We’d set an early alarm. I woke pressed against him, hazy and warm and sore in that good way that makes my cheeks heat just remembering. We lingered longer than we should have, tradingsleepy kisses and quiet promises that we’ll figure this out—that the mountain isn’t the end of the story, just the beginning.
Then I slid out of bed and fell directly into work mode, because if I couldn’t stop time, I could at least export it.
While Rhett hauled in wood and checked the truck, I parked myself at the little table with my laptop and edited like a woman possessed. I built out the entire “Snowed In at Chimney Gorge” campaign: bells and quilts and seniors’ hands, horses’ breath and birch trees, the glow of his stove and the anonymous cozy shot of us on the couch under the quilt, no faces, just warmth and touch.
Now it’s all sent. Margo already replied with a string of heart emojis, a “THIS IS IT” in all caps, and a screenshot of the sponsor’s site traffic chart trending excitedly upward.
One clip, in particular, decided to explode.
I glance at my phone. Notifications are still stacking up—likes, comments, shares. People are eating up the thirty-second loop of two sets of socked feet by a fire, legs tangled under a red-and-cream quilt, with the caption:
Snowed in. No power outages, just heart outages.
#ChimneyGorgeJubilee #FoundChristmas #SoftLaunchCoupleGoals
They don’t know it’s us. Just “mystery couple snowed in in the mountains.” But I know. He knows.
He steps close, handing me my coat. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging into it. “Just…exporting my soul to the internet.”
His mouth curves. “Keep my face off it and we’re even.”
“No faces,” I promise, rising on my toes to kiss him once more. It’s quick but not small. Nothing between us feels small anymore. “Ready?”
He sighs like he’d rather do anything but drive me away from his cabin, then nods. “Let’s get you to the Jubilee, PR Elf.”
The drivedown the mountain feels shorter than the ride up, even though we take it slow. Ice clings in the shadows, glittering like someone spilled diamonds. My phone bings every few minutes with another notification, but I tuck it away and watch Rhett instead—the way his hands move on the wheel, sure and steady. The way his jaw works when he’s thinking.
We hit the main pass, then the turnoff, and suddenly Chimney Gorge spreads out in front of us: colorful storefronts, wreaths on lampposts, families in puffy coats, kids dragging sleds through the slush. Banners flutter across Main Street:
CHIMNEY GORGE SNOWFLAKE JUBILEE
Lights. Laughter. Sleigh Bells.
“They fixed the runner,” Rhett notes, spotting his sleigh parked by the gazebo as we roll into town. “Artisan must’ve worked late.”
“The sponsor probably sent him a fruit basket,” I say. “Or a new belt sander.”
We park near the Peppermint Inn, and the second I climb out of the truck, Keely barrels off the porch like an excited puppy in a peppermint sweater.
“You’re alive!” she squeals, throwing her arms around me.
“Barely,” I say, hugging her back. “We had to resort to extreme survival tactics, like cozy socks and emotional vulnerability.”
She pulls back, eyes shining. “The campaign is everywhere. Everyone’s sharing it. Mayor Turner made us play the couch video on the lobby TV. A lady from Denver called to ask if we rent out your mystery couple as part of a romance package.”
My brain short-circuits. “Please tell me you said no.”
“I said we’d ask,” she says, grinning past me at Rhett.
He clears his throat. “No.”
Keely clasps her hands under her chin. “God, you’re grumpy. It’s perfect.”
Before I can respond, a whirlwind of tartan and authority appears: Mayor Turner herself, cheeks flushed, bells jingling on the hem of her coat.
“There she is!” the mayor trills. “Our Christmas miracle! And Rhett, who we all know is secretly delighted under that scowl.”
