Chapter 5
Ivy
I’m cutting an apple for Junie’s after-school snack when I ask the question. “So, what are your favorite holiday traditions that you and your dad have?”
She swings her legs under the table, chewing the piece of cheddar cheese I sliced on her plate. She swallows, then shrugs. “We usually do pizza night on Fridays, but Dad's too busy now.”
“I’ve heard about your legendary pizza nights,” I say, smiling. “But what about during Christmas? What do you do for fun?”
Another shrug. “We don’t really do much. Not like the other kids in my class do.”
The way she says it makes something pinch deep in my chest. Casual and matter-of-fact. Like she’s already decided not to expect more. The kid lives on a Christmas tree farm and doesn’t have a magical Christmas? Unreal. We have to change that.
I lean my elbows on the table. “Well, what if we did something really special this year? Christmas is basically the perfect excuse for having so much fun.”
Her eyes light up, cautious but curious. “Like what?”
“Like everything. Hot cocoa. Homemade marshmallows are the best, and you can do almost any flavor. Movie marathons. Cookies in ridiculous shapes. Staying up way too late to watch for Santa. Driving around to see the best lights in town. Snow angels. Drying oranges to hang over the windows so the entire house smells amazing.” I'm breathless; I'm so excited thinking about it all.
Junie leans forward and asks me dreamily. “Can we do all of that?”
“Absolutely,” I say, already heading for the craft cupboard. “I have an idea. We’re going to make a map.”
She perks up even more. "Like a treasure map?"
I shrug. "You know what? Yeah, like a treasure map. Why not? We can call it whatever you want."
I organized this cabinet earlier today and repurposed old yogurt containers for paintbrushes and made it so Junie can find things for her art projects easier. This kid loves to do crafts, and I wanted to make everything easier for her to find.
Ten minutes later, the dining table is covered in a giant sheet of beige butcher paper that runs from one end to the other. Markers, glue sticks, scissors, and every color of construction paper I could find are scattered across the surface.
Junie’s in charge of drawing the treasure chest at the top of the page with gold coins spilling out with little snowflakes mixed in. I work on big bubble letters: The Bennett Family Holiday Treasure Map.
Every time we think of a tradition, Junie practices copying it down in her careful, crooked handwriting, complete with pictures, so she knows what’s what.
Christmas lights tour
Hot cocoa and homemade marshmallows
Cozy fires with story time
Christmas movie marathons with popcorn
Bake cookies for the neighbors
Make paper snowflakes for every window
Gingerbread house contest
Snowball fight (if weather cooperates)
Decorate the tree with only the weirdest ornaments we can find
Ugly sweater party
Make a snowman
Orange slices hung across the windows
When the list is done, we make little paths between each tradition, winding like a pirate map. I add tiny doodles as we go with mugs of cocoa, candy canes, holly berries. Junie draws a giant Santa hat on the treasure chest and announces it “done.”
We march out to the garage, armed with flashlights, and dig through the stack of boxes marked Christmas in thick black marker that Remy left for us.
Some lids are dusty. The tape is peeling.
I pop one open and find an avalanche of ornaments, some shiny and new, some clearly from decades ago when Remy was little.
Junie gasps like she’s discovered buried gold. “We have so much stuff!”
“We have everything,” I say excitedly. “And we’re going to use it all.”
Over the next few hours, the house transforms. We hang garland along the staircase and wrap the banister with twinkle lights.
Junie finds an old box of ornaments shaped like tiny sleds and hangs them in a row across the mantle.
I set a big bowl of pinecones on the coffee table and tuck in sprigs of greenery.
We put on Christmas music at almost full volume. I teach Junie how to slice oranges thin for drying, and I explain to her how we're going to thread them with twine between strands of white lights. They glow like little suns once we hang them across the kitchen windows.
We drag the boxes from room to room while I arrange wreaths and fill mason jars with cinnamon sticks and cloves. She insists on wearing the Santa hat we found in one box, even though it keeps slipping over her eyes.
By the time we finish, the house doesn’t just look different. It feels different. It's as if Christmas had been waiting in those boxes all along.
We stand back in the living room, side by side, looking at the decorations everywhere.
Junie grins. “It looks like a Christmas wonderland. We just need a tree.”
I grin back. “That’s because it is. We can ask your dad about that.”
She hugs me, "Thank you, Ivy. This is going to be the best Christmas ever."
It’s past nine when I finally head down the hall to my room. I’m tired in a satisfying way that comes from making something beautiful.
I take a quick shower to wash off the dust and glitter from the day. My cheeks are still warm from all the laughter, my hair smelling faintly of oranges and cinnamon.
I climb into bed with my phone and call my mom. She answers on the second ring.
“Well, if it isn’t Buddy the Christmas Elf herself,” she says.
I laugh. “I think I might be. This nanny job is…honestly, it’s amazing.”
“I talked to Donna earlier,” Mom says, voice softening. “She says you’re doing great. Junie called her and couldn't stop talking about how much fun she’s having with you decorating."
The words hit something tender in me. “Yeah, she was excited to talk to her Nana tonight. I'm glad she's having fun."
“Donna sounded impressed. Said you’ve already made a difference.”
I smile into the dark, pulling the blankets tighter around me. “It doesn’t feel like a job. It feels like…I don’t know. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re happy, sweetie. Have you heard from Derek about getting your things and Lola?” she asks.
I close my eyes at hearing his name. “No. I wish I could get my stuff, and that he’d let me have Lola.”
“Well, hang on, honey, let me see if I can work some magic,” she says in an ominous tone.
“Oh, Mom,” I laugh.
I can’t sleep because I have so much running through my head.
I pull on socks and pad down the stairs, careful not to wake Junie.
The house is dark except for a few lamps and lights, their soft glow spilling across the living room and catching on the garland we hung along the banister.
The oranges we strung over the windows look like tiny lanterns, and for a second, I stand there and just…
breathe it in. The place feels different now.
Like someone poured Christmas into all the corners that used to be empty.
I head into the kitchen, open the fridge, and grab the milk. Hot cocoa always helps me sleep. I set a pot on the stove and hum to myself as I wait for it to heat.
That’s when the door opens. Cold air rushes in, carrying the scent of snow and pine.
I turn, startled, and there’s Remy, stepping in from the mudroom.
He’s in a hoodie and worn jeans, boots dusted with snow, his hair mussed from the wind.
There’s a streak of sawdust on one sleeve, and he smells faintly of fresh-cut wood.
For a moment, I have a thought of what it might feel like for him to come home and kiss me and pull me into his arms.
I shake that off and pull myself together.
He stops just inside the kitchen, his gaze moving past me to the living room.
I follow his eyes. He’s taking it all in with the lights, the garland, the oranges glowing in the window like he’s not sure what he’s looking at.
“You were busy,” he says finally. His voice is quiet, not gruff exactly, but cautious.
“Yeah, we had a lot of fun,” I shrug as I try not to stare at him too long.
Be cool, Ivy, be cool.
He stares at me and takes in the house, his eyes landing on different things like he’s cataloging it in his mind.
“She said you don’t really do much for Christmas, so…I thought we could decorate and make some plans.”
His gaze shifts to me, and he looks guilty. “She told you that?”
“She wasn’t upset about it.” I glance at him over my shoulder. “But she’s had a lot of fun.”
He just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching me like he’s trying to figure out my angle.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says.
“I know.” I shrug and lift the mug to my lips.
“But I wanted to. We had fun.”He shakes his head when I nudge a second mug toward him.
No thanks. His gaze tracks the cup in my hands instead.
I take a sip and the steam curls against my mouth.
He steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. My breath sticks.Without a word, he reaches for my mug.
His fingers skim mine and a spark jumps in my stomach.
He brings the cup to his mouth, blows lightly across the surface, then drinks from the same spot I did, eyes on mine the entire time.
Heat climbs my throat. My knees go traitor soft.He lowers the mug, slides it back toward me, and our fingers brush again.
The room feels small and bright. I am suddenly very aware of my mouth, and the way he is looking at it.
“Careful,” he says, voice low. “It’s still hot.
”I’m not at all sure he means the chocolate.I clear my throat, trying to be cool, but there’s literally no cool in me right now.
Zip. Zilch. “Junie and I made a Christmas tradition map,” I tell him, turning back to my mug. “You can save it for next year, too.”
His eyes widen briefly, and he looks away. I wonder what he’s thinking.
“She loves the oranges,” I add. “She kept standing back to admire them like she was looking at fireworks.”
That earns the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s enough to make me want to keep chasing it.
“She’s a great kid, Remy.” I say softly. “You’ve done a good job.”
He stares into his cocoa for a long moment. “Yeah, she is.” His voice is quieter now, almost reverent.
We stand there in the soft glow of the lights, sipping cocoa.
I sneak glances at him when I think he’s not looking.
It’s unfair how sexy he looks without even trying.
Every time I’m around him, I feel like I notice something new about him and…
I love it. His dark lashes, that perpetually serious expression.
But tonight there’s something else underneath it.
Something almost…unguarded. Like he’s thawing.
He catches me looking, and for a heartbeat neither of us looks away.
“Are you cold?” he asks, nodding toward the flannel shirt I threw on over my pajamas.
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll check the heater. Sometimes it gets colder in your room,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say.
He takes another sip of cocoa and says, “Thanks…for today. For keeping her happy.”
Something warm blooms in my chest at the words. “Anytime.”
He sets his empty mug in the sink and glances toward the living room again.
His eyes linger on the garland over the front door, the wreath over the mantle, the twinkle of the lights.
I don’t know whether he likes it. He heads down the hall without another word, and I watch him go, his broad frame filling the doorway.
He moves like a man carrying too much, but tonight… maybe it’s just a little less.
The room is warmer now. I curl under the blankets, my hair still smelling faintly of oranges, my chest still warm from cocoa and the smallest crack in Remy Bennett’s armor.
He’s not exactly warm yet, but we’ll get there.
But maybe…just maybe…I’ve started the fire.