(FOUR MONTHS LATER) RYDER’S JOURNAL
I woke this morning with Daisy in my arms. I’ll never get used to it. The feel of her, soft and precious. The way she smells, like flowers in the spring. The way she sighs and reaches for me in her sleep. The room is cold, but it’s warm under the covers, and when she woke to find me staring at her, it got a hell of a lot hotter.
A long while later, we finally glanced outside and realized it was snowing for our first Christmas together at Piper’s Peak.
She invited everyone for dinner. Chase and Olivia, Emma and Sebastian, Brendan, Taylor, and Shelby, Ed and Margery. She even invited Avery Woods. And Duncan.
Avery couldn’t make it, but she sent a lavish gift.
I didn’t invite my father. But I mailed him a Christmas card, for the first time. And he wrote back. It’s a start.
We have stockings above the fire and the largest Christmas tree, with the most ridiculous decorations I’ve ever seen. Daisy even made an elf outfit for Archie.
And after Christmas, we’ll travel the world for the rest of the tour. Then we’re coming back to Piper’s Peak. We’ll have to go to LA and New York occasionally, and I’ll have to tour sometimes. But this will be our home.
Daisy’s insanely busy with her bespoke business, specializing in vintage designs and fabrics, making the old, new. I’m building a studio in the house. And she’s building an atelier. But we still have the combined music and sewing room, so we can create together whenever possible.
I worked so damn hard to have no entanglements.
And now, all I want is to be entangled with Daisy.
Forever.
Daisy
(FOUR MONTHS LATER)
“We’re hosting our first Christmas party in an hour! This is sooo exciting,” I say.
“Daisy, shit, are the potatoes burning?” Ryder asks me with a panicked look toward the oven that I’m supposed to be in charge of since he took the turkey out.
I peek my head in. “Oops,” I say. “The roast potatoes look extra roast-y.” I grab the tray with oven mitts and set it on the counter. Smoke billows from the pan.
Archie ambles over to investigate the burned smell. I offer him a piece of potato. He sniffs and walks away.
I shrug and wipe my hands on my vintage Christmas apron. I’m channeling fifties-era housewife for hosting my first-ever Christmas dinner.
I have the fashion down.
I also have the decor down. I set the table two days ago. I handwrote a place card for every guest. Created centerpieces with holly and greenery. Broke out Piper’s best china, silver, and crystal. I even sewed the tablecloth and napkins by hand last month to prepare for the event.
I don’t really have the food down, though. Luckily, Ryder makes a mean turkey. It’s so typical of him. He researched every single turkey recipe there ever was. Read all the reviews. Learned the tips and tricks. And the result was—an impressive culinary feat.
Unfortunately, I thought I’d try something new and asked to be in charge of the potatoes and the salad. I messed up both.
“Hon?” I say, massaging his shoulders. “You look stressed.”
“We’ve got a dozen people arriving in an hour. And all we have for them is turkey.”
“And cupcakes,” I remind him cheerfully.
“Maybe we can put in some bread. I think we have frozen baguettes in the freezer,” Ryder says.
“I love that you’re such a problem-solver,” I whisper in his ear.
“I might have time to make a simple salad. There’s no lettuce. But maybe we can just use tomatoes and onions.”
“Did I tell you that being competent in the kitchen is sexy?” I breathe.
