"Without what feels right?" I pulled him closer. "Some complications are worth it, Alex."
He rested his head against my shoulder, and we stood there wrapped in workshop smells as I thought about possible futures. Neither of us spoke. The silence said everything words would've ruined.
Finally, reluctantly, he pulled back. "Early rehearsal tomorrow."
"I know." I caught his hand and brought it to my lips again. "Thank you. For staying. For listening to them. For this."
He kissed me one more time—quick and soft. "Thank you for showing me the marks. For all of it."
I went back to the workbench and ran my hand over the craftsman's marks we'd explored together. They meant something new now. Not only connections to the past, but blueprints for whatever we were building between us.
My great-great-grandfather had understood something vital about how traditions evolve while staying true to their core. Maybe Alex was learning that too.
"Well?"
Holly's voice made me jump. She stood in the doorway, her patchwork shawl catching the lamp light, bracelets jingling as she adjusted her glasses.
"How long have you been lurking?"
"Long enough." She smiled. "Saw Alex leaving. He looked different. Lighter."
I made a show of organizing tools that were already perfectly aligned. "We were just talking about traditions. Craftsman's marks."
"Mmhmm." The look she gave me said I wasn't fooling anyone. "And did these traditions involve any practical demonstrations?"
"Holly..."
"I'm just saying, some connections are inevitable." She touched the sleigh piece gently. "Like perfectly matched wood grain. Some pieces are meant to fit together."
She left before I could respond, her laughter trailing behind her.
I stood in my workshop, surrounded by inherited tools and century-old wood, and smiled. The sleigh piece gleamed under the work light.
Yeah. Some pieces were meant to fit together.
I just hoped Alex would eventually believe it too.
Chapter nine
Alex
My grandmother's Victorian home creaked and groaned under the weight of fresh snow. The sounds dragged me from sleep before my phone buzzed with Mrs. Brubaker's message postponing rehearsal until the afternoon. I lay in bed, listening to the radiator's hiss, the slight whistle of wind through original window panes, and the occasional soft thump of snow sliding off the steep roof.
The world outside had transformed overnight. Six inches of pristine powder draped every surface, turning Grandma's wraparound porch into a frosted confection. She used to say heavy snows were Mother Nature's way of forcing everyone to slow down and appreciate true beauty.
The pristine snow softened the town's Christmas decorations that nearly suffocated me upon arrival. Instead of kitschy and overwhelming, Yuletide Valley now looked like it belonged in an antique snow globe. Serene and somehow timeless.
Three sharp knocks landed on the front door. I found Ben on my porch, breath misting in the cold air, with an antique wooden sled propped against his leg.
He didn't even pause to say hello. "Before you say no," his eyes caught the morning light, "this is a perfect Flexible Flyer from 1952 that I recently restored. I precisely calibrated the runners for an optimal speed-to-control ratio."
I crossed my arms. "You restored an antique sled in case there was a big snowstorm while I was here?"
"Actually, I restored it months ago, but this is the first snow deep enough to test it." He ran his hand along the sled's polished wooden deck the same way he'd touched those craftsman's marks last night. "Unless you're worried about messing up that cashmere sweater?"
"I do own practical clothes. Give me five minutes."
"Better make it ten." He glanced at my thin socks through the doorway. "Something tells me your idea of winter gear might need a few revisions."
