Chapter 4
Sebastian
I don’t know what possessed me to tell her about the tree lighting.
I never go to the damn thing except to haul out that stupid ladder and stand around like a prop while the mayor gives his annual speech about holiday cheer.
But there I was at eight in the morning, offering up small talk like I’m some kind of charmer.
She handed me a cinnamon roll with those delicate fingers and that smile like sunlight breaking through heavy cloud cover, and I lost my head.
Or maybe I found it.
Hell if I know.
The cinnamon roll melted on my tongue.
Sweet. Warm. Perfectly spiced.
A taste of what she can do with her hands.
My jaw tightens.
I shove the thought aside. Loretta’s right. I haven’t had anyone in my bed in years.
Last thing I need is to scare off the one person who might make this season bearable by imagining her hands on me instead of kneading dough.
I carry the rest of my tools to the shed, then head inside.
The kitchen smells like garlic and coffee.
My mother’s already chopping vegetables for soup she insists on making, even though I stocked the pantry. Her gray hair is braided back. A streak of flour rests on her cheek.
“Morning, Mom,” I say, kissing her temple.
“You’re up early,” she replies without looking. “Loretta told me you were outside the inn flirting on the porch before dawn.”
“I was not flirting,” I mutter. “I was being polite.”
“Polite?” She lifts a brow. “Polite would be waving. Polite would be holding the door. Polite would not be accepting baked goods from a young woman with a smile that could melt snow on a January morning. That’s according to Loretta, by the way.”
I sigh. “You’re as bad as she is.”
“Loretta’s right. You need someone to look after you when I’m too old to chase you around with my wooden spoon.”
My chest tightens. “We’re not talking about this.”
She softens, just slightly. “Fine. Change the subject. Tell me about the girl.”
“How is that changing the subject?” I grumble. Then give up. “Her name’s Willa. She inherited the bakehouse. She’s… young.”
“How young?”
“Twenty-two, according to Loretta.”
Mama whistles. “Sixteen years younger? Lord help her. You carry too much weight in that heart of yours.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Mom.”
She laughs, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’m teasing. Sort of. But you’ve always tried to carry the world. Maybe it’s time someone came along who wouldn’t let you.”
I don’t answer. Because there’s no good answer.
Instead, I finish my coffee and head upstairs to say hi to Pops, leaving her humming some old country song about mistletoe and missed chances.
By the time the sun sets, the inn’s common room is quiet and I’m pulling on boots and gloves for the tree lighting.
Outside, I hear the town waking up to the evening. Children laughing. Carols drifting in the cold air. Someone yelling for me to hurry the hell up because the mayor’s getting twitchy.
I swing by the kitchen for my hat and find Loretta stirring something that smells like cider... with a kick.
“You look nice,” she says with a wink. “That jacket’s new. Trying to impress someone?”
“It was on sale,” I lie.
She snorts. “Have fun. And if you need rescuing from any overly eager holiday widows, just holler. I’ll throw myself on you.”
“Please don’t.”
She cackles as we step outside together, but by the time I reach the square, she’s already disappeared into the crowd.
The town square’s buzzing.
Strings of colored lights stretch from rooftop to rooftop, casting everything in soft gold and green. The tree in the center is massive, its branches wide and dusted with fresh snow.
Mason, our local lumberjack, is halfway up the ladder I hauled out, wrestling the star at the top while the mayor directs him from below like he’s orchestrating a military op.
“Sebastian!” Mason hollers. “Get over here. The star’s crooked, and the mayor’s about to lose his damn mind.”
I steady the ladder while Mason adjusts it. He hates this as much as I do, but he always helps.
The mayor, beaming and round, pats my arm like he always does and thanks me for my service. I nod politely and scan the crowd.
Families. Teenagers. Locals with cocoa.
No Willa.
That shouldn’t matter. But it does.
I check my watch, try to ignore the tightness creeping into my chest.
Then Loretta’s voice cuts through the square, bright and theatrical.
“There she is! Doesn’t she look like a snow angel?”
I look up.
Willa stands at the edge of the crowd, cheeks flushed, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. A soft cream coat cinches at the waist. Her scarf is red, thick, wrapped tight. Boots and tights. Her breath fogs the air.
She looks like winter magic.
She shivers and adjusts her scarf, and I’m already moving.
Loretta catches her by the arm and leads her straight to me.
“Sebastian,” she sings, “look who came!”
Willa’s eyes meet mine, and the curve of her mouth sends something straight through me.
“Hey, ladder man.”
My lips twitch. “Bakehouse.” I nod toward her cup. “That coffee?”
“Hot chocolate,” she says. “Church fundraiser. They added cinnamon. It’s dangerously good.”
Loretta elbows her. “Everything tastes better with cinnamon. Isn’t that right, Willa? Sebastian practically moaned over your roll this morning. Heard him from inside the inn.”
My jaw drops. “Loretta.”
“Just joking.”
Willa’s cheeks flush. “I’m glad you liked it.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I, um... brought something for your parents.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small box, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red ribbon.
“Pecan sandies. My grandma’s recipe. I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to say hello tomorrow, so I figured I’d drop them off tonight.”
The gesture hits me square in the chest, solid and warm.
“They’ll love this,” I say, voice rough. “Thank you.”
She smiles. “You’re welcome.” Then glances up at the tree. “So... this is your tradition?”
“Every year since I got back,” I say. “The kids hang ornaments. The mayor gives a speech. We all drink hot chocolate, and Mason tries not to fall off the ladder.”
She laughs. “And then?”
“Then everyone goes home and watches It’s a Wonderful Life.”
“What if someone wants to watch Die Hard?”
I grin, surprising myself. “Then they go to the bar with Reid, our mechanic. He’ll defend it as the greatest Christmas movie ever made. Might even throw punches over it.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder as the lights flick on and the tree glows.
I watch her.
She claps when the kids cheer. Steps forward to hang a tiny copper gingerbread man near the bottom. Her hands linger. Gentle. Careful.
It shouldn't affect me.
It does.
When the carolers start up and the crowd begins to drift, I feel her shift beside me. Like she’s caught between staying and walking away.
Before I can think better of it, I reach out. My fingers brush the fabric of her sleeve.
“Dance with me,” I hear myself say.
What the hell am I doing? Me, dancing?
She turns to look at me, startled. “What?”
“Just one song.”
She searches my face, just for a moment. Then she nods.
“Okay.”