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)
We reach the birches. Snowflakes collect on the black-and-white bark, a living photograph. Ivy crouches to get the bells, to let the flakes drift through her shot. She stays off the horse’s path like I told her. She mutters something about “soundbed” and “loopable” and “pacing like a lullaby.”
“You’re going to fall,” I tell her, because her boots are doing that slide-to-doom again.
“I’ve got it,” she says, and immediately slides.
I catch her elbow without thinking. Her laugh bumps against my shoulder, warm, ridiculous. She smells like cinnamon and…something else. Hope? I shake it off. No. Absolutely not.
“Traction,” I say, steadying her.
“Noted,” she says breathlessly. “I’ll put ‘buy sensible boots’ on the shot list.”
“Put it on top,” I say. I don’t let go right away. She doesn’t pull away. Donner tosses his head and bells sing, and I let go.
We finish the walk and circle back. She gets footage of brushing out Donner’s mane, of Jared filling the water trough, of my hands fitting a new strip of felt under a chafing strap. The world narrows to the work and to her almost-silent running commentary. It’s not awful, which I resent on principle.
When we’re done, I lead Donner back into the barn and loop the lead rope over the hook. Ivy pockets her phone like it’s glass. She looks at the sleigh we’ll have to fix and then at me.
“I’m sorry about the runner,” she says again, earnest in a way that’s hard to argue with. “I’ll call the artisan you mentioned. I can drive out. I can wait. Whatever it takes.”
“You’re not driving anywhere in the storm,” I say. “We’ll see. He’s more likely to make room if I show up in person.” I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “I’ll handle it.”
“Let me at least cover the cost,” she says. “I broke it.”
“I’ll send an invoice,” I say, which is my compromise. “You should get to the inn before the roads glaze.”
She nods, tucks a curl behind her ear with a gloved finger. “Can I come back after lunch tomorrow? Seniors ride at two?”
“Come early,” I say. “Morning’s better if the wind goes mean.”
“Okay.” She hesitates, then adds with a smile that’s somehow both bright and respectful, “Thank you for letting me be a human sugar cookie in your barn.”
“You’re welcome,” I mutter, which is not quite the same as “please never say that again,” but we both pretend it is.
She backs toward the door, nearly collides with a hay bale, catches herself, and offers me a two-finger salute that’s all moxie and mittens. “Bye, Comet. Bye, Donner. Bye, Jared. Bye, capable hands.”
Jared chokes on a laugh. I stare at the rafters until she’s gone.
“She’s fun,” Jared says. “And cute.”
I point a finger at him. “There’ll be none of that.” I know he’s young and nowhere near old enough to ask her out, but for some reason Jared calling her cute does something to me.
Jared holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying.” He laughs. “C’mon, like you didn’t notice it either.”
I shake my head. I’ll be damned if I’m going to discuss Ivy’s beauty with Jared. I grunt which he takes as an end to the conversation, and he exits the barn, leaving me in peace.
The barn settles around me, warm and familiar. Leather creaks. Horses shift. Bells go quiet. I breathe, slow and steady, in for four, hold for four, out for six. It’s an old trick, older than Iraq, older than this barn. It works.
I’m not happy she’s here. I’m not happy about sponsors or deliverables or storms or any of it. The town needs the money; I need the quiet; those two truths are going to fight for the next three days. And I’m not happy that the person I have to fight beside is…well. Ivy.
Cute is not strong enough for what she is. She’s cheerful weaponized, and I don’t know if I’m the target or the collateral. Either way, I’ll keep the horses steady. I’ll keep the rides safe. I’ll fix the sleigh.
And maybe, if I’m careful, I won’t let Christmas crack anything that matters.
THREE
IVY
By the time I reach the Peppermint Inn, the snow has committed. Fat, lazy flakes drift like confetti after a parade, sticking to my lashes and the fuzzy pom-pom on my hat. The inn itself looks like someone asked a gingerbread house to grow up and get a mortgage: white clapboard trimmed in red, striped awnings, and a porch lined with rocking chairs wearing plaid blankets like capes. The sign on the door says Welcome, Sugar in curly script, which feels targeted but I choose to take it as a compliment.
Inside, it smells like cinnamon, orange peel, and a whisper of woodsmoke—cozy enough to make my shoulders drop two inches. A bowl of mini candy canes sits on the check-in counter next to a stack of steaming paper cups labeled Hot Cider: Take One. I do. Obviously.