Chapter Three #3
I glanced at him, struck by the way he said it. Like community was something precious. Something worth protecting.
"Is that why you moved here?"
"Part of it." He took another bite, considering. "I needed somewhere I could just be myself."
Before I could ask what he meant, a child's voice piped up: "Look! Mistletoe!"
I glanced up. Sure enough, a sprig of mistletoe hung from the wooden beam above us.
A small crowd turned to look. The pink-coat girl and her mother. An elderly couple. A group of middle-aged women.
Heat flooded my face. "Oh, we're not—"
"Come here," Bart said, his voice low and rough.
Before I could process what was happening, his hand was on my waist, pulling me to him. His other hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face up.
"For cover," he murmured against my lips. "So they stop asking."
Then he kissed me.
Clearly meant to be quick. Performative. Just for show to satisfy the crowd.
But the moment his lips touched mine, everything changed.
Heat flooded through my veins like liquid fire.
My hands flew up to grip his coat, finding his shoulders beneath the heavy fabric—solid and broad.
His hand tightened on my waist, fingers pressing into my hip through my parka.
The kiss deepened just a fraction—his tongue barely brushing my lower lip, sending sensation spiraling straight to my core.
A sound escaped me. Something between a gasp and a whimper that I'd never made in my life.
He pulled back like I'd shocked him.
We stared at each other, both breathing hard, the world narrowing to just the two of us. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I wondered if he could feel it.
Applause and whistles broke through the haze.
"Aww, how sweet!"
"Merry Christmas, you two!"
Bart cleared his throat, stepping back carefully. "Right. That should stop the questions."
"Yeah." My voice came out breathless and shaky. "Smart thinking."
Back at the booth, I threw myself into talking to people, answering questions, signing up volunteers. Bart stayed in the background like before, but the energy between us had shifted.
I was hyperaware of him—every time he moved, every time he handed me a flyer, the brief moments when we had to work in close proximity.
The kiss was supposed to be for show. A quick performance under the mistletoe to satisfy the onlookers.
But my lips still tingled, and my pulse kept jumping whenever he came near.
From the careful way Bart maintained distance between us, the deliberate focus he kept on his tasks—he'd felt it too.
BY 5 PM, WE'D COLLECTED seventeen new wish list submissions and signed up forty-two volunteers.
We drove back to his property together in his truck. I stared out the window at the passing trees, and Bart kept his eyes on the road. Neither of us mentioned the kiss.
At his property, we unloaded the booth materials in silence and carried the new wish lists into the barn.
Bart pinned the new submissions to the corkboard while I pulled out my laptop. We worked without talking—him matching gifts to wish lists, me updating the spreadsheet and posting social media updates about the market's success.
Music played softly from the speaker. The space heaters hummed.
Two hours passed like that. Both of us focused on our tasks, the kiss from earlier sitting between us unacknowledged.
Around 7 PM, I couldn't take the silence anymore. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure." He didn't look up from the gift he was wrapping—a warm blanket for an elderly woman.
"Why furniture? You could do anything. Why did you choose woodworking?"
His hands stilled. He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.
Then: "Working with wood is honest. Slow.
You can't rush it or fake it." He tied the ribbon.
"My shop teacher in high school—Mr. Vela Cruz—he was the only father figure I had growing up.
Taught me that the grain tells you what it needs.
That if you listen and pay attention, the wood shows you what it wants to become. "
He paused, and I stayed quiet, letting him work through his thoughts.
"I'd always loved it, but after college I got caught up in other things.
Building a company, making money, trying to be what other people needed me to be.
When everything fell apart, I came back to this.
Working with my hands gives me time to think.
Space to be myself without performing or proving anything to anyone. "
I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant.
"Drew was like that," I heard myself say. "Always wanting me to be someone I wasn't."
Bart looked up. "Yeah?"
"He convinced me to become an influencer.
Said I had the looks and personality for it, plus my marketing degree would be useful.
" I picked at the edge of wrapping paper, not meeting his eyes.
"At first it was fun. We were a team, building things together.
But once we got successful, everything changed.
He started making all the decisions. Controlled the finances, said I should focus on being pretty for the camera while he managed the business side. "
"That's bullshit."
The sharp protectiveness in Bart's voice caught me off guard.
"I didn't realize how bad things were until he dumped me.
Turned out he'd spent almost everything—fancy cars, designer clothes, expensive tech.
When I questioned him about major purchases, he said I was ungrateful.
That he'd made me who I was." My throat tightened. "He basically left me with nothing."
"His loss." Bart's voice softened. "You're better than you think, Candi Reed. Smarter, more capable. He didn't deserve you."
The way he said my name made my chest tighten.
Our eyes held for a long moment.
His gaze dropped first. He cleared his throat. "We should probably call it a night. It's getting late."
"Yeah. Okay." I closed my laptop, packing up my things.
We walked to the barn doors together. Bart flipped off the lights, plunging us into darkness except for the security light outside.
We stood there for just a moment, close enough that I could have reached out and touched him.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked quietly.
"I'll be here."
I drove back to the cottage with my heart racing, replaying that kiss under the mistletoe over and over in my mind.
BY THE TIME I COLLAPSED on the plaid couch around 8 PM after making myself a simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast, I was exhausted but wired.
Opening Instagram, I checked the performance of the posts.
The content had generated massive engagement. Donations were flooding in—over $8,000 raised since we'd launched the campaign. People were sharing across platforms, tagging friends, spreading the word.
My follower count: 571,248.
I'd gained over 40,000 followers in three days. All from authentic stories about helping people, not from thirst traps or sponsored posts.
The comments were genuinely positive. Supportive. Moved.
@mountainmamalife: This program is incredible. Just signed up to volunteer!
@jessicawrites: Can't stop crying reading these wish lists. Donated $200.
@sarahlovesbaking: You're doing something really special here, Candi.
I stared at those comments, and the validation I used to crave felt hollow. The numbers climbing felt less important than watching people slip folded-up pieces of paper into that dropbox, their expressions full of secret hope.
Then I saw it.
A comment from @DrewMortimerLife: Interesting rebrand, Candi. Very on-trend. We should talk about collaborating. Call me?
My stomach dropped.
Before I could process it, my phone buzzed. Drew calling.
I stared at his name on the screen.
Three weeks ago, I would have answered immediately. Desperate for his attention, his approval, his validation.
Now I thought about Bart. About the way he'd kissed me under the mistletoe—just for show, except it hadn't felt like just for show. About the quiet satisfaction of working beside him in the barn. About the way he'd said my name like it mattered.
I sent Drew's call to voicemail.
Stared at the decorations surrounding me—fake trees, stockings embroidered with names of people I didn’t know, that creepy cardboard elf in the corner who seemed to leer at me.
What was I doing? Developing feelings for a man seventeen years older who clearly had walls a mile high? A man who'd kissed me and then maintained careful distance the rest of the day, both of us tiptoeing around each other?
This was supposed to be about saving my career. Getting my numbers back up. Rebuilding.
Instead, I was thinking about steel-blue eyes and rare smiles and the way Bart's voice softened when he talked about giving families the holiday he never had.
My phone buzzed. Voicemail notification from Drew.
I hovered over the play button for three seconds.
Then deleted it without listening.
Whatever Drew wanted—I didn't care.
Tomorrow I'd go back to the barn. Back to working beside the man I was learning was more than just a grumpy mountain man.
For now, I had to admit the truth:
I was falling for Bart.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do about it.