Chapter 7
Olivia
The morning after dinner, I wake to the sound of traffic below. James is already up, standing by the window with a cup of coffee like he’s on lookout duty.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask, voice still rough with sleep.
He shrugs one shoulder. “City doesn’t sleep, figured I shouldn’t either.”
I groan and pull the blanket over my head. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he says, amused.
When I finally crawl out of bed, he’s studying the skyline like it’s a puzzle. “How do all those people fit in one building?” he asks.
“Elevators,” I mumble, brushing my hair. “And patience.”
He glances at me, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m short on one of those.”
“Patience?”
“Elevators.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Come on, cowboy. You survived dinner with my family. The rest of the city should be easy.”
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me for a second.
We spend the day doing the sort of things tourists love and locals avoid.
He buys roasted chestnuts from a street cart and tries to engage in a lengthy conversation with the vendor.
James believes everyone should give each other time — listen to each other.
Later, he stops dead in front of the Rockefeller tree, tilting his head back to take it all in. “That thing’s got more lights than the entire town of Cady Springs,” he says.
“Probably does,” I admit.
He points to the ice rink below. “You ever skate?”
“Not since high school.”
He grins. “Then I reckon we’re overdue.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re wobbling our way onto the ice.
He takes to it faster than I expect. James is fairly steady and controlled with his movements.
Every now and then, he reaches out when I stumble.
The first time, his hand lands on my waist. His large hand feels solid on me and a little too grounding.
Not that I’m complaining. It’s just … well, this is a fake marriage.
I wonder what he’s thinking though and glance up. He’s smiling ear to ear.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe a little.” His smile is pure trouble. “Never thought I’d be doing this in a city where the snow smells like exhaust.”
I laugh, pushing him lightly. “Welcome to New York.”
“Reckon I’ll take your kind of welcome any day.”
We skate until our fingers go numb, then duck into a holiday market where every booth glitters with handmade ornaments and overpriced cocoa. He stops at one stall selling carved wood figures — tiny horses, trees, even a cowboy hat small enough to fit in his palm.
“Reminds me of home,” he says quietly.
The way he says it tugs at me. Because home, for me, has never been one fixed place. It’s always been something I’m chasing.
He catches me watching him. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” I smile quickly. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit,” he says, but the warmth in his eyes softens the words.
When we step back into the cold, the city lights blur against the falling snow. For a moment, I let my hand brush his. He doesn’t pull away—just curls his fingers around mine, easy and sure.
And even surrounded by a million people, I’ve never felt less alone.
“What do you usually do for Christmas?” I ask as we pass a bakery window glowing with gingerbread men.
“Big celebration in Cady Springs right up until Christmas Eve with special dinners and desserts. Everyone pretty much knows one another. It’s neighbors, kids and holiday cheer. You?”
“Emails, deadlines, takeout dinners.”
“Sounds tragic,” he says, dead serious.
“It is.”
“Then we’ll fix that.”
“James, I want you to do me a favor. I’d like you to attend my company’s holiday party with me. Would you?”
“Are spouses invited?” he asks, with a smirk.
“Mine is.” I tell him with a wink.
He tilts his head, smile tugging slow and sure. “Guess I’d better find a tie that matches your city shine.”
I laugh. “You own a tie?”
“One. Somewhere between the feed store and the glove box.”
The image makes me grin all the way back to my apartment. Perhaps the idea of showing him my world doesn’t terrify me. It feels right somehow. He’s getting to see where I do my dealings — what my life revolves around. Because even when he’s no longer my husband, he’ll be my ranch hand.
That’s the story I keep telling myself, anyway.