Chapter Six #2
Inside, the sanctuary was packed. Every resident seemed to have turned out. Poinsettias lined the altar, evergreen garland draped the pews, and hundreds of white candles waited to be lit. The scent of pine and beeswax filled the air. Wood creaked as people settled into their seats.
We found seats near the front. Candi slid her hand into mine.
The service was traditional and beautiful—carols sung by the congregation, scripture readings about hope and light, a children's pageant that had everyone smiling at the earnest shepherds and giggling angels. During communion, I glanced at Candi, and my heart stuttered.
Then came "Silent Night."
The lights dimmed. Candles were passed down the rows, each person lighting their neighbor's until the whole church glowed with hundreds of tiny flames. We stood, holding our tapers, and sang softly.
Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.
I looked at Candi. Tears slid down her cheeks, her voice joining with everyone else's in that ancient carol. She caught me looking and smiled.
I tightened my grip on her hand. She squeezed back.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
The song ended. Pastor Marty Williams gave the final blessing—"Go in peace to love and serve"—and people began standing, gathering coats, greeting neighbors.
Then commotion erupted at the back of the church.
The main doors burst open, and Drew Mortimer stumbled in.
I recognized him immediately from Candi's Instagram—same styled dirty-blond hair, same all-American good looks. But tonight he was disheveled, his jacket askew, movements jerky as he pushed his way up the aisle.
"Candi!" His voice carried through the church, too loud. "There you are! We need to talk!"
Every head turned. Candi went rigid beside me.
I stepped slightly in front of her. "Maybe this isn't the time or place—"
The pastor moved forward. "Sir, perhaps we could—"
"Babe, look." Drew finally reached us, focused entirely on Candi.
"I made a mistake. Huge mistake. We were GOLD together.
Our brand was everything. I can see your numbers are climbing—almost 600K now?
That's solid. But with us together? We'd hit a million within weeks, two million by Valentine's Day. Easy."
He was pitching her. In a church. On Christmas Eve. In front of the entire town.
Anger coiled low in my gut, but Candi's hand found mine and held tight.
"Think about it," Drew continued, oblivious to the shocked faces around us. "'Drew & Candi: Second Chances.' Redemption arc, holiday miracle, couple goals. The engagement would be INSANE. Sponsors would come crawling back—we're talking six-figure deals, babe. Maybe seven if we play it right."
He gestured dismissively around the church.
"This small-town thing? It's cute for seasonal content, I'll give you that.
The numbers don't lie—you've got decent engagement.
But it's not sustainable. You need to think bigger.
" He waved his hand at me. "And honestly?
A former techie playing lumberjack in the woods?
That's his midlife crisis, not your future.
You need someone who actually gets the market, who wants to capitalize on the window of opportunity in front of us right now. "
He stepped closer to here. "Come back to Phoenix with me. Rebuild what we had. You don’t belong here any more than I do. We can film the whole reconciliation—it would absolutely break the internet."
Every person in that church stood frozen, staring.
Candi stepped beside me, taking my hand firmly, and faced her ex. Her voice rang clear and strong through the space.
"No."
Drew blinked, clearly not expecting such a simple answer. "What? That's it? Just no?"
"We're not getting back together, Drew. Not professionally, not personally. Ever."
"Candi, be reasonable—"
"You don't love me. You never did." Her voice strengthened, and pride surged through me.
"You loved what I represented—someone to make you relevant.
You humiliated me on camera for the sake of followers, to feed your greed and twisted desire for validation.
You spent everything we earned behind my back.
You made our relationship, our breakup, our entire lives—just about metrics and money. "
She looked at me, her face softening, and my breath caught.
"This man sees ME. The real me. Not the influencer. Not the content creator. Just me." Her eyes shone. "He's teaching me what genuine connection feels like. What it means to be valued for who I am, not what I can provide. That's what I want. That's what I deserve."
I wanted to pull her into my arms right there.
Drew's face went from shocked to ugly. "Fine. You want him? Everyone should know who your new boyfriend really is."
Dread hit me hard.
He turned to the congregation, a vindictive smile spreading across his face.
"I did my homework. You're not just some simple woodworker, are you?
" His eyes met mine. "Bartholomew Kane. Pinnacle Systems. I Googled you.
Sold your company for what—eight hundred million?
Nine hundred million? Articles say eight forty-seven million, to be exact.
You're a tech billionaire hiding in the mountains. "
Gasps rippled through the church. Phones came out. I heard whispers, saw people typing into their screens.
This was it. My worst nightmare—exposed, vulnerable, everything I'd run from catching up.
But Candi's hand never left mine. She stood beside me, steady and sure, and something in her presence gave me courage.
I could run. Leave. Try to disappear again.
Or I could make a different choice.
"Can I have everyone's attention, please?"
The room quieted. Every eye fixed on me. I felt the weight of their attention but kept my shoulders straight.
"He's right. My name is Bartholomew Kane. I co-founded Pinnacle Systems when I was twenty-eight. Built it over eleven years into a three-billion-dollar company. Sold my shares eighteen months ago."
More gasps. I watched recognition dawn on faces—some had obviously seen the tabloid coverage of my divorce and were now connecting the dots.
"I moved to Hope Peak to escape Silicon Valley. To get away from the constant spotlight, from people who only cared about my bank account instead of me. I wanted privacy. Peace." I looked around at familiar faces—people I'd shared coffee with, nodded to at the store, worked alongside today.
Gerald Thompson stood from his pew. "Money or not, it doesn’t matter here. You're one of us because of who you are, not what you're worth."
Murmurs of agreement spread through the congregation. Laurel nodded beside him, her silver braid catching the candlelight.
My voice roughened. "I’d like to stay in Hope Peak.
And continue Christmas Wishes permanently, every year, and I want to support our schools, library, and community center—invest in this town that gave me sanctuary when I needed it most." I paused, looking around at the faces I'd come to know.
"I want to help Hope Peak thrive, not just at Christmas, but year-round.
This place saved me when I was drowning, and I want to give back. "
I took a breath. "But I don't want to be treated differently because of what I used to do.
My life now is about living simply, working with my hands and creating things that matter.
I'm just Bart—a woodworker who wants to be part of this community. Who wants to build something truly sustainable and lasting here.”
I glanced at Candi. Her face was wet, but she was smiling.
"And I'm falling hard for this woman who's the kindest, most honest person I know. She filmed me without permission on my private property—" laughter rippled through the church, "—and I threatened to sue her. Turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me."
I looked around the sanctuary one more time. "Thank you all for accepting a weary stranger into your midst with open arms. Merry Christmas."
The congregation erupted—applause, cheers, people standing. Gerald and Laurel reached us first, both pulling each of us into hugs. Others crowded around with more hugs, handshakes, and assurances of welcome.
I looked for Drew, but he'd slunk toward the exit, his moment of intended revenge turned to irrelevance. He slipped out into the December night, disappearing like an intrepid shadow, the door closing silently behind him.
The crowd eventually dispersed, families heading home to celebrate.
In the parking lot, I opened the truck door for Candi and she slid in, releasing a long breath as I rounded to the driver's side.
"You okay?" I asked, starting the engine.
"Yeah." She reached for my hand across the console. "That felt good. Seeing Drew’s face when he realized he had no power here."
"You were incredible back there."
The drive home was quiet. When we pulled into the driveway, the Christmas tree lights glowed through the windows.
Inside, we changed into comfortable clothes—me pulling on sweats and Candi emerging in leggings and one of my flannels, sleeves rolled up.
"I'm starving," she said.
"Same."
We made dinner from leftovers—roast chicken, salad, bread. Ate at the dining room table with the tree glowing in the next room.
After we cleared the dishes, I pulled the small velvet box from the side table drawer where I’d been hiding it. "I have something for you."
"Wait—me first." She darted into the bedroom and returned with a wrapped frame.
I opened it. A photograph of us decorating the Christmas tree—her on tiptoe reaching for a branch while I steadied her from behind, both of us laughing.
"When did you take this?"
I handed her the velvet box. She opened it and stared at the single silver key inside.
"I want you here," I said. "Not visiting. Living here. With me. Take your time—you don’t need to give me an answer right now."
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything. Stay in Hope Peak. Stay with me."
"Yes." She kissed me hard. "Yes."
I pulled her onto my lap and she melted against me, her hands in my hair.
"Take me to bed," she whispered.
I carried her upstairs. We made love slowly, then fell asleep tangled together.
I woke once in the night. Snowflakes drifted past the window in arcs, like a shower of falling stars. Candi was warm against my side, her breathing slow and even. The key glinted on the nightstand beside the framed photo of us.
She stirred, murmuring something in her sleep, and burrowed closer.
I pressed a kiss to her hair and closed my eyes, already looking forward to morning.