Chapter Four
Bart
We'd been working in the barn for two hours, organizing gifts by recipient and delivery route. The rhythm we'd developed over the past week had returned—comfortable, efficient, easy. Except now there was the kiss hanging between us, unacknowledged but impossible to ignore.
Every time she reached for the tape dispenser, I noticed. Every time she laughed at something, my chest tightened. Every time she tucked her hair behind her ear, I remembered what it felt like to cup her jaw, to feel her melt against me under that damn mistletoe.
This was a problem.
A beautiful, blonde, twenty-five-year-old problem who was supposed to be helping me run a charity program, not making me feel things I'd sworn off after Sutton destroyed my ability to trust.
"You're quiet today," she said, glancing up from the supplies she was wrapping. "Everything okay?"
"Fine. Just thinking about logistics."
Liar. I was thinking about how her sweater kept sliding off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin I wanted to taste.
Around mid-morning, I watched her update the spreadsheet for the third time, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she entered new data. She'd been here every day for a week, putting in eight-hour days minimum. Sometimes longer.
I set down the box I was labeling and really looked at her.
Dark circles under her eyes despite the makeup.
The way she checked her phone less obsessively than when we'd started but still pulled it out during every break.
She could barely afford the cottage—she'd said as much that first night.
And her bastard ex had left her with next to nothing.
She was working full-time on Christmas Wishes. For free. Because I'd threatened to sue her.
The realization settled heavy in my gut—guilt and protectiveness mixing together.
"We need to talk about payment," I said.
She looked up, confused. "Payment?"
"You're working full-time for the charity. I should be compensating you."
"You're not suing me. That's payment enough."
"No, it's not." I pulled out my phone, opened my banking app. "What's a fair rate for your services? Social media management, volunteer organization, logistics coordination. If I hired someone in Silicon Valley, I'd pay at least five or six thousand a month for this level of work."
"I'm not in Silicon Valley."
"But you have those skills. Better than most people I worked with, honestly." I met her gaze. "You deserve to be paid for your work. What did you earn before... before everything?"
She bit her lip. "From sponsorships and partnerships, I was making about four thousand a month. Sometimes more if we had a good campaign."
"Then that's what I'll pay you. Four thousand for December."
Her eyes went wide. "Bart, that's too much—"
"It's less than I'd pay an agency, and you're doing better work." I started the transfer. "Consider it a consulting fee. You're not just volunteering—you're providing professional services."
"Wait—" She reached for my phone, but I'd already hit confirm.
Her phone buzzed with the notification. She stared at the screen, and tears welled up.
"Thank you." Her voice cracked. "You have no idea what this means."
"You could barely make rent. I know exactly what it means." I set my phone down. "And for what it's worth—you've earned every penny. This program wouldn't work without you."
She wiped at her eyes, smiling through the tears. "You're a good man, Bart Kane."
"I'm really not. I should have offered this a week ago."
"You're offering now. That's what matters."
The tension between us eased slightly. She went back to data entry with renewed energy, and I went back to pretending I wasn't completely gone for her.
BY MID-AFTERNOON, THE December chill had seeped into the barn despite the space heaters. Candi shivered for the third time in ten minutes.
"Come inside. I'll make coffee and grab another portable heater."
She looked up, surprised. "Inside your house?"
"Unless you'd rather freeze out here."
"No, I—yes. Coffee sounds great."
I led her across the snow-covered yard to the main house. She'd been working with me for almost a week now, but always in the barn. Never inside where I actually lived.
The moment we stepped through the door, I saw my space through her eyes and embarrassment washed over me.
Beautiful, yes. I'd bought quality furniture, installed huge windows with mountain views, chosen expensive finishes. The great room had vaulted ceilings with exposed beams, a stone fireplace that dominated one wall, and an open floor plan that flowed into the kitchen.
But it admittedly felt hollow, even to me. Impersonal. The walls were bare. No photos, no artwork, no personal touches. No holiday decorations despite it being mid-December. It looked like a furniture catalog spread, not somewhere anyone actually lived.
"Wow," Candi breathed, walking slowly into the space. "This is gorgeous, Bart. But—"
"But it looks like nobody lives here," I finished, moving to the kitchen to start the coffee. "I know."
She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. "Why don't you have anything on the walls? Or a tree? You're helping all these families have something to celebrate this Christmas, but you don't celebrate yourself?"
I measured coffee grounds, focusing on the task. "Didn't see the point. It's just me here."
"What about your family? Your mom?"
"She remarried a great guy about ten years ago—Henry. They're in California, have their own traditions there. I don’t like to interfere. I usually just—" I shrugged. "This is a place I sleep. Work. Think. That's it."
"That's sad." Her voice was gentle, not pitying. "You deserve to have a home, not just a house."
The coffee maker hissed and gurgled. I grabbed two mugs from the cabinet, trying to ignore the tightness in my throat.
"After Sutton—my ex-wife—after our divorce—I just wanted to be left alone. Decorating, making it personal, that felt like—"
"Like putting down roots when you weren't sure you wanted to stay?"
I glanced at her. "Something like that."
She moved closer, accepting the mug I handed her. Our fingers brushed, and that familiar electricity sparked between us.
"You need a tree," she said firmly.
"I don't need—"
"Bart." She set down her mug, fixing me with her gaze. "You NEED a tree. We're getting you one. Tomorrow. Non-negotiable."
I should have argued. Should have told her it was my house, my choice, my life.
Instead, I said, "Tomorrow afternoon. After we finish organizing the volunteer shifts."
Her smile was radiant. "Perfect. We'll make this place feel like home."
Her determined tone made something shift in my chest—solid and right, like when a joint finally seats properly and you know it'll hold.
AFTER SPENDING THE morning coordinating shifts for wrapping, December 16th afternoon found us at Henderson's Tree Farm on the outskirts of Hope Peak.
Candi bounced between the rows of evergreens with boundless energy, pointing out options and debating their merits. "This one's too skinny. Oh, but this one is perfect! Wait, no—look at that one!"
I followed behind, hands in my pockets, amused despite myself. She approached the hunt like a kid in a candy store while I was doing mental calculations about ceiling height and tree stand stability.
"How about this one?" She gestured at a massive Douglas fir.
"Too big."
"This one's beautiful though!"
"They're all evergreens, Candi."
She laughed and moved down the row. "What about this one?"
I looked it over. "That'll work."
She circled it, examining from every angle. "You're sure? You don't sound excited."
"I'm excited," I said, completely deadpan.
She laughed, swatting my arm. "Liar. Come on, old man. Show some Christmas spirit."
"I'm forty-two, not eighty."
"I know." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "But you act like getting a Christmas tree is a chore instead of fun."
"It's an evergreen. We put it in the house, decorate it, then throw it out in three weeks."
"Wow. You really know how to kill the magic." But she was smiling. "Okay, Scrooge. What would you do if I told you I wanted to get matching ornaments? Maybe themed? Ooh, or we could do a whole color scheme—silver and blue to match your eyes!"
"Absolutely not."
"What about a tree skirt? I saw some really cute ones with—"
"Candi."
"—reindeer on them! Or we could get one that plays music!"
"Now you're just messing with me."
She grinned, unrepentant. "Maybe. But you should see your face. You look like I suggested setting the tree on fire."
"Don't give me ideas."
"Such a Grinch." She patted my arm consolingly. "Don't worry, I'll get your heart to grow three sizes by Christmas."
"That sounds medically dangerous."
She burst out laughing, and something warm settled in my chest despite myself. "Okay, fine. You win. This one. Plain lights. Whatever ornaments don't offend your masculine sensibilities. Deal?"
"Deal."
"See? We're already compromising like an old married couple."
The words hung between us for a moment.
She cleared her throat. "So, um. This is the one. I'm decided."
At the checkout, I paid for everything while Candi wandered the small gift shop. She emerged with a silver star tree topper.
"For the top," she said.
I added it to the purchase.
Loading it into my truck bed required both of us. I lifted the heavy end, and when I glanced over, she was staring.
"What?"
"Nothing." Her cheeks went pink. "You're just... really strong."
"It's not that heavy."
"Still."
Back at the house, we wrestled it through the door and into the stand. She directed—"Left. No, your other left. Back a little!"—while I adjusted the angle, both of us laughing when it nearly tipped twice.
I grabbed a bottle of red wine from the kitchen and poured two glasses while she opened the box of lights.
"White lights," she said with mock disappointment. "So predictable."
"You agreed to plain lights."
"I know, I know."