“I’m not—” he starts.
“He is,” Keely and I say at the same time.
The mayor waves us closer like she’s conducting a parade. “Come, come. I need to see everything. The sponsor called this morning—they’re sending a team up for the tree lighting tonight.Apparently one of your videos ‘performed extremely well with key demographics.’”
“That’s marketer for ‘everyone cried,’” I say.
She clasps my forearms. “Tell me it’s the one with Mrs. Hadley’s quilt.”
“That one’s doing great,” I say. “But the viral one is, uh… a little different.”
Keely squeals. “The couch one.”
I press my lips together, trying for professional instead of mortified. “It’s just socks and silhouettes. No faces, no identifiers.”
“Except romance,” Keely says dreamily. “That’s a pretty strong identifier.”
Mayor Turner beams like someone wired her directly to the town’s joy supply. “We have people driving up from three towns over tonight because of that clip. Bookings are up, donations are up. The sponsor doubled their food bank match. You did this, Ivy. You and your bells.”
Warmth floods my chest, right next to the ache of knowing I’m leaving soon. “We all did. You gave me good material.”
She pats my cheek. “Humble. We love that. Come to my office. Show me everything before the sponsors arrive. Rhett, you too—You’re the face of Jingle Bell Rides, whether you like it or not.”
“No faces,” he mutters, but follows us anyway.
We endup in the mayor’s office overlooking the square, my laptop perched on her desk, all three of us squeezed into her tartan universe. Outside, vendors are setting up cocoa stands and ornament booths. The big tree in the square is half lit as volunteers check strings and replace bulbs.
I cue up the best cuts.
We watch the seniors’ sleigh ride—gloved hands on quilt edges, the soft jingle of bells, Comet’s breath in the cold air. Mrs. Hadley’s voice saying,Nothing hurts when the bells go.
The mayor dabs at her eyes with what I’m pretty sure is an embroidered handkerchief. “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”
Keely sniffles openly. Rhett stands behind us, arms crossed, jaw tight—but not in a bad way. In athis means somethingway.
I click to the next video. The birch lane, branches arching overhead. Close-ups of Donner’s harness, the glint of polished brass. Kids’ mittens as they reach out to touch the sleigh. The stove door closing, glow flaring.
And finally, the couch clip.
Two pairs of socked feet stretched toward the fire. Red-and-cream quilt. A slow zoom that catches the moment one foot nudges the other and the two people shift closer under the blanket, their silhouettes merging.
Mayor Turner actually presses a hand to her heart.
“Oh my,” she says. “That’s…that’s good television.”
Keely clutches my arm. “Look at the comments,” she whispers.
I tilt the screen. The platform’s notifications are a blizzard—hearts, snowflake emojis, comments like:
@HolidayHeartEyes: I don’t know who they are but I’m rooting for them
@RomanceReader22: Someone write this as a book immediately
@SnowedInAndSoft: Going to Chimney Gorge with my husband now so we can reenact this
Underneath it, the sponsor’s logo sits quietly, the call-to-action link already racking up clicks.
“You’ve given us a story,” the mayor says, voice a little thick. “Not just ‘come spend money.’ You reminded people why they love this season. That’s worth more than any banner ad.”
