Chapter Three #2
"The instrumental stuff is nice," I offered, switching to a playlist of orchestral carols.
"Better than the pop versions on repeat."
"Some of us like a little energy in our music."
"Some of us have functioning eardrums."
But he was almost smiling, and so was I.
The banter came easily now. The initial tension had softened into something comfortable. Something that felt dangerously close to friendship.
Or maybe more than friendship, given the way I kept noticing his hands when he wrapped gifts. The way his shoulders moved when he reached for supplies. The rare smiles that transformed his whole face.
Do NOT develop feelings. He can still sue you. Focus on the work.
I set up my ring light and phone in the barn, positioning myself in front of the corkboard.
"Okay, I'm going to film now," I said. "Stay out of frame."
Bart moved to the far corner, out of the camera's range. "Go ahead."
I hit record, forcing my influencer smile into place. But this time, it didn't feel fake.
"Hope Peak has something special happening this season," I said warmly.
"Families in need can submit wish lists for everything from winter coats to groceries to toys.
An anonymous local benefactor is purchasing gifts and matching every dollar donated by the community.
That's right—every donation gets doubled. "
I kept Bart completely out of frame, using angles that showed the wish lists and wrapped gifts but not him.
"If you want to help, here's how." I held up a flyer with the QR code. "Donate through this link—your contribution will be matched dollar-for-dollar. Or volunteer to help wrap and deliver gifts on the 24th. This is what the season is really about. Community coming together."
I filmed several versions, edited the best clips together, and added text overlays. Then I carefully selected family stories from the collected letters—making sure to keep details anonymous with permission that Bart had already secured.
Posted across both platforms at 2 PM.
Within an hour, the engagement exploded.
Donations started flooding in. People sharing the posts. Comments from locals wanting to volunteer. Messages from families asking how to submit wish lists.
I refreshed the donation tracker and nearly dropped my phone.
"Bart." My voice came out shaky. "Look at this."
He came over, and I showed him the screen. $2,847 in donations. In one hour.
"That's..." He shook his head, his expression unguarded for just a moment. "That's incredible."
"People want to help," I said softly. "They just needed to know how."
My follower count had climbed to 545,000—nearly 13,000 new followers since launching the campaign. The validation I used to crave felt hollow compared to watching those donation numbers climb.
The comments were genuinely positive. Supportive. Moved.
@mountainmamalife: This program is incredible. Just donated $100.
@hopepeak_native: I want to volunteer! How do I sign up?
@sarahwrites: Crying happy tears. This is what the season should be.
Bart read over my shoulder, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. "You did this."
"We did this."
He met my eyes, and the moment stretched between us. Neither of us looked away first.
Then my phone buzzed with another donation notification, breaking the spell.
"We should update the wish list count," I said, my voice slightly breathless. "I'm getting messages from new families."
"Yeah. Good idea."
But neither of us moved for another few seconds.
THAT EVENING, BART called me while I was reviewing footage at the cottage.
"The Thompsons reached out," he said without preamble. "Gerald and Laurel—they’re the ones who oversee the annual holiday market. They're offering us booth space if we want it. Prime location by the tree."
"That's perfect! We could collect more wish lists, sign up volunteers—"
"I can't be front and center," he said quickly. "Too visible."
"I'll handle it. You can stay in the background, help set up."
He was quiet for a moment. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure. This is too good an opportunity to pass up."
"Okay. Saturday morning, seven AM. We'll need to load supplies."
"I'll be there."
SATURDAY THE 13TH DAWNED cold and bright—the day of Hope Peak's holiday market.
I arrived at Bart's property at 7 AM to help load supplies into his truck. The market opened at 9, and we needed to set up our booth before the crowds arrived.
"You look nervous," I said as we carried boxes of flyers and the dropbox to his truck.
"I hate crowds." He secured a box with a bungee cord. "Too many people asking questions."
"I'll handle the people. You can lurk mysteriously in the background."
"I don't lurk."
"You absolutely lurk. It's one of your most defining characteristics."
He shot me a look, but his mouth twitched. "Get in the truck."
The town square was already bustling when we arrived.
Vendors set up booths selling handmade ornaments, local honey, knitted scarves.
The massive tree sparkled even in daylight, and the ice skating rink beside it was being prepared for the day.
Families bundled in colorful coats moved between booths, their breath fogging in the cold air.
An older couple approached as we started unloading—the man tall with a Santa-like build and suspenders, the woman with silver hair in a long braid.
"Bart!" the man said warmly, extending his hand. "Good to see you again."
"Gerald. Laurel." Bart shook hands with both of them, his demeanor polite but reserved. "Thanks for the booth space."
"Of course! Anything for Christmas Wishes." Laurel turned to me with a welcoming smile. "And you must be the young woman coordinating everything. I'm Laurel Thompson—my husband Gerald and I own Peak Provisions, the general store on Main Street. We organize the market every year."
"I'm Candi Reed," I said, shaking her hand. "Thank you so much for supporting the program."
"It's wonderful what you're doing," Gerald said, glancing between us. "The whole town is talking about it."
"It's all thanks to an anonymous benefactor," I said quickly. "I'm just helping with coordination and social media."
"And you're volunteering too?" Laurel asked Bart.
"Just helping where I can," he nodded, pulling a beanie low over his silver hair.
Laurel's eyes sparkled. "Well, you two make a wonderful team. Lovely to see couples like you giving back to the community."
"Oh, we're not—" I started, heat creeping up my neck.
"Just fellow volunteers," Bart finished, his voice slightly strained.
The Thompsons exchanged a look that clearly said they didn't believe us for a second.
"Well, your booth is right over there by the tree," Gerald said, gesturing. "Best spot in the market. Let us know if you need anything."
After they left, I glanced at Bart. Even with most of his face covered by the scarf he was wrapping around himself, I could see the tension in his shoulders.
"You okay?"
"Fine. Let's just get through this."
We set up the display—dropbox for new submissions, flyers with QR codes for donations, a sign-up sheet for volunteers, and a display board showing photos of wrapped gifts and the organized workspace.
Within thirty minutes of the market opening, we had a steady stream of visitors.
"Tell me more about Christmas Wishes!" A woman in her thirties leaned in to read our materials.
"Families in need can submit requests through the dropbox," I explained. "The philanthropy purchases gifts and matches every community donation dollar-for-dollar. Everything gets delivered on the 24th by volunteers."
"That's beautiful." She pulled out her phone, scanning the QR code. "I'm donating right now. And sharing this on Facebook."
"Thank you so much."
Over the next two hours, people donated on the spot. Families discreetly slipped wish lists into the dropbox, their expressions a heartbreaking mix of desperation and hope. Volunteers signed up to help with wrapping and delivery.
A few people recognized me from social media, asking for photos. I obliged with a smile, but kept redirecting attention to the program rather than myself.
Around noon, Bart glanced at me. "You're getting hungry."
I blinked. "How did you—"
"You get this look. Like you're trying to focus but can't quite manage it." His mouth quirked. "Noticed it yesterday around the same time."
He'd been paying attention. To me. Not just to the work, but to my patterns, my needs. My face heated.
"Am I that obvious?"
"Come on. Let's see what they've got."
We walked through the market together, weaving between booths. Somewhere nearby, a trio of carolers sang "Deck the Halls." Kids shrieked with delight on the ice skating rink.
"What sounds good?" Bart asked as we approached the food vendors. "There's sandwiches, tacos, that griddle doing cheesesteaks—"
"Cheesesteaks," I said immediately. "Definitely cheesesteaks."
He led me to the portable griddle where a bearded man was cooking.
"What can I get you folks?" the vendor asked.
"Two Philly cheesesteaks, please," I said. "Loaded."
"Good choice. Coming right up." The man started piling peppers and onions onto the griddle.
Bart pulled out his wallet. "Let me get this."
"You don't have to—"
"You've been handling everything perfectly. It's the least I can do."
Five minutes later, we had steaming sandwiches loaded with peppers, onions, and melted provolone on crusty rolls.
"Oh my god," I moaned around my first bite. "This is amazing."
"Told you." Bart had pulled his scarf down enough to eat, giving me a clear view of his mouth. His eyes crinkled at the corners—genuine amusement.
We walked between booths while we ate, stopping to watch ice skaters glide across the rink. A small girl in a pink coat fell, then got back up laughing. A couple held hands, moving in slow circles.
"This town really is something," I said softly. "It's like a snow globe come to life."
"People here look out for each other," Bart said. "That's rare."