Chapter 4
FOUR
JESS
The GPS died three miles back, which felt like a personal attack.
Apparently, “Cartwright barn, you can’t miss it” was Powell-speak for “wander rural Alabama until you question all your choices.” I passed three barns, two sheds, and a deer-blind on stilts before I saw his truck parked beside a weather-faded barn that had long since surrendered its red color to sun and time.
A crooked sign was screwed to the fence: CARTWRIGHT: KEEP OUT (unless you’re bringing pie).
Very welcoming.
I zipped my jacket a little higher as I stepped out. It wasn’t freezing—this was early December in Alabama, not Alaska—but the air had a cool snap that slid under my collar and made me wish my coat was just a tad thicker.
The big sliding barn door was half-open. Warm yellow light spilled through the gap, and I could hear faint movement inside. Of course Powell was already here. Of course he had the place lit up like a crime scene for elves. Of course he hadn’t thought to send a pin until after I’d texted twice.
I pushed the door wider and stepped into a mostly empty barn.
Not spooky-empty. Just… unused. A couple old hay bales sagged in a corner.
A plastic tub labeled EXTENSION CORDS (BAD) sat shoved against the wall like someone forgot to haul it into town with the rest of the Christmas decorations.
A battered fiberglass reindeer—missing one antler—peeked from beneath a tarp, its single intact eye judging me.
The air smelled like dust, old hay, and faint cedar—the scent of every off-season Christmas item that had ever lived here.
Powell stood near a folding table he’d set up in the center of the open space, sleeves pushed up, forearms on full display, unfolding papers with the calm of a man who believed everything would go smoothly.
He looked up when my boots tapped the concrete. “There you are.”
“You are terrible at giving directions,” I replied. “You said ‘Cartwright barn.’ There are at least four. FOUR, Powell. I passed two that looked like murder scenes.”
He winced. “I sent you the pin.”
“After I texted twice asking if I’d crossed into Mississippi.”
He laughed under his breath. “Okay, that’s fair. Next time—pin first.”
“Next time, GPS coordinates tattooed across your forehead.”
That earned a full laugh, warm and deep, and damn it, it did something to me I did not appreciate.
I took a seat, flipping open my notebook and heard it.
Clip—clop. Clip—clop. Tiny hooves.
Had the man shanghaied actual reindeer for this meeting?
Slowly, I turned.
A miniature donkey—plump, gray, fluffier than physics should allow, with a purple halter and a little brass bell—walked around an old hay bale like she’d been waiting to make an entrance. Her ears perked when she spotted him.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
Powell’s entire face softened. “Esmerelda!”
The donkey brayed—a delighted, ridiculous sound—and trotted straight to him. She shoved her head into his stomach with the force of a devoted toddler, and he sank a hand into her fur, laughing.
Laughing.
Actual, genuine, stupidly attractive laughing.
“This is emotional manipulation,” I said.
“She just likes attention,” he replied, scratching behind her ear.
“She likes you.”
Esmerelda leaned harder into him, confirming my point.
I folded my arms. “You owe me an explanation.”
“For what?”
“Your nickname. Donkey. You said you’d tell me at our next meeting.”
Realization flickered across his face, followed by something warm and sheepish. “Oh. Right.”
Esmerelda all but sparkled with pride, like she knew the story was about her.
“There was a barn fire two years ago when lightning hit the McKinnon place.”
My irritation wavered.
“Everyone got out,” he continued. “Except her.” He patted Esmerelda’s shoulder. “The stall door jammed. She was screaming.”
My breath caught.
“I went in and carried her out.”
I blinked at him. “You carried a donkey out of a burning building.”
“She’s lighter than she looks.”
Esmerelda snorted, as if offended.
“The guys at the station thought it was hilarious,” he added. “Said I was stubborn as a mule and now officially donkey-adjacent. Name stuck.”
I stared at him, the ground shifting a little under the foundation of ten-year-old resentment I’d been standing on.
As if summoned by the sudden quiet, Esmerelda clip-clopped over to investigate me. She nudged my boot with her soft nose, then looked up with dark, impossibly sweet eyes.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Don’t you dare.”
She nudged again, more insistent this time.
My hand moved without permission, settling between her ears. Her fur was unbelievably soft, like someone had crossed a teddy bear with a cloud. She leaned into the touch, eyes half-closing in bliss.
“This is cheating,” I muttered, but my fingers kept stroking.
Powell saved a donkey from a burning building. A donkey. Not a person—which would’ve been heroic but expected for a firefighter. A donkey. Because she was scared and trapped, and he couldn’t leave her.
Esmerelda pushed her head against my palm, demanding more attention.
“You’re biased,” I told her. “Of course you think he’s wonderful.”
She made a soft huffing sound, like she was laughing at me.
The man I’d spent ten years resenting as selfish and cruel had risked his life for a miniature donkey. Had earned his nickname through an act of pure, stubborn compassion.
What else had I gotten wrong about him? The question lodged itself somewhere between my ribs and my spine, demanding an answer I wasn’t ready to give.
“That’s…” I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “You earned the nickname.”
His eyes softened, and for just a moment, the careful distance he’d been maintaining seemed to dissolve. The look he gave me was so gentle, so unguarded, that it made my chest tight. A dangerous warmth flickered where it had no business flickering.
Absolutely not. Not happening.
I snapped my notebook open with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet barn. “Okay. Twelve Stops. Brainstorm. Go.”
He blinked once, as if coming back from somewhere far away, then flipped to a fresh page in his own notebook. The professional mask slid back into place, though something softer lingered around his eyes. “Hit me.”
“We need things people can do.” My voice steadied now that we were back on safer ground. “Not just sip-and-stroll boring stuff that makes people want to go home and watch Netflix instead.”
“Activities,” he agreed, pen poised. “Festive ones that don’t suck.”
“Right. So… gingerbread? Some kind of build or decorate thing? Everyone loves destroying things made of sugar.”
“Gingerbread relay,” he said immediately. “Three people per team, assembly-line style. One person does the walls and basic structure, one handles all the decorating and candy placement, one adds the final touches—whatever that means.”
I squinted at him in suspicion. “You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?”
A faint flush crept up his neck. “Maybe a little. In my spare time. Hypothetically.”
“Fine. Gingerbread relay it is.” I wrote it down, trying to ignore how cute his embarrassment was. “Next?”
“Caroling.” He leaned forward. “But competitive. With actual stakes.”
I stared at him, pen hovering over the page. “Competitive caroling. Explain how that doesn’t end in bloodshed.”
“Points system,” he said, warming to the idea. “You get points if you make people laugh. Bonus points if you get them to groan at terrible puns. Extra bonus points if someone slams the door because your rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ is so aggressively off-key it constitutes a public menace.”
I hated—absolutely hated—that it was brilliant. And that I was already imagining Cord trying to hit high notes and failing spectacularly. The man might be Hollywood handsome, but he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Not that his fiancée, Lucy, minded.
I wrote the suggestion down with unnecessary force.
Powell grinned like he’d won something, and I had to look away before I did something stupid like grin back.
“Holiday trivia.” I tapped my pen against the paper. “Make people suffer through obscure questions about the history of mistletoe or whatever.”
“As tradition demands,” he agreed solemnly. “Nothing says holiday spirit like public humiliation over not knowing when Christmas trees became a thing.”
“Ornament something,” I continued, momentum building. “Toss? Bowling? Memory match? Something that involves those terrible ornaments every family has but won’t admit to buying.”
“Memory match,” he said without hesitation. “But with the weirdest, ugliest ornaments we can find. The more questionable the better. I’m talking ornaments that make people go ‘why does this exist’ and ‘who thought this was a good idea.’”
“Perfect. Shame-based holiday joy. My favorite kind.”
We were trading ideas faster now, the rhythm easy and natural in a way that would have worried me if I’d let myself think about it.
“Cookie decorating speed round,” I scribbled. “With a timer that makes everyone panic and create frosting disasters.”
“Ugly sweater judging,” he countered. “But the contestants have to model them. Runway style. With poses.”
“Oh God, yes. Scent guessing with holiday candles,” I offered. “Some normal ones mixed with truly bizarre flavors to keep people on their toes.”
“Reindeer cornhole,” he said, looking pleased with himself.
I stopped writing and looked up at him. “Explain.”
“It’s cornhole,” he said, spreading his hands as if it were obvious. “But festive. Holiday-themed. With reindeer antlers on the boards and jingle bells that ring when you score.”
I sighed with extra dramatic flair and wrote it down, even though I was already picturing how cute it would look set up in the town square.
Esmerelda chose that moment to nudge my boot again—traitor—and I shot her a glare that did nothing to discourage her continued meddling in my crumbling resolve.
“Okay.” I scanned my notes and did a quick tally. “We’ve got sixteen solid ideas, in case some of them don’t work out or turn into complete disasters.”
He looked genuinely pleased, his whole face lighting up in a way that did dangerous things to my pulse. “This is really good. Better than good, actually. People are going to love this.”
“Don’t get excited yet.” I closed my notebook with a snap. “We’re not bonding over holiday planning. This is just... professional collaboration.”
“Sure.” That infuriating smile spread across his face like he didn’t believe me for even half a second. “Strictly professional.”
I checked the time on my phone and jolted upright, almost knocking over my travel coffee mug. “Okay—I have to go. Like, seriously right now.”
“So soon?” There was something almost disappointed in his voice that I could not think about.
“Yes. I have three different syrup flavors to finish before tomorrow, pastries to prep for the morning rush, beans to grind, and inventory to check. Plus, my morning regulars will burn down civilization if I’m not stocked and caffeinated by six AM.”
He stood too, unfolding from his chair with that easy grace that shouldn’t be legal. “Let me walk you to your car.”
“No,” I said, then caught the slight hurt that flashed across his features and softened my voice a fraction. “I’m good. Really. I can handle a thirty-foot walk to my car without an escort.”
Esmerelda followed me to the barn door, her little bell chiming a farewell that sounded almost mournful. I tried not to read too much into the fact that even the donkey seemed sad to see me go.
“Well,” Powell shoved his hands deep into his pockets in a gesture that was somehow both casual and vulnerable. “This was… good.”
“It was not a moment,” I warned, pointing at him with my car keys. “Don’t make it weird.”
His smile was warm and impossible to ignore, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made my stomach do things I refused to acknowledge. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Next,” I said, backing toward my car like he might follow if I didn’t establish clear boundaries. “Bring real plans on execution. No vague prophecies or wishful thinking.”
“Yes, ma’am.” There was something almost fond in the way he said it that made my cheeks warm.
I slid into my car before I could do something catastrophically stupid like smile back, or worse, suggest we grab dinner to continue planning. The engine turned over with a reliable purr, and I forced myself not to glance in the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the driveway.
As I turned onto the county road, my headlights cutting through the gathering dusk, I realized—with growing horror—that the ground under my carefully constructed, decade-long grudge wasn’t as solid as it used to be. In fact, it felt suspiciously like it might be developing cracks.
And that was going to be a problem. A big one.