Chapter 8
Callie
I crouched beside a box half-filled with tangled lights and pine-scented ribbon, surrounded by a battlefield of packing peanuts and glitter-stained tissue paper. The Book Nook looked like it had been hit by a holiday tornado, but to me, it was perfect chaos.
I glanced at the clock, anxiety twisting my stomach. An hour and twenty minutes yesterday felt like a lifetime, waiting for Sam to haul us out of that snowbank. He’d promised the truck would be ready soon, but the memory of Cavil’s tense silence still clung to me.
I brushed a stray pine needle from my sleeve, shaking off thoughts of him.
Focus, Callie. I inhaled deeply, forcing a smile as I turned back to my work.
The lights in my hand slipped through my fingers, soft and glowing like stars waiting to be strung. I could already imagine how the windows would look once I got them up—warm, inviting, like the kind of place people would want to come in from the cold and stay awhile.
“All right,” I whispered to myself, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “This is your moment. Don’t screw it up.”
The bell above the door jingled, and for half a heartbeat, I thought maybe one of the volunteers had arrived early. But it was just the courier dropping off another donation—this time a box from Margie at the Sweet Spot Bakery. Marmalade flicked his tail, as if he couldn't be bothered.
I peeled back the tape and was hit with the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. Inside were neatly wrapped cookies—some shaped like trees, others like tiny books with sugar-scripted titles. I pulled one free and took a bite before I could second-guess myself.
Instant comfort. Like buttered nostalgia wrapped in sugar.
I smiled and let out a hum of approval. If the rest of the night went down as smooth as that cookie, I’d be golden.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? It had to go smoothly. I wasn’t just throwing a holiday event—I was trying to prove I could carry this place, keep it thriving after everything that had happened. No Mr. Fletcher. No Leo calling the shots. Just me, standing on my own.
I stood up and wiped my hands on my jeans, surveying the shop. Tables half-set, decorations half-hung. So close, and still so much to do.
“You’ve got this,” I murmured again, louder this time, as if saying it aloud might trick my nerves into settling.
I adjusted the stack of holiday novellas near the front, straightened a display of winter romances, and paused to fix a crooked sign that read Sleigh Your Tbr.
Snow tapped gently against the windowpanes. Outside, the world was soft and white and peaceful. But inside me? A storm brewed.
I wanted this night to feel magical. Not just for the customers. For me. I needed a win—something that said I hadn’t just run away from my old life. I’d chosen this one. And I was going to make it count.
The last box of holiday-themed books sat on the counter, the cardboard edges soft from wear. I sliced it open; the flap snapping back like a sigh of relief. Bright covers and glittering titles stared up at me, full of cheer I didn’t quite feel yet.
I’d just lifted A Christmas Kiss when the bell above the door jingled.
Please let it be a volunteer. Or Cavil.
“Callie!”
My stomach dropped.
Leo.
He stepped in like he still had a claim, all smug smiles and fake warmth, his voice too chipper for the cold evening. His eyes swept over the shop like he was appraising it for resale.
“Leo,” I said, forcing my tone flat. “What are you doing here?”
“Just checking in,” he said, strolling closer. Hands in pockets. That confident lean like he hadn’t lost the right to stand in front of me. “Cute place you’ve got.”
The way he said cute made me want to throw something.
“It’s coming together.” I shelved the book a little harder than necessary, the thud sharp in the quiet.
He glanced at the lights I’d strung myself, then back to me. “I heard about your little open house. Thought I’d stop in, make sure everything goes off without a hitch. Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
There it was. The warning buried in civility.
I straightened. “I’ve got it handled.”
Leo leaned lazily against a shelf, eyeing the cookie table like it offended him. “Just remember—some of the donors coming tonight? They have high standards. We don’t want to disappoint.”
The decorations blurred in my vision for a moment. I fought the heat rising in my cheeks.
“They’ll see what matters,” I said, steadying myself. “And that’s more than aesthetics.”
He smiled, all teeth and pretense. “Sure, Callie. Just don’t give people a reason to talk.”
The threat wasn’t even subtle now.
“Is that why you’re here?” I asked, voice brittle. “To remind me how careful I should be? How small?”
He shrugged. “Just looking out for you.”
He turned toward the door without waiting for a response, as if he hadn’t just trampled months of healing in sixty seconds.
“Thanks for stopping by,” I managed through clenched teeth as he turned toward the door.
“Good luck with everything,” he tossed over his shoulder, then disappeared into the cold.
The bell jingled behind him like punctuation—final, mocking. And then silence.
It hit me all at once, like someone had pulled the air out of the room. My heart thundered, but my insides went cold. I stood frozen for a beat, the edges of my vision fuzzy with fury and shame. I wanted to scream. Or throw something. Or crawl into the stockroom and fall apart.
Instead, I grabbed the nearest stack of books and shelved them with too much force, each title landing like a punch. Jingle All the Way. A Cozy Alpine Christmas. The Twelve Dates of December. The cheer on the covers mocked me.
Marmalade wandered over, brushing against my leg with a questioning meow. I reached down and absently scratched behind his ears, grounding myself in the soft vibration of his purring.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” I whispered, voice cracking.
I swallowed hard and blinked back the tears, refusing to let them fall. Not now. Not for him.
He didn’t get to ruin this.
Not my night. Not my store. Not me.
With a deep breath, I stood a little straighter and went back to decorating, one light at a time, rebuilding what he tried to shake loose.
I had barely finished shelving the last of the books when the bell over the door chimed again. My heart jolted, nerves still frayed. I glanced up, expecting another wave of stress—maybe Leo again, doubling back for some final dig.
But it was Cavil.
He stepped through the door like the storm hadn’t touched him, snow clinging to his boots, jacket unzipped. His eyes scanned the room once—lights, garlands, books—before settling on me. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked.
My spine straightened without meaning to.
“You good?” he asked finally, voice low, almost indifferent. But not quite.
I forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… setting up.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t nod. Just watched me for a beat longer than comfortable, like he was inventorying damage.
His gaze flicked toward the back, toward the door Leo had slipped through. I could feel it—his suspicion, the way the silence between us thickened.
“Heard he stopped by.” His tone was neutral. Practiced. Too careful to be casual.
I swallowed, pretending to dust glitter off my fingers. “Mmhmm. Just checking in.”
Cavil’s jaw ticked. He leaned a hip against the counter like it was habit, arms crossing over his chest, but I could see the tension winding up his posture. He didn’t press, not with questions. That wasn’t his way.
Still, I felt picked apart.
“I said I’m fine,” I tried again, softer this time.
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
I busied myself with a crooked stack of holiday romances. Silent Night, Second Chances. Merry and Bright. I adjusted the covers until they lined up just so.
Marmalade padded between us, purring like he didn’t feel the strain in the air.
“I’ve got this,” I said, more to myself than to him.
Cavil didn’t argue. Didn’t reassure me either. Just watched for a few seconds longer, then pushed off the counter and stepped closer—close enough to feel, not close enough to touch.
“I’ll hang around,” he said, voice quieter now. “In case he forgets his manners.”
He didn’t wait for permission. Just walked over to the front display and started straightening a crooked sign, like that had been his plan all along.
And somehow, that simple gesture—his presence, silent and steady—felt like the first deep breath I’d taken since Leo walked in.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
Cavil didn’t answer. He just stayed.
I took a breath, grounding myself in the checklist still buzzing through my head. “Okay, the community room needs chairs in a circle for the reading. Cozy, not cramped.” I pointed toward the stack in the back, metal folding chairs that had seen better decades.
Cavil’s nod was barely more than a tilt of his head. “Walk me through it.”
Something about the way he said it—simple, unhurried—steadied my nerves. I shifted into motion again.
“Tables along that wall,” I said, pointing. “That way they’re close to the cider and snacks. And I want lights strung across the windows—not too high. Just enough to soften the room.”
“All right.” He moved without needing more. No follow-up questions, no commentary. Just stepped in, grabbed the nearest table, and adjusted the angle until it lined up clean.
“Thanks,” I murmured, more grateful than I meant to sound.
We worked in tandem, the kind of quiet cooperation that didn’t need anything.
His presence filled the silence without demanding anything of it.
My voice steadied the more we moved—the nerves Leo had kicked up slowly dissolving under the scrape of chair legs and the warm hum of Christmas lights overhead.
“You think that’ll hold?” he asked, bracing one of the older tables with a glance over his shoulder.
I eyed it, then nodded. “Yeah, just—maybe an inch closer to the wall?”
He didn’t question the adjustment. Just shifted it without a word while I stood there, arms crossed, watching the shape of the space start to change.
“Snacks get here at six,” I said, settling into a rhythm, “and the authors start reading at seven. I’ve got a schedule in the front desk drawer but it’s all up here.” I tapped my temple.
“Bet it is.”
I smiled, surprised by the softness in his tone. Not teasing—just certain.
Then I blinked, mind blanking suddenly. “What was I saying?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Dalrymple’s cookies.”
“Right.” I let out a breath. “Thank God for that woman.”
He didn’t smile, exactly—but the corner of his mouth ticked up, just enough.
We kept moving. Hanging garland. Straightening displays. He passed me a roll of tape without asking and steadied a step stool when I reached too high. He never crowded. Just… stayed.
And in that quiet, with his steady presence behind me, the edges of the day dulled. The shop no longer felt like a storm I had to weather alone. It felt like something warm was settling in—something solid I hadn’t realized I’d been waiting for.
I shoved the last gift bag onto the display shelf, fingers unsteady despite my best effort to act like everything was fine. Cinnamon and pine filled the air, soft and sweet—like the store was trying to calm me down. I wished it would work.
Cavil stood near the counter, not moving much.
Just… there. Solid. Like if anything tried to come at me again, it’d have to go through him first. I kept my head down, arranging ribbon that didn’t need arranging, trying not to crumble under the weight of what Leo had said—or how easily it had gotten under my skin.
Then, quiet and even:
“He always talk to you like that?”
It wasn’t a question so much as a read. Like he’d already guessed the answer and just needed to hear me say it out loud.
I didn’t look at him. “He likes control.” My voice sounded smaller than I wanted.
Cavil didn’t respond right away. I could feel the silence pull tight. Then he reached into the box beside me, pulled out a gift bag, and handed it over.
His knuckles brushed mine.
“Not here,” he said.
Just two words, but they cut through the noise in my chest like a blade—clean and true. I swallowed hard, trying not to show how much it got to me. But something in me eased. Not all the way, but enough.
I nodded once, and the corner of my mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Thanks.”
He glanced at me then. Not too long. Just enough. “For what?”
“For being here,” I said. “You didn’t have to come tonight.”
He gave a slight shrug. “Didn’t look like you wanted to be alone.”
There was no pity in his tone, just fact. No pressure. Just presence.
“Or maybe you came to keep an eye on my table-stacking form,” I added, trying to lighten things up.
“Little uneven,” he deadpanned.
That almost-smile cracked into something real. Not big. But it was there.
He stepped a little closer, not crowding me—just nearby. Like if I tipped, he’d be close enough to catch it before anyone noticed.
“Callie…” His voice dipped. Rougher now. Hesitant.
But before he could say whatever came next, Marmalade shot out from under the table, barreling between our feet like a tiny orange comet.
I let out a startled laugh—sharp and short—but it felt good. Cavil stepped back just enough to give the cat room, then looked at me again, and this time, his eyes didn’t move away so quickly.
There was something there. Not loud. Not fast. But steady.
Like him.