Chapter Four
Bart
December 15th morning, and I was trying not to stare at Candi while she wrapped gifts for the Miller family—a box of pantry goods and a warm blanket their grandmother had requested.
We'd been working in the barn for two hours, organizing gifts by recipient and delivery route. The rhythm we'd developed over the past week had returned—comfortable, efficient, easy. Except now there was the kiss hanging between us, unacknowledged but impossible to ignore.
Every time she reached for the tape dispenser, I noticed. Every time she laughed at something, my chest tightened. Every time she tucked her hair behind her ear, I remembered what it felt like to cup her jaw, to feel her melt against me under that damn mistletoe.
This was a problem.
A beautiful, blonde, twenty-five-year-old problem who was supposed to be helping me run a charity program, not making me feel things I'd sworn off after Sutton destroyed my ability to trust.
"You're quiet today," she said, glancing up from the supplies she was wrapping. "Everything okay?"
"Fine. Just thinking about logistics."
Liar. I was thinking about how her sweater kept sliding off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin I wanted to taste.
Around mid-morning, I watched her update the spreadsheet for the third time, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she entered new data. She'd been here every day for a week, putting in eight-hour days minimum. Sometimes longer.
I set down the box I was labeling and really looked at her. Dark circles under her eyes despite the makeup. The way she checked her phone less obsessively than when we'd started but still pulled it out during every break. She could barely afford the cottage—she'd said as much that first night. And her bastard ex had left her with next to nothing.
She was working full-time on Christmas Wishes. For free. Because I'd threatened to sue her.
The realization settled heavy in my gut—guilt and protectiveness mixing together.
"We need to talk about payment," I said.
She looked up, confused. "Payment?"
"You're working full-time for the charity. I should be compensating you."
"You're not suing me. That's payment enough."
"No, it's not." I pulled out my phone, opened my banking app. "What's a fair rate for your services? Social media management, volunteer organization, logistics coordination. If I hired someone in Silicon Valley, I'd pay at least five or six thousand a month for this level of work."
"I'm not in Silicon Valley."
"But you have those skills. Better than most people I worked with, honestly." I met her gaze. "You deserve to be paid for your work. What did you earn before... before everything?"
She bit her lip. "From sponsorships and partnerships, I was making about four thousand a month. Sometimes more if we had a good campaign."
"Then that's what I'll pay you. Four thousand for December."
Her eyes went wide. "Bart, that's too much—"
"It's less than I'd pay an agency, and you're doing better work." I started the transfer. "Consider it a consulting fee. You're not just volunteering—you're providing professional services."
"Wait—" She reached for my phone, but I'd already hit confirm.
Her phone buzzed with the notification. She stared at the screen, and tears welled up.
"Thank you." Her voice cracked. "You have no idea what this means."
