Chapter Six
Bart
Christmas Eve morning arrived with soft gray light filtering through the windows and fresh snow blanketing the world outside. I woke with Candi still asleep beside me, her blonde hair spread across my chest, and realized what today meant.
Today was the last day of our arrangement. After deliveries, technically, we were done. No more obligation, no more deal. She'd fulfilled her end—promoted the program, organized volunteers, made Christmas Wishes a success beyond anything I'd imagined.
She could walk away clean.
My stomach dropped at the thought.
I slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her yet. Pulled on jeans and a flannel, made coffee in the quiet kitchen. Through the window, I could see the red barn in the distance, ready for the volunteers who'd arrive at eight.
Candi appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, sleepy and rumpled in one of my t-shirts.
"Morning," she said, padding over to steal my coffee mug.
"That's mine."
"And now it's ours." But she was smiling as she took a sip.
We had a quick breakfast—bagels and the rest of the pot of coffee—neither of us saying much. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was. What would happen after Christmas when her short-term lease was up?
By seven-thirty, we were dressed for the cold and heading across the property. Snow from last night dusted the path white, our breath fogging in the sharp air.
"You okay?" she asked as we walked.
"Yeah. Just thinking about today."
"Me too." She bit her lip. "It's going to be amazing."
Volunteers started arriving right at eight—cars pulling up the drive, people bundling out in their winter gear, following the signs we'd posted for those who were new.
Inside, the space came alive with voices and laughter.
Someone wore a Santa hat with a bell that jingled with every movement.
Another had reindeer antlers that kept slipping sideways.
A teenager wore the ugliest Christmas sweater I'd ever seen—snowmen and candy canes in clashing neon colors. It was fantastic.
A folding table near the door held a slow cooker of hot chocolate and a box of donuts someone had brought.
"Alright everyone," I called out, and the chatter died down. "Thank you for being here. We've got you divided into five routes. Candi's got the assignments and maps. Listen to her—she's the brains behind this operation."
She flushed but stepped forward with her clipboard, distributing packets with addresses, wish lists, and delivery instructions. She coordinated everything with calm confidence—this woman who'd been desperate and broke two weeks ago now overseeing the group like she'd been born to leadership.
Loading took about thirty minutes. Everyone pitched in, calling out names, matching gifts to lists, securing everything in trunks and truck beds.
By eight-thirty, vehicles were loaded and volunteers ready to head out.
Candi and I would take the longest route—a dozen stops scattered through the rural areas outside town.
Just before we climbed into my truck, I caught her arm. A brief moment alone while everyone else headed out.
My pulse kicked up. This might be the last day I had with her, and I needed to know if she'd consider staying beyond our deal.
"Hey." My voice came out rougher than intended. "There's a candlelight service tonight at Hope Peak Community Church. Six-thirty. The whole town goes—it's tradition." I paused. "Would you want to come with me?"
Her eyes filled immediately. "I'd love that. I haven't been to church since high school."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She wiped at her eyes, smiling. "That sounds really nice."
Relief washed through me.
"Good. That's good." I brushed my thumb across her knuckles. "Come on. We've got people waiting."
We climbed into the cab and pulled out, following the first address on our route.
The day became a blur of smiles and happy tears.
Single mothers accepting wrapped packages, thanking us with trembling voices.
An elderly man clutching his warm blanket and groceries with shaking hands, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
A father who'd been laid off holding boxes of food like they were treasure, his wife standing frozen on their porch, hand over her mouth, while their daughter peeked out from behind them with wide eyes.
At every stop, the same pattern—stunned silence broken by choked thank-yous.
People hugging us, gripping our hands. A grandmother raising her grandkids who just kept saying "God bless you" over and over, her voice breaking.
A young couple with a newborn—the baby wrapped in a thin blanket, their apartment barely heated—both parents standing speechless, holding their son between them while tears slid down their faces.
An elderly woman living alone who invited us in for tea, her hands trembling as she touched the packages like she couldn't quite believe they were real.
By afternoon, my throat ached and Candi had given up trying to hide her streaming eyes.
"This is the best thing I've ever been part of," she said as we drove between stops. "Better than any viral video, any sponsorship deal. This actually matters."
"You made this possible."
She reached across the console and took my hand. “You gave me the opportunity.”
By five o'clock, we were back where the rest of the volunteers were regrouping. Everyone looked exhausted and radiant—the good kind of tired that came from meaningful work.
"Before everyone takes off," I said once we'd gathered, "Candi and I wanted to say thank you. You gave up your Christmas Eve for the sake of those who are struggling this season. That's what makes Hope Peak special."
Candi distributed the cookie tins we'd made—the ones from our midnight baking session. "Thank you for being part of this," she told each volunteer. "You made today possible."
After everyone left, Candi and I stood surrounded by empty shelves and discarded wrapping paper.
"We did it," she whispered.
"We really did." I pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Come on. Let's go get cleaned up. Service starts at six-thirty."
In the bathroom, we undressed each other, and I couldn't help but smile at the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the wrapping paper glitter somehow in her hair.
The water was hot, steam filling the space, and I washed her hair while she leaned back against me.
Her hands found mine when I worked the shampoo through, our fingers tangling together under the spray.
"Today was incredible," she murmured.
"Yeah. It really was." I rinsed the soap from her hair, pressing a kiss to her wet shoulder.
She turned in my arms, water cascading between us, and kissed me. The kiss deepened, her body pressing against mine, and for a moment I forgot we had somewhere to be.
"Church," she whispered against my lips, sounding as reluctant as I felt.
"Right. Church." I forced myself to step back. "We should finish getting ready."
"Probably." But her eyes were dark, and it took real willpower to turn off the water.
We dried off, and I opened my closet, pushing past the flannels and work shirts to the section I rarely touched anymore—my suits from Silicon Valley.
I pulled out charcoal gray wool with a white dress shirt and burgundy tie.
The suit still fit perfectly, though it felt strange after months of nothing but jeans and Henleys.
I was knotting my tie when Candi emerged from the bathroom doorway in her slip, pausing mid-step. "Oh."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just—" Her eyes swept over me. "You look really good in a suit."
"Thanks." I fumbled with the tie. "It's been a while."
She crossed to me, gently batting my hands away. "Let me."
I stood still while she fixed the knot, her fingers deft and sure. This close, I could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose that her makeup didn't quite hide.
"There." She smoothed the fabric down my chest. "Perfect."
I watched her pull on a dress I'd never seen before—deep forest green, the kind of rich color that made her blonde hair look like spun gold.
The fabric skimmed her curves in a way that was elegant rather than revealing, the hemline hitting just above her knees.
She'd left her hair down in soft waves around her shoulders, and she'd done something with her makeup that made her blue eyes even more striking.
"Wow," I managed. "Candi, you're... you look absolutely stunning."
Color rose in her cheeks. "It's not too much?
I wasn't sure what people wear to church here.
I haven't been since I was seventeen, and that was Easter service in Phoenix and I wore this sundress that my mom said was appropriate but my youth leader definitely gave me a look—" She was babbling, fidgeting with the strap of her dress. "I can change if it's—"
I crossed to her, cupping her face gently. "You're perfect. Absolutely perfect."
Her breath caught.
"You're just saying that because—"
"I'm saying it because it's true." I pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Come on. We should go before I change my mind about leaving this house."
She laughed, the nervous energy dissipating. "Behave. It's church."
"I'm always well-behaved in church."
"Somehow I doubt that."
But she was smiling as she grabbed her coat—a long cream-colored wool number. I held it for her, and when she slipped her arms in, I let my hands linger on her shoulders for just a moment.
In the truck, I couldn't stop stealing glances at her. The way the dashboard lights played across her features.
"You're staring again," she said softly, but she was smiling.
"Can't help it."
She reached across the console and took my hand, and we continued toward town.
HOPE PEAK COMMUNITY Church was a small white building with a tall steeple, tucked into Main Street across from the square. Candles already glowed in every window as we pulled up at six-fifteen.