I swallow hard. “And somehow it still doesn’t feel long enough.”
Her lips part, breath catching.
“Sebastian…”
I reach into my pocket before I lose my nerve. Drop to one knee in the slushy lot and pull out the box I meant to give her tonight.
Her eyes widen. Her hands fly to her mouth.
“I know it’s fast,” I say, voice rough. “But I called your mom this morning. She gave her blessing. I know people will talk. Loretta will cry. My mama might faint. There’ll be days we yell. Days we wonder what the hell we were thinking. But I love you.”
She sniffles. Hard.
“I love your laugh. Your cookies. Your stubborn streak. I love that you made my mother like you before you even tried. I love that you brought a spark back to my dad’s eyes. I love that you made me believe I wasn’t broken.”
I open the box.
The ring is simple. A gold band with a small diamond. My grandmother wore it for fifty years. It’s not flashy. But it’s real.
“I want every Christmas with you. Every morning. Every mess and mistake and miracle. Willa Mathews, will you marry me?”
She cries. Laughs. Nods through the tears.
“Yes,” she finally breathes. “Yes. Yes.”
I slide the ring onto her finger. It looks like it belongs there.
I rise. She throws herself into my arms. We almost fall. I don’t care. We kiss in the snow, wet-faced and grinning like idiots. Someone cheers from the porch. A car horn honks down the block.
Still don’t care.
All I feel is her.
All I hear is her yes, echoing like a promise straight into my bones.
Epilogue
Willa
Threeyearslater,theinn smells like cinnamon and pine.
Snow falls in slow spirals outside the frosted windows. The fire crackles in the hearth. Laughter echoes from the dining room, where guests linger over coffee and second helpings of Sebastian’s famous cinnamon-spiced French toast.
Evelyn hums as she wipes down the counter. Loretta is trying to convince someone’s grandpa to join the afternoon karaoke session.
My mom is in the corner, cradling a mug of tea and chatting with a newlywed couple about the best sledding spots in town.
It’s Christmas morning in Hope Peak, and for the first time in years, my heart is quiet. Still. Full.
I step around a tower of wrapped presents near the fireplace, a sippy cup in one hand and a cookie in the other.
“Maeve,” I call, scanning the chaos of wrapping paper, half-eaten candy canes, and tiny socks. “Where did you go, baby?”
A giggle erupts from beneath the tree skirt. I crouch down and lift the edge.
Two enormous blue eyes peer back at me. Her curls are sticking out in every direction, and her cheeks are dusted with glitter. Again.
“Are you hiding from Mama?” I ask.
