Two hours passed like that. Both of us focused on our tasks, the kiss from earlier sitting between us unacknowledged.
Around 7 PM, I couldn't take the silence anymore. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure." He didn't look up from the gift he was wrapping—a warm blanket for an elderly woman.
"Why furniture? You could do anything. Why did you choose woodworking?"
His hands stilled. He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then: "Working with wood is honest. Slow. You can't rush it or fake it." He tied the ribbon. "My shop teacher in high school—Mr. Vela Cruz—he was the only father figure I had growing up. Taught me that the grain tells you what it needs. That if you listen and pay attention, the wood shows you what it wants to become."
He paused, and I stayed quiet, letting him work through his thoughts.
"I'd always loved it, but after college I got caught up in other things. Building a company, making money, trying to be what other people needed me to be. When everything fell apart, I came back to this. Working with my hands gives me time to think. Space to be myself without performing or proving anything to anyone."
I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant.
"Drew was like that," I heard myself say. "Always wanting me to be someone I wasn't."
Bart looked up. "Yeah?"
"He convinced me to become an influencer. Said I had the looks and personality for it, plus my marketing degree would be useful." I picked at the edge of wrapping paper, not meeting his eyes. "At first it was fun. We were a team, building things together. But once we got successful, everything changed. He started making all the decisions. Controlled the finances, said I should focus on being pretty for the camera while he managed the business side."
"That's bullshit."
The sharp protectiveness in Bart's voice caught me off guard.
"I didn't realize how bad things were until he dumped me. Turned out he'd spent almost everything—fancy cars, designer clothes, expensive tech. When I questioned him about major purchases, he said I was ungrateful. That he'd made me who I was." My throat tightened. "He basically left me with nothing."
"His loss." Bart's voice softened. "You're better than you think, Candi Reed. Smarter, more capable. He didn't deserve you."
The way he said my name made my chest tighten.
Our eyes held for a long moment.
His gaze dropped first. He cleared his throat. "We should probably call it a night. It's getting late."
"Yeah. Okay." I closed my laptop, packing up my things.
We walked to the barn doors together. Bart flipped off the lights, plunging us into darkness except for the security light outside.
We stood there for just a moment, close enough that I could have reached out and touched him.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked quietly.
"I'll be here."
I drove back to the cottage with my heart racing, replaying that kiss under the mistletoe over and over in my mind.
BY THE TIME I COLLAPSEDon the plaid couch around 8 PM after making myself a simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast, I was exhausted but wired.
Opening Instagram, I checked the performance of the posts.
The content had generated massive engagement. Donations were flooding in—over $8,000 raised since we'd launched the campaign. People were sharing across platforms, tagging friends, spreading the word.
My follower count: 571,248.
I'd gained over 40,000 followers in three days. All from authentic stories about helping people, not from thirst traps or sponsored posts.
