Christmas Eve morning arrived with soft gray light filtering through the windows and fresh snow blanketing the world outside. I woke with Candi still asleep beside me, her blonde hair spread across my chest, and realized what today meant.
Today was the last day of our arrangement. After deliveries, technically, we were done. No more obligation, no more deal. She'd fulfilled her end—promoted the program, organized volunteers, made Christmas Wishes a success beyond anything I'd imagined.
She could walk away clean.
My stomach dropped at the thought.
I slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her yet. Pulled on jeans and a flannel, made coffee in the quiet kitchen. Through the window, I could see the red barn in the distance, ready for the volunteers who'd arrive at eight.
Candi appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, sleepy and rumpled in one of my t-shirts.
"Morning," she said, padding over to steal my coffee mug.
"That's mine."
"And now it's ours." But she was smiling as she took a sip.
We had a quick breakfast—bagels and the rest of the pot of coffee—neither of us saying much. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was. What would happen after Christmas when her short-term lease was up?
By seven-thirty, we were dressed for the cold and heading across the property. Snow from last night dusted the path white, our breath fogging in the sharp air.
"You okay?" she asked as we walked.
"Yeah. Just thinking about today."
"Me too." She bit her lip. "It's going to be amazing."
Volunteers started arriving right at eight—cars pulling up the drive, people bundling out in their winter gear, following the signs we'd posted for those who were new.
Inside, the space came alive with voices and laughter. Someone wore a Santa hat with a bell that jingled with every movement. Another had reindeer antlers that kept slipping sideways. A teenager wore the ugliest Christmas sweater I'd ever seen—snowmen and candy canes in clashing neon colors. It was fantastic.
A folding table near the door held a slow cooker of hot chocolate and a box of donuts someone had brought.
"Alright everyone," I called out, and the chatter died down. "Thank you for being here. We've got you divided into five routes. Candi's got the assignments and maps. Listen to her—she's the brains behind this operation."
She flushed but stepped forward with her clipboard, distributing packets with addresses, wish lists, and delivery instructions. She coordinated everything with calm confidence—this woman who'd been desperate and broke two weeks ago now overseeing the group like she'd been born to leadership.
Loading took about thirty minutes. Everyone pitched in, calling out names, matching gifts to lists, securing everything in trunks and truck beds. By eight-thirty, vehicles were loaded andvolunteers ready to head out. Candi and I would take the longest route—a dozen stops scattered through the rural areas outside town.
Just before we climbed into my truck, I caught her arm. A brief moment alone while everyone else headed out.
My pulse kicked up. This might be the last day I had with her, and I needed to know if she'd consider staying beyond our deal.
"Hey." My voice came out rougher than intended. "There's a candlelight service tonight at Hope Peak Community Church. Six-thirty. The whole town goes—it's tradition." I paused. "Would you want to come with me?"
Her eyes filled immediately. "I'd love that. I haven't been to church since high school."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She wiped at her eyes, smiling. "That sounds really nice."
Relief washed through me.
"Good. That's good." I brushed my thumb across her knuckles. "Come on. We've got people waiting."
We climbed into the cab and pulled out, following the first address on our route.
The day became a blur of smiles and happy tears.
