“No,” he repeats, turning away. Conversation apparently over.
“Wait,” I say, jogging after him as he heads toward a stall where a massive chestnut draft horse peers out like it’s judging my life choices. “I can’t go back to my boss with a no. She’ll make me stuff stockings for the rest of eternity.”
He pats the horse’s neck. “Maybe you’ll learn the difference between boots with traction and whatever you’re wearing.”
“These are traction-adjacent,” I say, then flush when he glances at the heeled leather with all the contempt of a man who’s never known the joy of a pre-Christmas sale. “Look, Rhett. I messed up, and I’m sorry. But I can fix this.”
“You can fix a broken runner?”
“No, but I can trend.” I gesture grandly and a marshmallow flies off my sleeve like a sad snowball. “If we don’t keep the sponsor on board, the Jubilee loses funding. Kids lose the tree lighting, the toy drive shrinks, and Mrs. Claus over there—” I nod at the giant fiberglass matriarch in the town square “—looks personally disappointed in me. Help me help you help Christmas.”
His lips twitch. Briefly. Like a shooting star: blink and you miss it.
“Rhett,” Mayor Turner says, placing a mittened hand on his flannel-clad arm, “we need the exposure. Not…overexposure,” she adds delicately, “but some. Perhaps Ivy could keep things tasteful?”
“I have very tasteful vibes,” I say. “Ask anyone in my office. My vibe is a warm sugar cookie that also pays taxes.”
He studies me. Up, down, pause at my cocoa-dusted scarf as if questioning my life choices on a cellular level. “You city people come up here, you want a postcard and a quick fix. But out here we don’t do quick. We do right.”
The words should irritate me. They do. And yet the stubbornness in them also clicks into place with something equally stubborn inside me that refuses to go back to the agency as the girl who lost Christmas.
“Then let me do it right,” I say, softening. “No fake snow. No lip-synced jingles. We tell your story. Why you run this place. Why it matters. No faces on camera if you hate that. Hands, horses, bells. We keep it authentic.”
The big chestnut nudges my shoulder, warm and impossibly heavy. I squeak and lean into it. “Hi. I’m Ivy. I break antique runners and then pitch content.”
“That’s Donner,” Rhett says, deadpan. “He likes sugar.”
“Same,” I say. “It’s one of my core values.”
A twenty-something guy with a dusting of freckles darts by with a broom. “I saw the spill! You okay?” His name tag reads Jared in block letters.
“Just marinating in cocoa,” I tell him.
“Cool,” he says, clearly meaning not cool at all, and keeps sweeping.
Rhett sighs, that resigned sound of a man who knows the path of least resistance now involves me. “If I say yes, what do you need?”
I blink. “Yes?”
“Conditional,” he warns. “We can talk about…something. Limited. Quiet. No faces.” He glares at my phone peeking out of my pocket like it’s a tiny gremlin. “And you don’t get in the horses’ way.”
I grin so hard a second marshmallow falls off my body. “Deal. I am the least in-the-way person you’ll ever meet. I float like a snowflake. I—ow!” Donner has helpfully tried to chew on my scarf.
“You’re wearing a candy-cane pattern,” Rhett says. “He thinks you’re a walking buffet.”
“Relatable.” I gently wrestle my scarf back from Donner’s enthusiastic lips. “Okay, logistic question: do we have a place we can film that’s not icy and perilous to clumsy PR people?”
“Barn,” he says. “Afternoons are quieter. Mornings are rides for the preschool groups.”
My phone buzzes. Margo, my boss. I ignore it, then think better and pick up. “Margo! Hi! I’ve arrived and am currently, uh, embedded on-site. I’m with Rhett Ryder now.”
There’s a pause. “You mean the handsome grump with the horses? Do not flirt with vendors, Ivy.”
“I would never,” I say, staring straight at the handsome grump in question while a horse mouths my sleeve. “Our focus is authenticity. We’re thinking long shots, texture, restrained branding?—”
“Good,” Margo says. “The sponsor wants a deliverable by Sunday. That’s three days. Make content. Make it merry. Make him agree to something photogenic.”
“On it,” I say. “We’ll—ah—ring in something perfect.” I hang up and beam at Rhett. “Tiny deadline. Nothing terrifying. We’ll just…sleigh it.”
