We find an empty bench facing the ice rink, close enough to hear the scrape of skates on ice and the cheerful chaos of families learning to skate together. I bite into the warm nuts, savoring the sweet, nutty flavor. “How do you know all the market vendors?”
Reed chews thoughtfully. “I met a lot of them in the startup cohort for my tree business.” Reed waves a hand at the wooden booths. “I had hoped to be up and running this year, but things got delayed. So, I drowned my sorrows in spiced cider…”
He laughs and shakes his head, popping a handful of nuts into his mouth. “I like being here more than being with my family this time of year.”
I laugh, but it’s not bitter. “The Storm sisters’ approach to Christmas was… creative. One year we had no money for presents, so we made coupons for each other. Good for one free hair braiding, one batch of cookies, one night of doing someone else’s chores. That sort of thing.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was.” I’m surprised to realize I mean it. “Better than the years Mom was around and tried to make everything ‘perfect’ only to ditch us for happy hour with her favorite barflies. Esther always said the best Christmases were the ones when we just had each other.”
Reed is quiet for a moment, watching a little girl in a pink coat wobble across the ice while her father skates backward in front of her, arms outstretched.
“We had these elaborate Christmas Eve dinners,” he says. “Catered affairs with the right China and the right wines and conversation topics approved by my mother. I used to time how long we could go without anyone mentioning business or stock prices or who was donating what to which charity.”
“What was your record?”
“Twelve minutes.” Reed grins, but there’s sadness in it. “Usually broken when my father started lecturing me about my ‘phase’ and when I was going to grow up and join the real world.”
I want to reach over and touch his hand, but I don’t quite dare. Instead, I shake more cinnamon nuts into my mouth. “For what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing is pretty real.”
“Even if it’s too dependent on technology?”
“Even if you sometimes need extension cords and duct tape to make it work.”
That gets a real smile out of him.
We spend a damn-near perfect afternoon wandering around, munching and taking in the sights. Around us, the market glows as vendors switch on their string lights. The sun has disappeared behind the buildings, leaving the sky that deep blue color that only appears in winter. The Christmas tree lights reflect off the ice, creating patterns that shift and dance with each passing skater.
“We should probably head to Bramblewood soon,” Reed says, but he doesn’t move. “I need to set up for the presentation.”
“Nervous?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “What if they hate it? What if my father was right, and this whole thing is just an expensive hobby?”
I study his profile in the twinkling lights, the way his jaw tightens when he’s worried, the way his glasses catch the reflection of the Christmas tree. “Reed, look at me.”
He turns, and I’m struck again by how his eyes look almost golden in this light.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” I say firmly. “You believe in what you’re doing, and anyone who doesn’t see that is missing out on something extraordinary.”
Reed stares at me for a long moment, and I feel the electric awareness that’s been building between us for days. The space between us seems to shrink, and I think he might lean closer, might finally?—
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts. “Are you folks ready to move along?” We look up to see a security guard smiling apologetically. “We’re starting to close the ice rink for the evening. Private event.”
“Of course.” Reed stands quickly. “Sorry.”
As we gather our things, Reed pauses at a booth selling handcrafted ornaments. The woman behind the counter has dozens of tiny animals carved from wood—foxes, rabbits, owls.
And goats.
“How much for this one?” Reed asks, picking up a small wooden goat with tiny horns and an expression that somehow manages to look both mischievous and dignified. Reed hands over his credit card before I can protest. “For your tree,” he says, offering me the ornament. “If Cruella doesn’t eat it first.”
I take the little goat, running my thumb over the smooth wood. It’s perfectly carved, every detail precise but somehow full of personality. It does indeed look like my girl.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “I love it.”
As we walk toward where we parked, Reed’s scarf comes loose in the wind. Without thinking, I reach up to fix it, my fingers brushing his neck as I tuck the soft wool back into his coat.
