As Logan holds the diner door open for me, his smile warm and inviting, I take a deep breath and step inside.
Nine
BAILEY
Imake my way to my assigned station in the ballroom, trying to ignore the curious glances from the other competitors. A folding table nearby holds the supplies I’ve brought—boxes of unconventional ornaments, spools of ribbon in unexpected colors, and an assortment of craft materials that probably look like junk to anyone else but represent infinite possibilities to me.
The hotel doesn’t allow us to work on Sundays, so we all had a break after the Ice Games. I took a long, hot bath and soaked my sore hip. It has a nasty bruise, but seems to work okay. I slept in yesterday morning and let my head rest for most of the day. I tried not to look at screens and didn’t read any fine print. I did go to services with Mrs. Pennington.
My rest and rehab seems to have been worth it as I feel rejuvenated and ready to jump in. The only problem with being alone is that I felt myself slip back into the doubts. I struggled not to second-guess everything that happened at the games, including but not limited to the way Logan seemed to track me with his eyes, pay special attention to me, and find reasons to touch me in a casual way. Like when he set his chin on my shoulder and whispered his strategy for the relay game or when he put his hand on my side to steady me on the logs, even though I didn’t need his help.
Logan is already unpacking his supplies with methodical efficiency. His station exudes classic Christmas charm—red and green ornaments, garlands of pinecones and berries, and what looks like a collection of vintage decorations. The sight of his traditional approach irritates me. It’s exactly the kind of safe, crowd-pleasing design that always seems to win these contests.
He told me yesterday that he sees me as a risk-taker. Does that mean he also doesn’t see me as a romantic possibility? That, perhaps, he feels we aren’t compatible? Would he reject me because of my style?
So many questions and I had way too much quiet time to consider them all yesterday. I’m looking forward to getting my hands on some craft supplies today and keeping myself busy.
On my other side, Olivia, the high school art teacher, is a whirlwind of creative energy. Her purple-streaked hair bobs as she arranges her supplies, which include old vinyl records, colorful wires, and what appears to be a box of dismantled electronics. Her tree is already draped with strings of funky, handmade paper chains. The sheer boldness and somewhat messy approach works—I’m not sure how it’s working, but it does. Good for her.
Across the room, Marcus Chen looks a bit overwhelmed. His area is meticulously organized, with mood boards and color swatches neatly arranged. I can see sketches of what looks like a minimalist, modern take on Christmas decor. He’s even sewn a slipcover for an overstuffed chair he stole from the lobby. It’s something that would go gangbusters in the city at my old design house. They’d absolutely love it.
Finally, my gaze lands on Evelyn Winters’ station. The florist has transformed her area into a veritable garden of winter wonders. Buckets of exotic flowers and foliage surround her tree, their subtle fragrances adding to the sensory tapestry of the room. Evelyn herself moves with graceful purpose, her red hair catching the light as she weaves natural elements into her design with ease. She’s the only one of us who doesn’t seem stressed or overwhelmed, and I wish I knew her secret.
As I turn back to my own station, I catch Logan’s eye. He offers a friendly smile and a nod, which I return with a lot more ease than I had last week. It would be so easy to let him distract me from my work. The very fact that I’m craving his attention is a warning bell sounding in my brain. I was the same way before, always striving to get a certain man’s attention. Which makes me pull back now. Even though I’m fully aware that Logan isn’t like my ex, not even close, I’m still me. I was the one who messed up before. I was the one who fell for his manipulations, and I was the one who gave him all my heart. I’m not absolving him of misusing and abusing it; I’m just taking responsibility for not protecting myself.
I feel like I’m back on that balancing log. If I go too far into myself, I lose out on all the fun that comes from things like the Ice Games. If I put myself out there without thinking, without paying attention, then I could get trampled on. It’s a delicate balance.
The room fills with the sounds of rustling paper, clinking ornaments, and the occasional exclamation of frustration or triumph.
As I reach for a spool of shimmering silver ribbon, my elbow knocks against a box of delicate glass icicles I’d placed precariously close to the edge of the table. Time seems to slow as I watch the box teeter, then fall. I brace myself for the inevitable crash, but it never comes.
Instead, I find Logan there, the box safely in his hands, having caught it just in time. “Careful there,” he says with a gentle smile.
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and an emotion I’m not ready to name. “Thanks,” I mutter, taking the box from him. Our fingers brush for a moment, and I quickly pull away, unsettled by the jolt of electricity that shoots up my arm and demands my attention. I tell it to calm the holly down because I may like Logan, but that doesn’t mean I have to act like it.
Logan lingers for a moment, his green eyes curious as he surveys my supplies. “Is that coral? Bold choice.”
I bristle. “I’m feeling it this year.”
“That’s great.” He smiles in a way that totally disarms me. How does he do that? How does he get past my hard candy shell to the gooey goodness inside so easily?
The warmth of his smile melts, and I realize that there is a note of uncertainty in his voice. “Do you think I shouldn’t use coral? Is it one of the judges’ pet peeves or something?”
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing like that.”
I look over my half-decorated tree and then turn back to him. “What? Tell me.” I can take it—er, I think I can take it. I’m not really sure how I feel right now except that I’m gearing up for battle.
“If it were me, I’d use some more traditional elements, even simple ones like stars or candy canes, in the off-season colors.” He shrugs.
My mouth falls open. “I’m not you,” I fire back.
He nods. “That’s true.”
I grit my teeth and manage to hold back my retort. A victory in and of itself—for me, anyway.
Logan’s brow furrows. “There’s a reason certain colors and themes are associated with Christmas. They evoke feelings of warmth, family, togetherness. Your design is technically impressive, but it’s missing that emotional connection.”
“Just because you can’t understand my vision doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Not everyone wants the same cookie-cutter Christmas experience year after year.”
