"No."
"And Maeve's doing hot chocolate and cookies at the bookstore after." I can't help smiling. "This is her sixth Christmas running the committee. Nobody says no to Tessa."
"Not even you?"
"Especially not me. She knows where I live."
Bea's quiet for a moment, watching the decorations drift past the window. "It must be nice," she says softly. "Being part of all this. The town, the traditions. Knowing you belong somewhere."
There's something wistful in her voice that makes my chest ache. "You belong here too. You grew up here."
"Yeah, but..." She trails off. "I left. And coming back feels like admitting I failed somehow. Like I couldn't make it work out there."
"That's not failure. That's just..." I struggle for the right words. "Life being messy. Plans change. Doesn't mean you did anything wrong."
She doesn't respond, and I risk a glance at her. "And for what it's worth? I'm glad you're back."
Her head turns toward me. "You are?"
"Yeah." The word comes out quieter than I meant. "Really glad."
She's quiet for a moment, and I can smell the shift in her scent—something softer, warmer. "Thanks, Seth. That's... that's really nice to hear."
The moment feels fragile, important somehow. I turn my attention back to the road before I can mess it up.
The heater's blasting, making the car almost too warm now. I reach over and turn it down a notch, hyperaware of how close my hand comes to her knee.
She clears her throat softly. "So," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "I can't imagine you on a ladder hanging lights. You seem more like the 'stay on solid ground' type."
"I'm fine with heights. It's the part where Tessa stands below yelling directions that's terrifying."
"She yelled at you?" There's delight in her voice now.
"For twenty minutes about the exact angle of a wreath." I can't help smiling at the memory. "This was yesterday. Ben drove by, saw what was happening, and just started laughing. Didn't even try to help."
"That sounds like Ben." She shifts in her seat, and I catch more of her scent—sweeter now, relaxed. "He's terrible at helping when something's funny."
"He took pictures."
"Oh no."
"Sent them to half the town. Pretty sure they're still making the rounds."
Her laugh is bright and genuine, and I realize this is the first time I've heard her laugh like this—unguarded, natural. Not the polite chuckle from the general store or the nervous one from earlier.
We drive in comfortable silence for a minute. The heater hums quietly, filling the car with warmth. Her scent is getting stronger—or maybe I'm just hyperaware of every breath she takes.
"Can I show you something?" The question surprises me as much as her.
"Sure."
I take the turn toward the outskirts of town, where the streetlights fade and the forest presses close. There's a small overlook here—barely a pulloff, really—where you can see all of Honeyridge Falls spread out below. Lights twinkling against the dark mountains. Snow dusting the peaks.
I park and cut the engine.
"Oh." Bea leans forward, and I catch more of her scent—warm and sweet and dangerously tempting. "I forgot about this spot."
"You've been here before?"
