"Christmas Wishes," I said, handing her the device. Our fingers brushed in the exchange, and the contact sent an unwelcome jolt straight through me. I yanked my hand back, covering the reaction by crossing my arms. "A charity to help struggling families in Hope Peak have a real Christmas. I collect wish lists, purchase gifts, coordinate delivery on Christmas Eve. But I need help with promotion, organization, and logistics. That's where you come in."
She stared at the screen, scrolling through the photos. Those features shifted with each image—surprise, then wonder, then honest feeling.
"This is... you're really doing this? This is real?"
"Been planning it for months. Already have twenty-seven families registered through a dropbox at the community center." I paused, and the words came out rougher than I intended. "When I was eight, my mother worked three jobs and we still couldn't afford Christmas. I remember telling her it was okay, that Santa probably just got confused about our address. No kid should have to lie to make their parent feel better."
She met my gaze, and her expression softened. She was reassessing who I was beneath the angry mountain man threatening lawsuits, and the way those blue eyes warmed—honest, without performance—hit me harder than it should have.
"Why do you need my help if you've already got it organized?"
Smart question. Maybe she wasn't as vapid as her aesthetic suggested.
"I have the funding and logistics covered. What I don't have is reach. Families who need help don't know this exists yet. I need someone who can run a social media campaign, get people engaged, donating, volunteering. Someone who knows how to make things go viral. And someone who can do all of that while keeping me out of the spotlight."
"Out of the spotlight?"
"You never show my face clearly in any posts. Keep me out of frame, shoot from behind, creative angles—however you need to do it. And don't tag me or use my name in your content. Call it an 'anonymous local benefactor' if you need to reference me at all." I held her gaze. "I came to Hope Peak to get away from attention. I'm not looking to trend on social media, even for a good cause.You can film yourself doing charity work, promote the program, share family stories with permission, ask for volunteers and donations. But I stay in the background. That's the deal."
She was quiet, processing.
"And if I do this—help you promote the program, keep you out of frame, make it successful—you drop the lawsuit? Permanently?"
"Permanently. The video can stay up, you get your followers, your comeback. You help me make Christmas Wishes the best it can be, and you respect my privacy."
"Can I..." She hesitated, color rising in her cheeks. "Can I film you? From the neck down, I mean? If that's what gets engagement, if that's what makes people pay attention to what we’re doing?"
My skin crawled at the idea of being objectified again. "So I get to be exploited for charity. Wonderful."
But if it helped families... if it meant kids got presents and struggling parents got groceries and coats...
"If it's necessary to boost engagement and get donations or volunteers, fine. Neck down only. Creative angles to keep me anonymous. Can you do that?"
"Yes." Her response was immediate, and she met my gaze with confidence that made me respect her despite myself. "That's literally what I do. I can make it work."
I observed her, searching for signs she'd agree to anything now and violate things later. But she seemed focused, determined.
"Tomorrow morning, nine AM. About twenty minutes outside town. You'll work daily through Christmas Eve delivery, help coordinate everything, and follow my instructions. I'm matching all community donations dollar for dollar, so we'll need to set that up. Volunteers for wrapping and delivery. Can you handle it?"
"Yes. I can handle it." She was already organizing her thoughts, I could see it in her expression. The shift from panicked mess to competent professional caught me off guard.
"My name's Bart, by the way." I took out my phone again. "What's your number? I'll text you the address."
She rattled it off. I entered it and sent her a message immediately:9 AM tomorrow.Followed by a location pin.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it, then back at me. "Got it."
"Good. We have a lot of work to do."
"I'll be there. I promise. And thank you. For not suing me. For giving me a chance to make this right."
I moved toward the door, needing to leave before this got more complicated. She followed, and I was acutely aware of her presence in the cramped space.
I paused at the threshold, turned back. She was standing in the middle of all that holiday chaos, mascara smudged but looking visibly relieved.
"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the full scope of what you've agreed to. And if you post my face or identify me online—the deal's off and the lawsuit is back on. Clear?"
"Clear. I won't let you down."
