Chapter 18
Rudy
The bell over the door chimed the second we stepped into Holly & Pine, and something in me loosened on instinct—like the sound had become part of my nervous system these past two weeks.
The store smelled like it always did: pine needles, cinnamon sticks, the faint metallic sparkle of tinsel, and whatever blend Graeme had simmering behind the counter today. Orange peel, maybe. Clove.
“Lights?” he asked, already tugging off his gloves.
I hurried over to the switches. “On it.”
One flick and the place glowed—warm white, soft gold, tiny fairy bulbs tracing the shelves. The snow outside made everything brighter, almost magical in a way my chest wasn’t prepared for.
I straightened a display of hand-painted ornaments, the glass ones with little icicles that looked like they’d melt if you breathed on them too hard. The act was soothing—repetitive, gentle, grounding. I didn’t work here, but my hands had started moving like I did.
“Morning, Rudy!” called Mrs. Grayson, one of the people I’d met since coming to Winterhaven, wrapped in her big red scarf, stomping snow off her boots. “You’re back helping today?”
I smiled. “Trying my best.”
She winked. “You’re good for him. Store feels livelier.”
Heat crawled up my neck. I ducked behind the counter to help Graeme lift a box of new stock. He gave me that tiny half-smile that always felt like a reward.
Late morning brought more people. Some locals. Some curious tourists.
One woman with a camera slung around her neck approached me holding a small carved angel.
“Excuse me,” she said, “is this cedar or maple?”
“Oh, um, maple, I think,” I said. “And they’re—uh—they’re sealed so they last longer. We have matching ornaments over—”
“Oh, wonderful! Thank you. Do you also have star toppers?”
I blinked. “Uh—maybe? Let me—”
Graeme’s voice floated from across the counter. “Straight wall behind Rudy. Third shelf. He’ll show you.”
I startled. She nodded eagerly, clearly assuming I worked here.
I showed her the toppers. She bought two. When she left, she patted my arm and said, “You’re very helpful. I hope they give you a holiday bonus.”
My stomach dropped. “Oh—no, I’m not—”
But she was already out the door.
I turned slowly. “Graeme?”
He was watching me with that soft, amused fondness that made my pulse flutter. “What?”
“I don’t actually work here.”
“You sure?” he asked, leaning on the counter. “Because you’re doing a damn good impression.”
I swatted his arm, embarrassed and stupidly pleased. He caught my wrist lightly and pressed a kiss to my knuckles—quick, discreet, low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for me.
By noon the crowd thinned. When the clock hit two, Graeme flipped the sign to Closed – Holiday Hours.
I gathered my coat, suddenly nervous. “Do I look okay? For—um—meeting Cynthia?”
Graeme slid a hand along my back. “Rudy. You could walk in wearing pajamas and she’d still pull you into a hug.”
He hesitated, then added, softer, “But you look perfect.”
My face flushed hot. I pretended to adjust my scarf so he wouldn’t see how hard the words hit me.
Outside, snow drifted in lazy flakes, the kind that didn’t fall so much as float. The drive across town took ten minutes—timeless in winter quiet.
Tom and Cynthia’s house glowed warm yellow through the windows. A wreath made of pine cones and dried oranges hung on the door. Someone had shoveled the walkway but not salted it, so it glittered like crushed diamonds.
Graeme knocked twice, his gloved knuckles tapping a rhythm that seemed familiar to the house itself. Before he could lower his hand, the door flew open.
“About time!” Cynthia said, pulling Graeme in by the shoulders. She kissed his cheek, then beamed at me—warm, bright, and absolutely genuine. “And you must be Rudy.”
Before I could get a word out, she wrapped me in a hug—tight in that motherly way that made something deep in me wobble. I smelled vanilla, wool, and the faintest trace of perfume that reminded me of Christmas cookies.
“Come in, sweetheart,” she said, guiding both of us inside. “Shoes anywhere. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Graeme stayed beside me as we stepped into the entryway—his palm brushing the small of my back in a quiet reassurance that steadied my breath.
The house glowed. Soft yellow lamps. Pine garland draped over doorways. A tree in the corner covered in ribbon and ornaments clearly made over many years—a timeline in glitter and glue.
“Smells amazing,” Graeme said.
Cynthia laughed. “Tom insisted on making his mother’s holiday roast. Don’t let him fool you—he only cooks twice a year, and this is one of them.”
The scent made my chest loosen—sage, butter, something warm and herby. Home was what it smelled like.
We rounded the corner into the kitchen and Tom looked up from basting the roast, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder.
For a second, my brain had to catch up.
This was Santa, minus the costume. The same laugh, the same solid presence—just stripped down to flannel, forearms dusted with flour, silver threaded through his dark hair instead of tucked under a hat.
“Whitlock,” he said, grin breaking wide as he crossed the room and pulled Graeme into a one-armed hug that landed solid and familiar.
“Anniversary duty suits you,” Graeme said easily.
Tom snorted. “You should see me on actual vacation.”
Then he turned to me, expression softening. “Good to see you again, Rudy,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder like we’d already established the rules of contact. “Nice to finally meet without the fake beard between us.”
I smiled, the tension I hadn’t realized I was holding easing out of me. “Honestly? You were a very convincing Santa.”
“Best compliment I’ve had all season,” he said warmly.
He stepped back toward the counter, picked up the baster again like this was all perfectly ordinary—Santa, sheriff, host, friend—and somehow that made it feel even more so.
Cynthia shepherded us toward the living room, where a handful of people had already gathered. Graeme moved through them with easy familiarity—handshakes, shoulder squeezes, quiet hellos. I got introduced without ceremony, like it was already assumed I belonged there.
Conversation flowed. Someone handed me spiced cider. Graeme stayed close—not hovering, just present, like an anchor in the room.
When Cynthia called everyone to sit, the lights dimmed slightly and Tom cleared his throat, holding up his glass.
“All right, listen,” he said, cheeks turning a charming shade of embarrassed pink, “I’m terrible at speeches, but it’s been—what, Cyn? Eighteen years?”
“Eighteen wonderful years,” she said, squeezing his hand.
The guests clinked glasses. Warmth rippled through the room.
Tom looked at her like she hung the stars. “She’s the best thing I ever did,” he said. “And I’m grateful every day she didn’t run screaming the moment she met my family.”
Laughter. A few affectionate groans.
Cynthia nudged him. “You’re the best thing I ever did too.” Then she added, to the room, “Thank you all for loving us the way you do—and for showing up, year after year.”
More toasts followed—gentle teasing, memories of their early dating days, jokes about Tom nearly missing his own wedding because his truck refused to start that morning. The kind of stories that let you see the bones of a marriage, not just the shine.
I looked at Graeme.
He was smiling—soft, proud, a little nostalgic.
He glanced at me and his expression changed into something warmer. Something that reached straight into my chest and squeezed.
Dinner was easy. Conversation light. Someone put on quiet Christmas jazz. A couple of guests brought out gifts for Tom and Cynthia—handmade ornaments, a framed photo from a camping trip.
I helped pass around plates and refill drinks without thinking too hard about it. It felt… natural. Like stepping into a room where my place had already been saved.
At one point, Cynthia leaned toward me while the others talked.
“He’s different with you,” she said quietly, nodding toward Graeme at the other end of the table.
My breath caught. “Different how?”
“Lighter,” she said simply. “And I’ve known that man since we were knee-high to a snowbank.”
My heart tipped sideways.
Later, after cake and more stories and a heated debate over whether colored lights or warm white ones were superior (Graeme and I both voted white—Cynthia declared us boring), Tom dug out an old photo album.
They showed pictures of Graeme and Tom as kids sledding down a hill. A teenage Graeme leaning awkwardly against a basketball hoop Tom and Cynthia's first Christmas together after they got married. A young Cynthia holding a pie proudly despite a disastrously burnt crust.
I laughed more than I expected. Graeme teased Tom. Tom teased Graeme. It felt like watching the roots of a life spread out on the table.
And for one impossible second, I wanted to belong to all of it—not as a guest or a visitor passing through, but as someone who stayed.
I didn’t say it out loud. Wanting didn’t make it true, and I’d learned a long time ago not to ask for things that didn’t come with guarantees.
Eventually, the night began to wind down. People collected coats. Cynthia hugged everyone twice.
Tom squeezed Graeme’s shoulder. Then he pulled me into a hug that startled me, strong and sincere.
“Come back anytime,” he said. “You’re family now.”
My throat went tight. I managed a nod.
Outside, the cold was crisp, bright, almost holy. Snowflakes clung to my eyelashes. Graeme’s fingers threaded through mine, warm and sure.
He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t ask what I was thinking. He just kept my hand in his until we reached the truck, and somehow that said more than any question could.
The drive home was quiet, but not empty. The kind of quiet that held meaning simply because he was there and I was there and that was enough.
Inside his house, the woodstove still radiated leftover heat. He fed it one of the logs we’d chopped yesterday, and sparks leapt upward like fireflies.
I changed into my reindeer jammies without thinking twice—my body choosing comfort the way flowers chose sunlight. I grabbed my reindeer plush and padded back to the living room where the fire glowed gold.
Graeme sat on the rug and opened his arms. “Come here,” he said, gentle as breath.
I went to him.
Not small from fear. Not small from overstimulation. Small because it felt right. Because the safety around him made my ribs loosen and my breath soften and my mind quiet.
“Warm enough?” he murmured, stroking my hair.
I nodded, leaning closer, melting into every steady touch.
He picked up a picture book from the coffee table—a simple one, soft colors, wide illustrations. He didn’t ask if I wanted it. He just opened to the first page, voice going warm and rounded in a way that made me completely happy.