“Let’s take a closer look,” he suggested, moving toward the square.
As they stepped off the curb, Christopher held his arm out beside her, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. The protective gesture came naturally, an instinct he couldn’t have suppressed if he’d tried.
A couple walking past gave them the small-town once-over and a knowing smile; Christopher ignored it, but his bear hummed with satisfaction at having their mate so close, atshowing the world—even if Sorcha didn’t understand yet—that she belonged with them.
They crossed the square together, their boots crunching through fresh snow. Morning sunlight caught on the thousands of ornaments adorning the massive tree, sending prisms of light dancing across the white ground.
Sorcha pulled out her phone and began snapping pictures, turning slowly to capture the tree from different angles. Her face glowed with childlike wonder as a dusting of new flakes drifted down like confetti, catching on Sorcha’s lashes.
“It’s so beautifully decorated,” she said, zooming in on a hand-painted wooden ornament. “These aren’t store-bought.”
“No, they are mostly handcrafted and donated over the years by the folks in Bear Creek. They have a history all of their own. There’s a group of volunteers who keep them safe and each year get together to decorate the tree after we bring it down from North Peak Pines,” Christopher explained, enjoying her fascination.
She lowered her phone, one eyebrow arching upward. “We?”
She does not miss a thing,his bear chuckled.
Heat crept into Christopher’s cheeks. “I might have a hand in it.”
“Tell me everything,” she said, tucking her phone away and giving him her full attention.
Do it,his bear urged.Tell her EVERYTHING.
Not yet,Christopher replied firmly, though everything in him longed to pull her into his arms right there beneath the tree, to tell her they were mates, to claim her with a kiss that would leave no doubt about their connection.
“Well,” he began instead, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her, “there are four of us. MichaelNorth, whose family has donated a tree to the town since forever. There’s Daniel, who makes the most incredible bakes…his gingerbread alone is worth a trip to Bear Creek. And there’s James, who’s the town’s safety officer…” He trailed off, suddenly unsure how to describe his own contribution.
Christopher had never been comfortable talking about himself. The others had such clear roles, such obvious talents. Michael was the tree farm heir, Daniel the baker, and James the protector. But what was he?
Caretaker,his bear supplied.Anchor. The one who keeps the lights on and the paths clear when the storm hits.
“And you,” Sorcha prompted, her smile warming him more effectively than any fire, “the guy who stays up late to make sure his guests get to their cabin safely.”
Her words stole his breath. No one had ever described him quite like that before, as if what he did mattered beyond the simple completion of tasks.
“It’s my job,” he said dismissively, looking down at his boots.
Sorcha stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume mingling with the crisp winter air. “A job title does not define you,” she said, her voice filled with emotion. “It’s how you do the job, the care you take…that is what defines you.”
Christopher swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. She saw him. Really saw him. Not as the night manager or the maintenance guy, but as someone who cared, who took pride in looking after others.
Not quite,his bear reminded him.She doesn’t see me.
But she sees the connection between us,Christopher argued back.She sees it; she feels it. I can tell.
“Okay,” Sorcha said, turning away from him and back toward the tree. “Tell me more.”
Christopher breathed deeply, gathering himself. “Well, after the tree is decorated, we have a lighting ceremony, of course, and people hang their wishes.” He led her to the lower branches where dozens of small cards dangled from red ribbons, each bearing a handwritten wish. A few were dotted with glitter; one had a crayon snowman, lopsided and yet oh-so-perfect.
Sorcha leaned in to read some of them, her expression softening. “That is so sweet,” she murmured, taking more pictures. After a moment, she looked back at him. “Did you make a wish?”
Christopher chuckled, remembering that crystal-clear night when they’d selected the tree. “I did, but not on the tree.”
“Oh?” Her questioning look returned, curiosity sparkling in those hazel-green eyes.
“I wished on a shooting star the night we chose the tree,” he admitted, the confession feeling strangely intimate. But who better to share it with than his mate?
And our wish came true,his bear said with deep satisfaction.
