ONE
IVY
The first thing I do when I hit Chimney Gorge is face-plant into Christmas.
To be fair, the town doesn’t exactly ease you in. There’s a twelve-foot peppermint-striped arch that says WELCOME TO CHIMNEY GORGE in curly gold script, twinkle lights stitched across every roofline, and a giant snowman wearing a scarf that could double as a sail. It’s like a Hallmark set and a Yankee Candle had a baby and then gave it a sugar rush.
I step out of my rental car in my very sensible big-city boots and promptly skid on a patch of black ice so sneaky it should be prosecuted. I flail, my cardboard tray of sponsor hot cocoa kits rockets into the air, and I—PR professional, fixer of crises, proud carrier of glitter gel pens—slam shoulder-first into a gleaming red sleigh.
The sleigh wobbles.
I wobble.
The box of cocoa kits explodes like a peppermint piñata.
“Whoa there!” A deep voice snaps across the cold air. Arms like steel cables catch me before I can make the world’s most embarrassing snow angel. I end up clutching flannel.
I look up and see a jaw carved by Nordic gods who probably chop their own firewood for fun. A beard lumberjacks are most likely jealous of. He’s got stormy blue-gray eyes under a knit cap and a mouth that looks made for scowling.
“Are you okay?” he asks, not sounding particularly invested in the answer.
“I’m… festive?” I wheeze, because my coat is now dusted in instant cocoa mix and little marshmallows. One is stuck to my lip. Excellent. “Hi. I’m Ivy. Ivy Garland.”
“Of course you are,” he says, prying a marshmallow off my collar and tossing it into the snow. “I’m Rhett Ryder.”
The name lands with a thunk in my brain, pinging off the panic already rattling around in there. I know that name. I’m here because ofthatname. Jingle Bell Rides—his sleigh ride business—is the anchor attraction for the Snowflake Jubilee, which my agency’s client sponsors. Said sponsor now wants to pull out unless I generate an avalanche of cozy content, stat. So here I am, armed with cocoa kits, a smile, and a proposal to turn this very grinchy-looking man into a viral holiday heartthrob.
“Jingle Bell Rides,” I blurt, pointing at the hand-painted sign on the barn behind him. “Rhett Ryder. Great name. On brand. So…ridery.”
He leans past me to inspect the sleigh. “You cracked the runner.”
“I—what? No.” I crouch, mortification burning hotter than the air nipping my cheeks. Yep. Thin silver fissure along the wood. “Oh, holly heck.”
A woman in a tartan coat comes hustling over, bells chiming on her boots. “Rhett, I heard a crash and—oh!” She gives me the kind of sympathetic smile people reserve for toddlers and disasters. “You must be the PR lady.”
“Please tell me that’s not my official title,” I say.
“It is now,” Rhett mutters.
“Tally Turner,” the woman chirps, holding out a hand. “Mayor. We are so delighted you’re here to work your Christmas magic, Ivy. The Jubilee needs all the sparkle it can get. Donations dropped after last year’s storm, and the sponsors?—”
“—are skittish,” I finish, because that’s why my boss sent me instead of anyone else. I have a reputation for turning coal into diamonds and crises into hashtags. “Don’t worry, Mayor Turner. I’m here to save Christmas.”
Rhett snorts. “Christmas doesn’t need saving. It needs people to stop breaking things.”
I paste on my best client-facing smile. “I’m happy to pay for the repair.”
“It’s a handcrafted runner from the forties,” he says, eyes cool. “The artisan who can fix that is three towns over and booked solid.”
“Okay,” I say, brain revving. “What if we partner the repair with a sponsor? ‘Heritage Holiday: Restoring a Classic Sleigh’—we film it, highlight craftsmanship, community, tradition?—”
“No cameras,” he says, sharp as icicles.
Mayor Turner frowns lightly. “Rhett.”
“I said no cameras when they pitched using my horses for a commercial,” he says. “I’m not turning the barn into a set.”
I open and close my mouth like a caroling goldfish. “What if there’s…no set? Just, you know, understated storytelling. B-roll. Hands. Wood shavings. Manly competence?—”
