Chapter Five
Candi
Activity pulsed through the barn those five days before Christmas Eve.
Volunteers cycled through in shifts I'd scheduled down to the hour—morning crew for sorting, afternoon for wrapping and labeling, evening for quality checks. The system I'd set up ran smoothly.
Bart handled all the purchasing and pickup, returning each afternoon with his truck bed loaded with new items. Warm clothes and shoes in every size, groceries stacked in boxes, children’s books and toys. He'd take over data tracking while I coordinated volunteers, both of us working in easy rhythm.
"You're terrifyingly efficient," he said one afternoon, watching me direct three volunteers while simultaneously updating our social media with photos of wrapped packages.
"I told you I was good at this." I didn't look up from my phone, adding hashtags to the post. "You just didn't believe me."
"I believe you now."
The walls had come down completely between us since that night in his bedroom. We orbited each other with easy familiarity—his hand on my lower back as he passed, my fingers trailing across his shoulders when I needed his attention.
I'd started staying over more nights than not. My toothbrush appeared in his bathroom without discussion. Mid-week, I'd opened a drawer looking for a shirt I'd left behind and discovered he'd cleared the entire thing—my spare clothes folded neatly inside, space made like I belonged there.
"When did you do this?" I'd asked, holding up one of my sweaters.
He'd shrugged from the bathroom doorway, towel around his waist, water still beading on his chest. "Tuesday. You kept digging through your overnight bag. Seemed inefficient."
My throat closed. The gesture was so simple, but it meant everything.
"Thank you."
"It's just a drawer."
But we both knew it wasn't.
The Airbnb sat mostly empty now, my extra equipment and suitcase the only occupants. I was keeping it through the end of the month as planned, but the truth was I was more at home in Bart's house than I’d ever been at the cottage.
Those evenings fell into a pattern—me teaching him to cook while he "helped" by tasting everything and getting in my way, then curling up on his couch for whatever holiday movie I picked. He pretended to hate the cheesy Hallmark ones but still let me choose, and I caught him smiling at the predictable happy endings more than once.
We fell into bed together each night, learning each other's bodies with increasing confidence. The age gap showed in small ways—his experience and patience, my enthusiastic energy—but the chemistry was undeniable, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
THE EVENING OF THEtwentieth, I'd been staring at wrapped packages for so long the ribbon patterns blurred together.
"We should do something nice for the volunteers," I announced, stretching my arms over my head. "They've been amazing."
Bart looked up from the inventory checklist. "What did you have in mind?"
"Cookies. Christmas cookies. We could package them in tins, give them out as thank-you gifts."
"I don't bake."
"I know. That's why I'm teaching you." I was already pulling out my phone to find my mom's recipe. "Come on. It'll be fun."
He closed his laptop with obvious resignation. "When this ends in disaster, I'm blaming you."
"When this ends in delicious cookies, you're welcome."
