“Only when I’m nervous.” She dropped the charger into her bag and stood, smoothing down her sweater. The tinsel in her hair caught the light. “Which, apparently, is constantly around you. Great pattern I’m establishing.”
I should let her leave. Should say goodnight, go home, and forget about the way she looked sitting in my space with her shoes off and her guard down.
Instead, I heard myself say, “I’m headed out too. I can give you a ride home.”
She blinked. “That’s…that’s okay. I can take the bus.”
“It’s dark. It’s December. And we live in the same building.”
Her mouth fell open slightly. “We do?”
“Reboot. You’re on sixteen. I’m on twenty-five.”
“You looked me up.”
“I look up all my employees.”
“After they destroy your award collection?”
The corner of my mouth twitched. “Especially then.”
She studied me for a moment, and I could see her weighing her options. Pride versus practicality. Nervousness versus exhaustion.
“I really should finish this article,” she finally said. “I’ve been working on it all afternoon, but I’m stuck, and if I don’t get it done tonight, I’ll fall behind on the content calendar, and?—”
“What’s it about?”
“What?”
“The article. What’s it about?”
Gabriella bit her lip, and I tried not to notice how full it was. Not to mention how the tiny gesture made something low in my gut tighten. “It’s for the Cozy and Festive influencer network. ‘Ten Ways to Make Your Holiday Gathering Unforgettable.’ Except I only have eight ways, and numbers six and seven are basically the same thing, so really I have seven, and?—”
“What do you have so far?”
She looked at me like I’d spoken in a different language. “You want to help?”
“I run a content creation company. I know a thing or two about listicles.” I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“I don’t—you don’t have to?—”
“Gabriella.” I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. “Show me.”
She hesitated for another beat, then slowly sank back into her seat and turned her laptop around. I scanned the document. Her writing was good—warm and engaging. The kind of voice that made you feel like you were getting advice from a friend. But she was right about six and seven. Both were variations on “create a signature cocktail.”
“Cut seven entirely,” I said. “Six stays. For number eight, flip it—instead of ‘set the mood with music,’ make it ‘create a moment of silence.’ Everyone does music. Nobody does intentional quiet.”
She leaned forward, interested now instead of nervous. “A moment of silence?”
“Have everyone put their phones in a basket. Light candles. Spend five minutes just being present. No performing for social media, no documenting. Just existing together.” The words came out rougher than I intended. “People forget how to do that.”
Something shifted in her expression. “That’s…actually really beautiful. And totally on-brand for the cozy aesthetic.” She started typing, her fingers flying over the keys. “”Okay, so now I have seven solid ones. What about eight, nine, and ten?”
I watched her work for a moment—the way her nose scrunched when she was concentrating, how she mouthed words as she typed them. She’d pushed her sleeves up to her elbows, revealing delicate wrists and hands that moved with surprising grace.
Focus, Shepard.
“Eight—create a memory jar. Have guests write down their favorite moment from the night. Read them at the end.” I paused, thinking. “Nine—send everyone home with something handmade. Doesn’t have to be complicated—cookies, a small ornament, a handwritten note. Something that extends the gathering beyond the night itself.”
