorge. Okay, grumpy sleigh man. Okay, Christmas.
Let’s ride.
TWO
RHETT
I don’t believe in omens, but if I did, they’d look a lot like a city girl in traction-adjacent boots cracking the runner on your best sleigh and calling it “holly heck.”
I’m not happy she’s here. I’m not happy she’s cute. I’m definitely not happy that my horses like her, which feels like a personal betrayal.
“Left,” I say, because Ivy is about to walk Comet into a rake.
She squeaks, corrects course, and gives me a thumbs-up with the hand not holding the lead rope. The gloves I shoved at her are two sizes too big, and they swallow her wrists and make her look like a kid playing barn dress-up. Adorable. Fantastic. Exactly what this week didn’t need.
“Is this…content?” she asks, dipping her chin at her phone where it’s clipped to some little handheld stabilizer thing. “Or is this, like, pre-content? A content amuse-bouche?”
“Walking a horse,” I say. “That’s what it is.” I don’t look at her phone. I don’t look at her eyes. I look at Comet’s ears, at the snow, at the sky that’s gone steel gray over the ridge. Work. Not faces. Work.
She hums, which, unfortunately, is also cute. “Do you mind if I get some audio? The bells when she shakes her head, the crunch of snow, your…uh, instructions.”
“No faces,” I remind her.
She mimes zipping her lips. “No faces. Got it. Hands, horses, bells. Your hands are—” She stops. “Capable. That’s what I was going to say. Very capable. This is going great.”
Jared snorts from where he’s sweeping by the fence. “This is my favorite show.”
“Keep moving, Jared,” I say.
The kid grins and scoots.
We circle the paddock, Comet’s breath puffing in slow, warm clouds. Ivy keeps pace, knees slightly bent the way I told her, boots squeaking on the packed snow. She listens. I’ll give her that. Most city folks nod while you talk and then do whatever they were always going to do. Ivy stays a half step behind Comet’s shoulder like I told her, doesn’t tug, doesn’t chatter too loud. She whispers her puns under her breath as promised, and it’s absurd and…fine. I guess it’s fine.
“Why Christmas?” I hear myself ask, which is stupid because I’d planned on a day of minimal syllables. “PR can choose anything to shine up. Why this?”
She glances at me. A curl has escaped her hat and is doing some kind of ribbon thing against her cheek. I hate that I notice. “Because people pay attention when something sparkles. And once I have their attention, I can point them toward the good stuff. Toy drives. Local businesses. Donations that actually matter.” She looks back at Comet. “And because I like it. The lights. The cookies. The way people soften around the edges.”
I grunt. I don’t say anything about how I used to like it too. The last real Christmas I enjoyed I was wearing tan instead of flannel, and the nearest tree was a sun-bleached palm. We did a half-hearted “Jingle Bells” in a plywood rec room and tried not to look at a chair no one was using anymore. Bells don’t always sound festive. Sometimes they just sound like…bells.
“Does the sponsor know you plan to be a human sugar cookie?” I ask, because we’re not going there. Not today. Not with a storm coming and a thousand things to do.
“They hired me because my conversions are delicious,” she says, dead serious, and then winces. “That came out weird. You know what I mean.”