Dear Corbin,
This is just a small token of my appreciation for all that you’ve done for me. From the day you came to my rescue at the romance fair, to the day after that when you said yes to a wild plan to start a bakery, to every day since then.
It’s been quite a ride, hasn’t it? From the knitting club bets against us (ha, take that!), to paintbrushes (not to mention basting brushes), to a strawberry cookie jar, then love letters from another century, and, unexpectedly, a pickleball challenge.
I wouldn’t want to have done this with anyone else. And I can’t wait till we open another letter. That’s become the favorite part of my day.
Actually, it’s the second.
My real favorite part? The way you believe in me.
Thank you, and Merry Christmas!
Mabel
She’s not quite saying I’m the favorite part of her day. But it’s damn close.
38
DELIBERATE TEXTS
MABEL
My real Christmas is with my friends—Friendsmas, as Isla dubbed it a few years agowhen she started it. This year we’re at her place two nights before Christmas. Rowan, the man I’m sure will propose to her any second, is out with his daughter, so tonight it’s just us—Isla, Skylar, Remy, Clementine, Trevyn, and me. We exchange silly gifts, blast Mariah Carey too loud, and drink spiked eggnog.
As the night winds down, Skylar taps my thigh. “What are you doing on Christmas Day?”
A little knot of tension rolls through me. “Seeing my parents and Theo, so I’m sure Mom will try to convince me to get a real job,” I say, then try to shake that off. “But she did ask me to make something for dessert. So maybe that’s a sign she sort of approves of my bakery?”
“I approve of your bakery,” Clementine says, stretching her legs out and plopping her feet on my thighs.
“I double approve,” Remy chimes in.
“Triple approve,” Skylar adds.
And truthfully, it’s not just them. Customers seem to approve too.
Still, something nags at me. A worry that I can’t seem to chase. “Do you think it’s only successful because I opened it with a hockey player?” I ask, my gut twisting.
Isla shakes her head, steady and certain. “Don’t tell yourself you wouldn’t be good enough without him. You have the talent, friend. You always have.”
“Yep. You both bring plenty to the table,” Trevyn says.
And you know what? I think they’re right.
That’s a comforting thought—one I’m maybe finally letting myself believe.
I wake on Christmas morning to a text message.
Corbin: Alexa, text Mabel and tell her the gift is incredible. Let her know I look superhot in this tie. Cancel that, Alexa. Alexa, take a photo of me to show her how superhot I look.
Mabel: SEND IT NOW!
Corbin: Alexa, send Mabel the photo of me looking superhot.
I’m expecting a picture of him in one of the dress shirts he wears for travel, modeling the tie I got him, looking smoldering and stylish. A few seconds later, the image lands, and I click it so fast.
Oh.Oh.
