He’s wearing a dark wool coat instead of flannel, but the way he stands is the same—solid, grounded, like nothing could knock him off his feet. His hair’s a little shorter. His jaw’s still unfair. His eyes scan the crowd once, then land on me like they were wired to find me first.
Everything inside me goes loud.
“Ivy,” someone murmurs in my ear.
I jump. Margo’s appeared at my side, smug as a cat who stole the canary and also the canary’s publicist.
“What did you do?” I hiss.
“I facilitated,” she says. “Rhett called the office. Said he had ‘content and other things’ he wanted to discuss.” She makes air quotes. “I told him if he was going to disrupt my star creative’s emotional equilibrium, he had to do it with a campaign-worthy gesture.”
“Margo,” I say, half horrified, half grateful, heart pounding. “You had no right to?—”
“I had every right to safeguard my investment,” she counters. “You’ve been walking around here like a ghost with a good eyeliner game. Also, shocking grand gestures test well with our key demographics.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, a shaky, helpless sound.
“What is this?” I whisper.
“Jubilee Meets the City,” she says. “Mini cross-promo. One-night event, limited-time content, heartfelt apology baked into a brand story. You’re going to hate it and love it, which means it’s good.”
I drag my eyes back to the sleigh.
To Rhett.
He looks nervous.
That alone almost knocks me over.
Mr. Quiet and Steady looks like he’d rather be face down in a snowbank than standing here in front of half of Saint Pierce, hands flexing at his sides like he’s not sure what to do with them.
A small crowd has already gathered, drawn by the sleigh and the lights. People murmur. Kids tug parents’ sleeves. Someone whispers, “Is this, like, a proposal thing?”
My palms sweat.
Rhett takes a breath.
Then another.
Then he reaches up and taps his phone, which is hooked to the plaza’s speaker system. A familiar jingle of bells flows out, soft at first, then steadier.
My footage.
He’s playing one of my videos.
The big screen at the edge of the plaza—normally used for movie nights and election results—flickers to life. Donner and Comet’s breath in the cold air. The birch lane. Seniors’ gloved hands on Mrs. Hadley’s quilt.
Then his voice comes through the speakers.
Not the clipped, reluctant tone I’m used to hearing when he’s forced into a quote. This is something else—careful, low, like he sat in a quiet room and meant every word.
“Two things can be true at once,” his voice says over the bells. “You can love the quiet and still want more. You can think you’re protecting someone by pushing them away, and really you’re just protecting yourself from being happy.”
The screen switches to the couch shot.
Our socks. Our legs. The quilt.
My heart trips.
