Chapter Three
Candi
The twenty-two minute drive from the cottage had given me too much time to think.
About the deal I'd made. About the ridiculously attractive silver fox who'd shown up at my door furious and threatening legal action.
About the fact that I was now obligated to work closely with said silver fox who had every reason not to trust me.
You're here to help with Christmas Wishes. Not to obsess over numbers.
Checking my reflection in the rearview mirror, I took inventory. Minimal makeup today—just mascara and lip gloss. Hair in a simple ponytail. Practical clothes: jeans, boots, a thick sweater under my parka. I'd dressed for actual work, not content creation.
At exactly 9 AM, I grabbed my laptop bag and walked up to the front door.
Bart answered on the first knock, and my stomach did that annoying flutter thing. Worn jeans hugged his legs, and a dark gray henley clung to his shoulders in a way that made my mouth go dry. His silver hair was slightly damp like he'd just showered, the color darker when wet but still striking.
"Morning," he said, those steel-blue eyes studying me with an intensity that made my pulse skip. "You're on time."
"I keep my promises."
Something shifted in his expression—not quite a smile, but close. "Come on. I'll show you what we're working with."
He led me around the side of the house. I'd been so nervous during my arrival that I hadn't fully taken in the property.
The main house was gorgeous—a large mountain lodge with huge windows and a wraparound porch, easily 3,500 square feet.
Not something that would qualify a mansion but still impressive.
Beyond it sat a detached workshop building with big windows, and further back, a large red barn.
"That's where I make furniture," he said, catching me looking at the workshop. "The barn is where we'll be working on Christmas Wishes."
The path to the barn had been cleared of snow, boots crunching on the packed surface. My breath came out in white puffs. Despite my parka, the cold bit through.
When Bart pulled open the barn doors, I stopped dead in the doorway.
The interior took my breath away.
A huge corkboard dominated one wall, covered with wish lists on different colored paper—dozens of them, each one a family's hope for the holidays.
Folding tables lined the space as wrapping stations, stocked with rolls of paper, ribbon, tape, scissors, boxes.
Against the far wall, shelves held gifts that had already been purchased—toys, winter coats, boxes that looked like groceries, art supplies.
Space heaters hummed in two corners, making the barn surprisingly warm despite the cold outside. Lights draped along the rafters cast a soft glow over everything, and a small speaker in the corner played instrumental carols.
This wasn't some halfhearted charity idea. This was organized. Thoughtful. Beautiful.
"You've already done so much," I breathed, walking slowly into the space. My boots echoed on the wooden floor.
"Started planning in September. Converted the barn last spring." He gestured at the corkboard. "Twenty-seven families so far, but I know there are more who need help. People too proud to ask, or who don't know the program exists yet."
I moved closer to the corkboard, scanning the handwritten requests. My throat tightened as I read:
Dear Christmas Wishes,
My name is Sarah and I have three kids (Emma 8, Noah 6, Lily 4). We're struggling this year after my husband left. The kids need winter coats (sizes 8, 6, and 4T) and maybe some small toys if possible. I just want them to have a real Christmas. Thank you for any help you can give.
- Sarah M.
My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but a tear escaped anyway.
"Hey." Bart's voice gentled. He was suddenly closer, though I hadn't heard him move. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I wiped at my face, embarrassed. "I just—I've been so wrapped up in my own problems. These people need help with basics. Winter coats. Food. It makes everything I've been stressed about feel really small."
He was quiet for a moment, and when I glanced at him, his expression had softened.
"Come here." He guided me to one of the folding tables where a stack of wish lists sat. "Read this one."
I picked up the page, written in shaky elderly handwriting:
I'm 73 and live alone. Haven't had a real Christmas in years. Would love a warm blanket and maybe some groceries. God bless you for doing this.
- Margaret P.
"Or this one." He handed me another.
My daughter Mia is 7 and loves to draw. I've been working two jobs but can't afford art supplies. If you could help with that, it would mean the world to her.
- Robert K.
I had to set them down, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
Bart didn't say anything. Just let me feel it.
Finally, I managed: "These families are so grateful for any help at all. It's humbling."
"That's why it matters," he said quietly.
I looked at the corkboard again, at all the hope pinned there. "You're doing something incredible here."
"We're doing it now," he corrected. "I can’t manage all this alone."
The way he included me in that—like I was already part of the effort—made something warm unfurl in my chest.
I squared my shoulders. "Tell me what you need."
WE SPENT THE NEXT THREE hours building systems.
Bart had done the foundational work—collecting wish lists, purchasing some gifts, organizing the space. But he needed tracking, coordination, promotion. Things he couldn't do without exposing his identity.
I pulled out my laptop at one of the folding tables. "First thing: we need a comprehensive spreadsheet. Track items requested, items purchased, budget per family, delivery routes—all organized so we can see everything at a glance."
He pulled up a chair beside me, and I tried to ignore the way my pulse kicked up at his proximity.
"You know how to do that?"
"I have a marketing degree. Used to handle all the backend analytics before Drew—my ex-boyfriend—took over the finances.
" My fingers flew across the keyboard, opening a new Google Sheet.
"Trust me, if I can track engagement across four platforms and manage sponsorship deliverables as a professional influencer, I can track wishes. "
For the next hour, I built the system. Columns for family name, number of kids, ages, specific items requested, budget allocated per family, purchase status, wrapping status, delivery route assignment. I created formulas to auto-calculate totals and track spending against Bart's budget.
"May I?" He leaned over my shoulder to see the screen better.
I forced myself to focus on the spreadsheet and not on how close he was.
"This is impressive," he said, and the approval in his voice sent a flutter through my stomach. "You're really good at this."
"Thank you." I tried to sound professional despite my heartbeat doing gymnastics.
"Next I'll set up social media accounts specifically for Christmas Wishes.
Instagram and Facebook at minimum. We'll create graphics, write compelling copy, share family stories with their permission.
Everything anonymous—I'll refer to you as 'a generous local benefactor' or use your LLC name if you prefer. "
"Kane Holdings." He studied my formulas, occasionally pointing at the screen to ask questions. "That's what I used to buy the property."
Over the next hour, I created accounts for both platforms and designed simple but quality graphics using seasonal colors and mountain imagery. Bart watched the whole process, asking intelligent questions but mostly just observing how I worked.
When I finished the Instagram profile, he smiled—actually smiled—and my stomach flipped.
"This is excellent," he said. "You really know what you're doing."
His eyes on me, the genuine appreciation in his voice—I liked it way more than I should have.
"I've been doing this for a few years," I said, trying to sound casual. "I’ve figured out what works."
We fell into an easy rhythm. He'd bring lists from the corkboard, and I'd enter them into the system. I'd ask questions about his budget and timeline, and he'd answer with thoughtful detail. We organized gifts by family, matched purchases to requests, planned logistics.
The work was satisfying in a way my usual content creation hadn't been in months. If ever.
Around noon, my stomach growled loudly. I'd been too nervous to eat breakfast—just grabbed a coffee from a drive-through on my way.
Bart glanced up from the tags he was cutting from a child’s size winter coat. "When did you eat last?"
"I skipped breakfast to be honest,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Which is probably why you heard the noise my stomach just made.”
He stood, grabbing his wallet from the workbench. "What sounds good? I'll pick something up from town."
"Anything warm?"
"Soup? Sandwich?"
"Both sound amazing."
"I'll surprise you. Keep working on the spreadsheet. I'll be back soon."
After he left, I sat in the quiet barn surrounded by wish lists and half-wrapped gifts, carols playing softly from the speaker. I pulled out my phone automatically—habit—and stared at the lock screen.
467 notifications.
I used to check them immediately. The comments, the likes, the engagement. It had been compulsive, necessary, like breathing.
Now I just felt tired.
I set the phone face-down and went back to the spreadsheet.
When Bart returned forty minutes later with two containers of loaded baked potato soup and crusty bread, I realized I'd completely forgotten to worry about my metrics. And I wasn’t sad about it.
BY THE 12TH, I WAS ready to launch the social media campaign.
We'd spent the past two days organizing, purchasing additional gifts, building out the volunteer system. I'd learned that Bart was particular about the work—nothing was rushed, every detail mattered. He treated each wish list like a sacred trust.
I'd also learned that we had very different taste in holiday music, but he was willing to compromise.