Around noon, my stomach growled loudly. I'd been too nervous to eat breakfast—just grabbed a coffee from a drive-through on my way.
Bart glanced up from the tags he was cutting from a child’s size winter coat. "When did you eat last?"
"I skipped breakfast to be honest,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Which is probably why you heard the noise my stomach just made.”
He stood, grabbing his wallet from the workbench. "What sounds good? I'll pick something up from town."
"Anything warm?"
"Soup? Sandwich?"
"Both sound amazing."
"I'll surprise you. Keep working on the spreadsheet. I'll be back soon."
After he left, I sat in the quiet barn surrounded by wish lists and half-wrapped gifts, carols playing softly from the speaker.I pulled out my phone automatically—habit—and stared at the lock screen.
467 notifications.
I used to check them immediately. The comments, the likes, the engagement. It had been compulsive, necessary, like breathing.
Now I just felt tired.
I set the phone face-down and went back to the spreadsheet.
When Bart returned forty minutes later with two containers of loaded baked potato soup and crusty bread, I realized I'd completely forgotten to worry about my metrics. And I wasn’t sad about it.
BY THE 12TH, I WASready to launch the social media campaign.
We'd spent the past two days organizing, purchasing additional gifts, building out the volunteer system. I'd learned that Bart was particular about the work—nothing was rushed, every detail mattered. He treated each wish list like a sacred trust.
I'd also learned that we had very different taste in holiday music, but he was willing to compromise.
"The instrumental stuff is nice," I offered, switching to a playlist of orchestral carols.
"Better than the pop versions on repeat."
"Some of us like a little energy in our music."
"Some of us have functioning eardrums."
But he was almost smiling, and so was I.
The banter came easily now. The initial tension had softened into something comfortable. Something that felt dangerously close to friendship.
Or maybe more than friendship, given the way I kept noticing his hands when he wrapped gifts. The way his shoulders moved when he reached for supplies. The rare smiles that transformed his whole face.
Do NOT develop feelings. He can still sue you. Focus on the work.
I set up my ring light and phone in the barn, positioning myself in front of the corkboard.
"Okay, I'm going to film now," I said. "Stay out of frame."
Bart moved to the far corner, out of the camera's range. "Go ahead."
I hit record, forcing my influencer smile into place. But this time, it didn't feel fake.
"Hope Peak has something special happening this season," I said warmly. "Families in need can submit wish lists for everything from winter coats to groceries to toys. An anonymous local benefactor is purchasing gifts and matching every dollar donated by the community. That's right—every donation gets doubled."
