Chapter 6
Rudy
The cold hit harder once I stepped out of Holly & Pine.
For a moment I just stood there on the sidewalk, breath puffing in a pale cloud, fingers swiping a single stupid tear from my cheek.
Whatever he’d meant by it's not a big deal—just kindness, probably—it had knocked something loose inside me. My chest felt tight and hot, like somebody had cracked a window in a room that had been shut up for years and all the stale air didn’t know where to go.
I stared down the street toward the inn.
I could picture exactly what waited there: the soft quilt, the little heater humming in the corner, my laptop glowing on the desk. I could go back, climb under the covers, scroll through work emails and pretend today had been normal.
I’d done that version of my life for years—go home, shut down, tuck everything inconvenient into a corner no one ever saw. It was safe. It was lonely. It was familiar.
Behind me, the bell over Holly my brain liked that. The light from the window fell over my hands, picking out the brushstrokes on each ornament.
Outside, the snow had softened into lazy flurries.
Every so often, someone walked past—hat pulled low, scarf pulled high.
I watched them through the glass the way I used to watch people from apartment windows in Chicago, except this felt…
different. Quieter. Like the town wasn’t rushing anywhere in particular.
“So,” Graeme said after a few minutes, carrying over a small box of pinecones and setting it nearby, “is this a proper vacation for you, or are you secretly working between cups of cocoa?”
A smile tugged at my mouth. “Proper. Mostly.”
He glanced over, not prying—just curious. Waiting.
“I wrapped things up before I came,” I said. “Two weeks blocked off. I’m trying very hard not to ruin that.”
“That sounds like effort,” he said.
“It is,” I admitted, twisting a hook into place. “I work remotely—social media, copywriting. A mixed bag. Musicians, small brands, nonprofits that know they need help but aren’t sure how to ask for it.” I hesitated, then added, quieter, “Work’s been a way to stay steady.”
I threaded another hook through a painted heart and set it at the edge of the tray. My hands had stopped shaking. It was… nice, actually, talking about work with someone who wasn’t a client demanding numbers.
“And you?” I asked. “How’d you end up running a Christmas shop year-round? Was that always the dream?”
He was quiet for a second, like he was weighing how much to say.
“My parents ran a greenhouse,” he said finally, voice softening on the word.
“I grew up in soil and seed trays and humidity. After they died, I… couldn’t be in there for a while.
Too many ghosts.” His fingers brushed a length of ribbon, smoothing it flat.
“When I finally came back, I realized I still loved the evergreens. The winter plants. The feeling of walking into warmth when it’s freezing outside.
So I turned the front into Holly & Pine, kept the back as a workspace, and let the town decide if it wanted it. ”
“And it did,” I said, looking around.
“And it did,” he agreed. “Sometimes I still can’t believe it.”
There was a quiet pride in his voice that made my chest ache in a good way.
We worked like that for a while—me on hooks, him adjusting lights and shifting displays, both of us talking when words came and letting the silence be comfortable when they didn’t.
Every so often, he’d pass close enough that I could smell pine sap and a hint of whatever soap he used.
Up close, the hair at his temples was more silver than dark, the rest of it salt-and-pepper instead of truly black.
I caught myself wondering, yet again, how old he was—and how wide the gap was between us—then flushed and dropped my gaze back to the tray.
“You okay?” he asked lightly.
“Yeah.” I hooked one last star and set it down. “Just, um… brain wandering.”
“Brains are allowed to do that,” he said. “As long as they come back eventually.”
I smiled, small and crooked. “No promises.”
A few customers came and went—locals, from the way they greeted Graeme by name and lingered to talk.
I shifted my chair a little closer to the window to give them space, instinctive and unobtrusive.
No one paid me much mind beyond a friendly nod.
An older woman paused long enough to tell me my sweater was “a good color for Christmas” and asked how I was liking town so far.
“It’s… really nice, actually,” I said, surprised by how true it felt. She smiled, satisfied, and moved on.
The ordinary rhythm of it all—voices, footsteps, the soft rustle of greenery—settled something inside me that had been wound too tight for a long time.
I kept threading hooks through ornament loops, the motion simple and repetitive.
After a while, my hands slowed without my permission.
Not dramatically—just enough that I lost the rhythm.
I set one ornament down and stared at the hook between my fingers, realizing I’d been holding it without doing anything with it.
“Rudy?”
Graeme’s voice came from just behind me, close enough that I felt it rather than heard it.
I looked up. He wasn’t hovering. Just standing there, watching with an ease that didn’t make me feel examined.
“You look like you drifted off,” he said gently. “Head a few rooms away.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Heat crept up my neck. The old reflex kicked in—smile, wave it off, say I was fine. I almost did. Instead, I let myself pause.
“I think I might just be… tired,” I said, the admission clumsy but honest. “Didn’t realize how much until just now.”
Graeme nodded like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah,” he said. “That happens. Especially when you don’t stop to check in with yourself.”
Something in his tone—matter-of-fact, not corrective—made my shoulders ease.
He glanced at the half-finished box of ornaments, then back at me. “You want to sit for a bit? Take a break?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. That’d be good.”
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got soup on in the back. Nothing fancy, but it's warm.”
I followed him past the counter and through the narrow doorway.
The sounds of the shop dulled behind us, replaced by a quieter hum.
The back room was small but inviting—a compact kitchenette tucked along one wall, a little table with two chairs, shelves lined with jars and tins that looked well-used rather than decorative.
A pot sat warming on the stove, the air rich with the scent of tomatoes and basil.
Graeme grabbed bowls from a cabinet, movements unhurried. “Sit,” he said, nodding to the chair. “I’ll bring it over.”
I did, folding myself into the chair and resting my hands in my lap. My breathing evened out without me having to force it.
He set a bowl in front of me, steam curling upward, then placed a napkin beside it before taking the chair across from me.
“I always make too much,” he said lightly. “Figure it’s better shared.”
“Thank you,” I said, voice quieter than I meant it to be.
I picked up the spoon, stirred once, then took a careful sip. Warmth spread through me—slow, grounding, unmistakably so.
Graeme didn’t rush the silence. He just sat there, present.
After a moment, he said, “You know, you don’t have to wait until you’re worn out to ask for a pause.”
I glanced up. He wasn’t smiling, exactly. But there was something gentle in his eyes.
“I’m… working on that,” I admitted.
“Good,” he said. “You’re allowed to.”
The words settled somewhere deep, heavier than they should’ve been.
I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath again.
“I always do this,” I admitted quietly. “I get close to saying what I need, and then I convince myself it’s easier not to.”
“Maybe next time,” he said, calm and certain, “you try saying it anyway.”
My throat tightened stupidly.
I traced the rim of the bowl with my spoon, watching the steam rise and disappear. The soup was good—simple, comforting in a way that didn’t demand commentary. Graeme didn’t fill the silence. He just let it exist.
I hadn’t planned to say anything today. I’d come back to the shop because I felt bad. Because I didn’t want my last memory of this place to be me breaking something and running.