“What happened?” I ask softly.
His mouth twists. “We stopped trying. After a few years, Christmas shrank. Fewer decorations. Fewer people. Eventually, they started doing it without me. My mom said I was always ‘too busy up here’ to come down for the whole thing. Which, yeah, that’s partly on me, but it felt easier to opt out than watch it fall apart again.”
“And now she’s asking you to host,” I say.
“And now she’s asking me to host,” he confirms. “Up here. Where I have six chairs, no dining table, and a kitchen that hates me.”
I glance toward the unseen kitchen like I might hear it hissing. “Appliances don’t hate people. They’re just misunderstood.”
“Tell that to my oven.”
“I will,” I say. “Right after I get its measurements.”
He snorts, the sound half disbelief, half reluctant amusement. It makes me want to push my luck.
“Look,” I say, leaning in a little. “You don’t have to carry it alone this time. That’s what I’m here for. To take some ofthe weight. You can be in charge of the woodpile and the snow shoveling and…manly lumberjack things. Let me be in charge of the cocoa and seating charts and whether your aunt gets the end of the table where she can escape quickly to cry at commercials.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“You really don’t mind?” he asks. “The chaos. The expectations. The mess.”
“I chose this job,” I say. “It’s not just centerpieces and photo ops. It’s…people. Families. All their weirdness and love and grief and hope, crammed into one evening or one weekend and asking me to make it look pretty. I like being the person who builds the scaffolding so they can just…be together.”
The words surprise me a little as they come out. I haven’t said it like that before, but it’s true. Under the spreadsheets and timelines, that’s what keeps me doing this.
His gaze softens, just a fraction. “My mom said you were good,” he says. “Said you took care of things.”
I feel oddly honored by that. “Your mom is very kind. And she made it clear she wants you to have a good Christmas.”
“It’s not just about me.” He looks down into his mug. “She wants this to be the year we put things back together.”
“That’s a big ask,” I say. “But we can give you the best possible setting to try.”
He goes quiet again, thinking. Outside, the wind picks up, rattling a few stray flakes against the window glass. The light has shifted, clouds thickening over the tops of the trees. Afternoon is sliding toward evening faster than it would down in town.
“Storm’s supposed to hit tonight,” he says after a moment. “They moved the warning up this morning. If you’re staying, you should bring your stuff inside sooner rather than later.”
Victory flares in my chest. Not because I’ve “won” against him, but because this means he’s letting me in. Literally and maybe eventually figuratively.
“On it,” I say, springing to my feet. “And then we can do a quick walkthrough and get our priorities sorted. Tree, sleeping arrangements, food, emergency fudge reserves. The essentials.”
He shakes his head, but there’s definitely a ghost of a smile now. “You really came prepared,” he says.
“You have no idea.”
I snag my coat off the back of the couch and head for the door. Cold rolls in as I open it, snowflakes swirling in on the draft. The sky looks heavier than it did when I arrived, a deep gray pressing low over the treetops.
I pause on the porch and glance back over my shoulder.
Calder is watching me, coffee mug cradled in his hands, broad shoulders framed by the warm glow of the woodstove. For a second, with the snowflakes drifting between us and the lines of worry smoothed a little from his face, I can almost see the version of this cabin his mom must imagine. The one where laughter spills out the door and lights twine around the beams and a tall, quiet man who’s been carrying too much finally looks like he belongs in his own Christmas.
The thought tugs at my ribs, sharp and unexpected.
Careful, I tell myself. He is a client. A project. A very tall, very grumpy project with objectively excellent shoulders, but still.
I adjust my scarf, step off the porch, and crunch back toward the SUV.
Behind me, the wind gusts, setting the trees to swaying. A few fat flakes land on my cheeks and melt before I can swipe them away.
