"You could barely make rent. I know exactly what it means." I set my phone down. "And for what it's worth—you've earned every penny. This program wouldn't work without you."
She wiped at her eyes, smiling through the tears. "You're a good man, Bart Kane."
"I'm really not. I should have offered this a week ago."
"You're offering now. That's what matters."
The tension between us eased slightly. She went back to data entry with renewed energy, and I went back to pretending I wasn't completely gone for her.
BY MID-AFTERNOON, THEDecember chill had seeped into the barn despite the space heaters. Candi shivered for the third time in ten minutes.
"Come inside. I'll make coffee and grab another portable heater."
She looked up, surprised. "Inside your house?"
"Unless you'd rather freeze out here."
"No, I—yes. Coffee sounds great."
I led her across the snow-covered yard to the main house. She'd been working with me for almost a week now, but always in the barn. Never inside where I actually lived.
The moment we stepped through the door, I saw my space through her eyes and embarrassment washed over me.
Beautiful, yes. I'd bought quality furniture, installed huge windows with mountain views, chosen expensive finishes. The great room had vaulted ceilings with exposed beams, a stone fireplace that dominated one wall, and an open floor plan that flowed into the kitchen.
But it admittedly felt hollow, even to me. Impersonal. The walls were bare. No photos, no artwork, no personal touches. No holiday decorations despite it being mid-December. It looked like a furniture catalog spread, not somewhere anyone actually lived.
"Wow," Candi breathed, walking slowly into the space. "This is gorgeous, Bart. But—"
"But it looks like nobody lives here," I finished, moving to the kitchen to start the coffee. "I know."
She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. "Why don't you have anything on the walls? Or a tree? You're helping all these families have something to celebrate this Christmas, but you don't celebrate yourself?"
I measured coffee grounds, focusing on the task. "Didn't see the point. It's just me here."
"What about your family? Your mom?"
"She remarried a great guy about ten years ago—Henry. They're in California, have their own traditions there. I don’t like to interfere. I usually just—" I shrugged. "This is a place I sleep. Work. Think. That's it."
"That's sad." Her voice was gentle, not pitying. "You deserve to have a home, not just a house."
The coffee maker hissed and gurgled. I grabbed two mugs from the cabinet, trying to ignore the tightness in my throat.
"After Sutton—my ex-wife—after our divorce—I just wanted to be left alone. Decorating, making it personal, that felt like—"
"Like putting down roots when you weren't sure you wanted to stay?"
I glanced at her. "Something like that."
She moved closer, accepting the mug I handed her. Our fingers brushed, and that familiar electricity sparked between us.
"You need a tree," she said firmly.
"I don't need—"
"Bart." She set down her mug, fixing me with her gaze. "You NEED a tree. We're getting you one. Tomorrow. Non-negotiable."
I should have argued. Should have told her it was my house, my choice, my life.
