"You're persistent. And honest in ways most people aren't." His hand comes up again, fingers threading through my hair. "And when you look at me, you see past the spreadsheets and the rules."
"I see someone who's tired of holding everything together alone."
"Yes."
I rise on my toes, bring my mouth close to his. "Then let me help carry it."
He closes the distance, kissing me slow and deep. It's not rushed or frantic. The kiss is deliberate, thorough, like he's memorizing the taste of me. His hand tightens in my hair, just enough pressure to make me gasp against his mouth. It’s such a dominating move and my nipples tighten under my bra.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"We should go," he says, voice rough.
"Should we?"
"Yes. Because if we stay here, I'm going to want more than you're ready to give."
"What if I'm ready?"
His eyes search mine. "Are you?"
I consider lying, deflecting with humor. But that's the old Holly. The one who hid behind glitter and jokes.
"I don't know," I admit. "But I want to find out."
“We have time, Holly. Lots of it. Let’s go back to the lodge.”
Back at the lodge, the fire is dying. Justin rebuilds it while I make hot chocolate, extra marshmallows in both mugs. We settle on the couch, close but not touching, watching flames lick at fresh wood.
"Tell me about your family," I say after a while.
"What do you want to know?"
"Why you stayed. Most people inherit a business and sell it. You expanded."
He's quiet for a long moment. "My grandfather built this place because he wanted to create magic. Real magic. The kind that makes people believe in something bigger than themselves. When he died, my dad wanted to sell. Said it was too much work for too little return. At that point we were barely breaking even. Definitely weren’t making a profit."
"But you disagreed."
"I saw what it meant to people. The families who came every year, for generations. It was a family tradition for them. I remembered how many children’s faces lit up at the lights and when they saw Santa. That mattered more than the profit." He takes a sip of cocoa. "So, eventually I bought out my siblings, modernized operations, and turned it profitable. Proved you could have magic and margins at the same time."
"And lost yourself in the process?"
He glances at me sharply. "What makes you say that?"
"Because you talk about it like a victory, but you look like someone who won the war and lost the point. Like you modernized the park but lost some of the magic."
The observation lands hard. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the muscle that jumps in his cheek.
"You're right," he says finally. "I forgot why I was fighting."
"And now?"
"Now, I'm remembering." He sets down his mug, turns to face me fully. "You make me remember. What matters. The joy. The love. The memories being built. More than a fifty-dollar sweatshirt. You’ve reminded me that I don’t have to be on all the time, I can enjoy the ride."
I set my own mug aside, shift closer. "Good. Because you make me feel like I don't have to be self-conscious every second. Insecure. Worried about being too much."
"You don't."
