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"Darcy owed me a favor. So what do you say?" I hold my hand out for her and flash my cheesiest smile. "Forget the contract talk for a bit longer? I'll answer for my crimes later."

She nods, and as I lift her from the sleigh, her heel disappears into the snow the second she lands. She falls into me with one hand gripping my shoulder and the other clutching the cinnamon coffee.

“Saved the drink,” she announces.

“Good to know where I rank in order of importance.”

“You’re replaceable. Your mother’s coffee isn’t.”

Laughing, I keep one hand firmly around her waist and guide her up the lantern-lit steps, although my palm spends considerably more time on her ass than the terrain requires.

We watch the horses lead the sleigh away from the cabin, then turn to head inside.

The moment we step in, heat rolls over us from the burning logs in the stone fireplace. Thick rugs cover the timber floor, warm throw blankets spill across an enormous couch and a pair of white robes waits beside the bedroom door.

Three bottles of red wine sit near the windows, while candles flicker across every surface as though Darcy has prepared the cabin for either romance or an extremely luxurious sacrifice.

Audrey walks three steps in and stops dead.

Exactly as I had planned, right beside the hearth, tucked in the corner of the room, stands a small Christmas tree from the Stratton Farm. And hanging from its branches are some small ornaments I had specially picked out just for her.

Audrey moves slowly along the branches, touching each ornament.

There’s a tiny wooden truck, a miniature ice skate, a gingerbread house with a deliberately collapsed roof, and, my personal favorite, one glittering bridal shoe with a microscopic heel.

She lifts the gingerbread house and stares at the collapsed chocolate-colored roof. “Did you commission structural failure for this one?”

I nod and chuckle. “The ornament woman initially refused on artistic grounds. So I just paid extra to destroy her work.”

Audrey reaches the bridal shoe. “To be fair, I’m surprised this one isn’t a nipple.”

“She threw me out before I could describe the correct level of festive enthusiasm for how much I adore your breasts.”

Audrey shakes her head with a small laugh, and I stand back and watch as she reaches the last branch, where a single ornament hangs blank and unpainted, the smooth pale wood, waiting.

"This one's empty," she says.

"Yeah." I watch her turn it in her fingers. "You told me all your old ornaments were picked for a life someone else designed. So this one's blank. It's yours to design. Only you get to decide what goes on it."

Audrey doesn't say anything, but when she looks up, her eyes are shining.

"You're going to make me cry in this dress, Mr. Stratton. I'll never forgive you if my mascara stains it."

"Then you better stop staring at the tree and come eat something. I got all your favorites waiting."

We eat beside the fire, demolishing a spread made from Audrey’s greatest hits: cranberry-and-brie sliders, roasted chestnuts, Zoey’s salted-caramel brownies and the exact chocolate-orange dessert she nearly stole from my plate at dinner.

Audrey bites into a slider and cranberry sauce immediately escapes onto her thumb.

“Don't ruin the dress,” I remind her.

Panic fills her eyes and she starts flapping. “Then do something useful!”

She holds her hand toward me like royalty expecting service. I catch her wrist and suck the sauce from her thumb, swirling my tongue around it slowly enough that I swear she moans a little.

“That isn’t what I meant.”

I wink at her and raise my wine glass. “It’s what you got.”