“It’s our business model,” Keely stage-whispers. “Sugar high, repeat bookings.”
I grin and, because curiosity is my second business model, lean a little closer. “Hey, Keely? Do you…know Rhett Ryder? Jingle Bell Rides.”
Her whole expression shifts to the kind of careful neutral you learn from years of small-town customer service. “Oh. Rhett.” She tucks a flyaway hair back into her bun. “Everybody knows everybody here.”
“That’s not ominous at all.”
She worries her bottom lip. “I don’t know him, know him. He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. Super good with the horses. He used to come to the tree lighting and stand in the back, but he hasn’t really…since he got back.”
My ears perk. “Back?”
“From Iraq.” She says it gently, like she’s setting down a fragile ornament. “I was in middle school, but my brother remembers him before and after. He’s just…not the same at Christmas.” She offers a tiny wince. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything. We’re not gossipy. Well, we are, but not about serious stuff.”
“No, thank you,” I say softly. My PR brain files it under Context while my heart does a little ache. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Keely brightens, relieved to pivot. “If you want local b-roll—that sounded very official—start early. The baker delivers at eight, the choir kids rehearse at nine, and Farmer Jed brings the goats through the square at ten.”
“Goats?” I repeat, already halfway in love with this shot list. “Sold.”
She smiles and then her cheeks turn pink. “Speaking of Jingle Bell Rides, did you happen to meet…uh, Jared?”
“I did. Great kid, I mean, man.”
Keely perks up. “He isreallynice.”
She doesn’t offer me anymore than that, and I’m guessing there’s a crush hidden beneath that smile of hers.
I tap the counter. “Well…”
“Let me know if you need anything,” she says, then adds under her breath, “Also, Rhett’s really nice. Just…you know. Different.”
“Different I can work with,” I promise, even though my pulse does a weird little skip at the word Iraq. The puzzle pieces click in my mind—grumpiness with edges, the way he looks past the noise to the bell itself, that careful, deliberate way he checksevery strap. It doesn’t explain everything, but it explains…something.
Upstairs, my room is a peppermint daydream: snowy white duvet, red knit throw, a vintage sled propped in the corner with twinkle lights woven through the rails. There’s a tray on the nightstand with two snowman-shaped cookies and a note in looping handwriting:Welcome, Ivy! — Lolly.I set my phone on the dresser, take exactly one appreciative bite (soft center, minty crunch, 10/10 would commit to again), and open the curtains. The square below is an illustration brought to life—kids dragging sleds, a couple sharing a scarf, the enormous tree waiting patiently for its lights.
My phone starts buzzing with the insistence of a friend who will not be ignored. MELANIE flashes across the screen, all caps because she deserves them.
I tap accept and flop onto the bed. “Hiiii, almost-mom.”
Melanie’s face fills my screen, radiant and round-cheeked with that glowy glow only pregnancy and really good highlighter can achieve. “Hiii, almost-Christmas elf. Report. Are there carolers? Is there cocoa? Did you already make enemies with a man in flannel that you will inevitably kiss?”
“I don’t inevitably kiss,” I protest. “Sometimes I…politely nod.”
“Uh-huh.” She looks smug. “How’s Chimney Gorge?”
“A live-action greeting card with a cider bar,” I say, angling my camera toward the window so she can see the square. “And yes to carolers. And yes to cocoa. And yes to—okay, fine—not enemies, but a grumpy man in flannel who thinks my boots are a crime.”
Her eyes widen with cartoonish delight. “Is he handsome?”
I feel my cheeks warm like someone turned up the thermostat. “He’s…fine.”
“Ivy Garland,” she scolds, sing-song. “That is the tone you use when the man is six-two and carved by a lumberjack deity.”
“He is tall,” I admit, rolling onto my stomach and kicking my feet. “And…grippy. Like, his hands are—forget it.”
Melanie cackles. “Grippy?”
“He caught me when I almost ate the icy sidewalk.”
