I crossed to her, cupping her face gently. "You're perfect. Absolutely perfect."
Her breath caught.
"You're just saying that because—"
"I'm saying it because it's true." I pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Come on. We should go before I change my mind about leaving this house."
She laughed, the nervous energy dissipating. "Behave. It's church."
"I'm always well-behaved in church."
"Somehow I doubt that."
But she was smiling as she grabbed her coat—a long cream-colored wool number. I held it for her, and when she slipped her arms in, I let my hands linger on her shoulders for just a moment.
In the truck, I couldn't stop stealing glances at her. The way the dashboard lights played across her features.
"You're staring again," she said softly, but she was smiling.
"Can't help it."
She reached across the console and took my hand, and we continued toward town.
HOPE PEAK COMMUNITYChurch was a small white building with a tall steeple, tucked into Main Street across from the square. Candles already glowed in every window as we pulled up at six-fifteen.
Inside, the sanctuary was packed. Every resident seemed to have turned out. Poinsettias lined the altar, evergreen garland draped the pews, and hundreds of white candles waited to be lit. The scent of pine and beeswax filled the air. Wood creaked as people settled into their seats.
We found seats near the front. Candi slid her hand into mine.
The service was traditional and beautiful—carols sung by the congregation, scripture readings about hope and light, a children's pageant that had everyone smiling at the earnest shepherds and giggling angels. During communion, I glanced at Candi, and my heart stuttered.
Then came "Silent Night."
The lights dimmed. Candles were passed down the rows, each person lighting their neighbor's until the whole church glowed with hundreds of tiny flames. We stood, holding our tapers, and sang softly.
Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.
I looked at Candi. Tears slid down her cheeks, her voice joining with everyone else's in that ancient carol. She caught me looking and smiled.
I tightened my grip on her hand. She squeezed back.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
The song ended. Pastor Marty Williams gave the final blessing—"Go in peace to love and serve"—and people began standing, gathering coats, greeting neighbors.
Then commotion erupted at the back of the church.
The main doors burst open, and Drew Mortimer stumbled in.
I recognized him immediately from Candi's Instagram—same styled dirty-blond hair, same all-American good looks. But tonight he was disheveled, his jacket askew, movements jerky as he pushed his way up the aisle.
"Candi!" His voice carried through the church, too loud. "There you are! We need to talk!"
Every head turned. Candi went rigid beside me.
I stepped slightly in front of her. "Maybe this isn't the time or place—"
The pastor moved forward. "Sir, perhaps we could—"
