The man I’d spent ten years resenting as selfish and cruel had risked his life for a miniature donkey. Had earned his nickname through an act of pure, stubborn compassion.
What else had I gotten wrong about him? The question lodged itself somewhere between my ribs and my spine, demanding an answer I wasn’t ready to give.
“That’s…” I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “You earned the nickname.”
His eyes softened, and for just a moment, the careful distance he’d been maintaining seemed to dissolve. The look he gave me was so gentle, so unguarded, that it made my chest tight. A dangerous warmth flickered where it had no business flickering.
Absolutely not. Not happening.
I snapped my notebook open with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet barn. “Okay. Twelve Stops. Brainstorm. Go.”
He blinked once, as if coming back from somewhere far away, then flipped to a fresh page in his own notebook. The professional mask slid back into place, though something softer lingered around his eyes. “Hit me.”
“We need things people can do.” My voice steadied now that we were back on safer ground. “Not just sip-and-stroll boring stuff that makes people want to go home and watch Netflix instead.”
“Activities,” he agreed, pen poised. “Festive ones that don’t suck.”
“Right. So… gingerbread? Some kind of build or decorate thing? Everyone loves destroying things made of sugar.”
“Gingerbread relay,” he said immediately. “Three people per team, assembly-line style. One person does the walls and basic structure, one handles all the decorating and candy placement, one adds the final touches—whatever that means.”
I squinted at him in suspicion. “You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”
A faint flush crept up his neck. “Maybe a little. In my spare time. Hypothetically.”
“Fine. Gingerbread relay it is.” I wrote it down, trying to ignore how cute his embarrassment was. “Next?”
“Caroling.” He leaned forward. “But competitive. With actual stakes.”
I stared at him, pen hovering over the page. “Competitive caroling. Explain how that doesn’t end in bloodshed.”
“Points system,” he said, warming to the idea. “You get points if you make people laugh. Bonus points if you get them to groan at terrible puns. Extra bonus points if someone slams the door because your rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ is so aggressively off-key it constitutes a public menace.”
I hated—absolutely hated—that it was brilliant. And that I was already imagining Cord trying to hit high notes and failing spectacularly. The man might be Hollywood handsome, but he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Not that his fiancée, Lucy, minded.
I wrote the suggestion down with unnecessary force.
Powell grinned like he’d won something, and I had to look away before I did something stupid like grin back.
“Holiday trivia.” I tapped my pen against the paper. “Make people suffer through obscure questions about the history of mistletoe or whatever.”
“As tradition demands,” he agreed solemnly. “Nothing says holiday spirit like public humiliation over not knowing when Christmas trees became a thing.”
“Ornament something,” I continued, momentum building. “Toss? Bowling? Memory match? Something that involves those terrible ornaments every family has but won’t admit to buying.”
“Memory match,” he said without hesitation. “But with the weirdest, ugliest ornaments we can find. The more questionable the better. I’m talking ornaments that make people go ‘why does this exist’ and ‘who thought this was a good idea.’”
“Perfect. Shame-based holiday joy. My favorite kind.”
We were trading ideas faster now, the rhythm easy and natural in a way that would have worried me if I’d let myself think about it.
“Cookie decorating speed round,” I scribbled. “With a timer that makes everyone panic and create frosting disasters.”
“Ugly sweater judging,” he countered. “But the contestants have to model them. Runway style. With poses.”
“Oh God, yes. Scent guessing with holiday candles,” I offered. “Some normal ones mixed with truly bizarre flavors to keep people on their toes.”
“Reindeer cornhole,” he said, looking pleased with himself.
