Then:
“Mom’ll like it,” he says quietly.
My heart does a tiny twist.
Later, after dinner, we move to the living room to go over the activity schedule.
He sits on the couch. I take the chair across from him because if I sit beside him, I’m pretty sure my nerves will ignite and burn straight through the upholstery.
I pull out my planner with the fervor of someone who has never lost a fight with a calendar.
“So,” I begin. “Your family arrives on the twenty-third. That gives us just under three full days. We need the tree, the cocoa bar, and the stocking tradition ready before they get here. Food prep starts tomorrow.”
He nods, listening, elbows braced on his knees.
“And on Christmas Eve,” I continue, flipping pages, “we’ll do the ornament bar for the kids, the board game hour for the adults, and?—”
His brows pinch. “Board game hour?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Have you met my uncle? He flips Monopoly boards.”
“Perfect,” I say brightly. “We’ll choose games without money involved.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I enjoy a challenge.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He leans back against the couch, eyes drifting toward the window where snow still falls in thick sheets. “Just seems like a lot of work for something that’s…temporary.”
“It’s not temporary,” I say before I can think better of it.
His gaze returns to mine, sharp. “It’s not?”
“No.” I wet my lips, searching for words that don’t sound like I’m pitching him a commercial. “The decorations fade. The cookies get eaten. The wrapping paper gets stuffed into trash bags. But the memories? Those don’t go anywhere.”
The muscles in his jaw shift.
“I know you think this is just…fluff,” I continue, softer now. “Like it’s icing without a cake. But you’re wrong. People remember the moments they felt cared for. They remember when someone tried. Every garland, every string of lights, every tiny detail—it’s not about perfection. It’s about showing up.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to read something written behind my eyes.
“You talk about this like it’s personal,” he says quietly.
I look down at my planner. “Maybe it is.”
Silence blooms, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“Why’d you take this job?” he asks suddenly.
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Could’ve worked anywhere,” he says. “Bigger venues. Warmer places. Cities. Not…this.” He gestures vaguely at the cabin, the storm, the mountain. “Why here? Why now?”
