Chapter 15 Sunny
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sunny
Okay, I’m going to make Ryder smile. Even if it kills me.
It’s snowing, which should make it easier, right? I mean, snow is basically magic in flake form. It softens everything. It makes everything feel a little lighter.
At least that’s how I see it, usually.
Ryder, however, might be about to stage a one-man protest against the weather. But I’m determined. I will make him crack a smile.
We’re walking down the cobblestone street just past the hotel, which, by the way, is straight out of a Christmas movie. The gas lamps glow like they’re from a Victorian postcard, and the fresh snow sparkles underfoot.
It’s everything I’ve always loved about the holidays, even when I was a little kid.
Aunt Evie used to take me on these walks, pointing out all the brownstones with their wreaths on every door, telling me how everyone had their own story to tell, even a brick building covered in snow.
I turn to him.
“See that building?” I point to one on the corner that’s all decked out in wreaths. “Aunt Evie used to tell me that place had the most Christmas spirit in the entire neighborhood. I think she meant it metaphorically, but… I don’t know. I think she was just in love with the idea of it all.”
Ryder’s face is, as usual, an unreadable stone. But his posture’s a little less rigid, and I swear I see the tiniest twitch of his shoulders.
Maybe he’s not about to file a formal complaint against the holiday season.
“I don’t get it,” he says flatly. “What’s the big deal with all of this?”
I grin, trying to keep it light.
“It’s not a big deal. It’s the little things. Like this.” I wave my hand at the twinkling lights hanging from the trees, the ones that are obviously supposed to make you feel all cozy inside. “It’s magic. It’s tradition. It’s joy. Can’t you feel it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. I feel him sigh more than I hear it. But I don’t give up.
“Okay, okay. Maybe you can’t feel it yet. But seriously, there’s something about all of it that makes you feel like the world’s been reset. Like everyone can just take a break from their usual whatever and, I don’t know, breathe. Be happy. Don’t you want that?”
I can’t see his eyes through the dark rim of his coat’s collar, but I swear I feel him soften a little. He doesn’t give in completely yet, but there’s less ice in his voice when he speaks again.
“Doesn’t sound like something you’d get behind,” he mutters. “Sounds like sentimental nonsense.”
I snort. “It’s only nonsense if you’ve never been kissed under mistletoe.”
He almost smiles at that.
Almost.
Instead, he just gives a low chuckle. Barely a sound, but it’s there. Progress.
I keep going, the overzealous Christmas elf that I am.
“Seriously, though, Aunt Evie used to tell me that the best part of Christmas was that everyone could forget about the mess of the year and focus on the good stuff for a few weeks. The little things. Family, friends, and silly traditions.”
I point at a nearby bakery window with a sign advertising gingerbread cookies. “You know, like Christmas truffles. Which, so that you know, are mandatory for your Christmas initiation. Not optional.”
“Christmas truffles?” His tone is flat, but there’s the tiniest edge of curiosity there.
“Yep. And hot cocoa. We could get the best gingerbread in Boston.” I give him my most convincing smile. “I’m serious. You haven’t really done Christmas until you’ve eaten a gingerbread cookie that’s borderline illegal, it’s so good.”
“Sounds intense,” he says, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes now, a little something I can’t put my finger on. And for once, he doesn’t appear to be regretting all his life choices.
I take this as a win.
“You might not believe me now,” I say, practically bouncing on my heels, “but wait. One bite and you’ll be wondering how you lived your life without it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You really think I’m going to let a cookie change my mind about Christmas?”
“Change your mind?” I give him a look. “No, no, no. I’m just giving you the chance to experience the magic. Think of it as a gateway drug to actual Christmas joy.”
For a moment, we stand there, looking at each other, the snow falling between us.
And then, finally, he smirks. It’s small. It’s fleeting. But it’s there. My heart does a little happy dance.
“I’ll have one cookie,” he says, a smidgen less tight than before. “But only because you won’t stop talking about it.”
“Yes!” I punch the air as if I’ve just won Olympic gold. “We’re doing this. You won’t regret it.”
Ryder looks at me with a mix of resignation and amusement, which, I’m pretty sure, is as close as I’m going to get to him enjoying Christmas. But hey, I’ll take it.
We turn the corner toward the bakery, and I can’t help but feel a little warmer, even with the snow piling up around us. Maybe I can get through to this grumpy silver fox after all.
After we’ve devoured the truffles—which were so good I almost shed a tear—we’re still not done. Oh no. I’ve got an entire holiday experience planned, and Ryder is in for the ride whether he likes it or not.
“Okay, okay,” I say, practically bouncing as we step out of the bakery, as if I’ve just crossed some magical threshold. “Next stop: the Faneuil Hall Holiday Market. It’s a Christmas miracle waiting to happen.”
He’s still got that suspicious squint on his face. He seems to think I’m trying to sell him a product I made in my basement, but I can tell he’s intrigued.
I mean, who wouldn’t be? Christmas markets are undeniably charming.
We make our way down the cobblestone streets, heading toward the market. The evening is crisp, the lights twinkling above us like stars.
There are rows of wooden stalls, each one overflowing with artisanal holiday goodies. Handmade candles, knitted scarves, and tiny trinkets that probably don’t do anything useful but look adorable on a shelf. The breeze smells of cinnamon, pine, and a little bit of magic.
Okay, I’ll admit that last one might be just the spiked cider, but still…
Ryder’s been mostly silent, but I catch him glancing at the lights, the people, the decorations. He’s not saying anything, but something’s shifting in the way he walks. Maybe he’s starting to enjoy it.
I can’t resist. “You must try the spiced nuts. They’re, like, candy-coated perfection.”
“Spiced nuts,” Ryder repeats with a deadpan expression. “Really setting the bar high here, huh?”
“Oh, I’m not just setting the bar high, my friend,” I say, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I’m setting the bar and then tossing it into a pile of fairy lights and festive nonsense.”
I drag him to a stall piled high with bags of warm, cinnamon-sweetened almonds, cashews, and pecans. I don’t even let him look at the price tag before I toss a bag at him.
He grumbles but takes it. He’s handling all of this with an air of reluctant acceptance. Maybe it’s a sign of progress? I’ll take it.
As we walk past more stalls, I find myself humming along to the Christmas carols playing in the background. We come across a street performer standing on a rickety crate, belting out “O Holy Night” as if he’s got a choir behind him.
Honestly, he’s not bad. I mean, he’s no Mariah Carey, but the guy’s trying.
“I love this song,” I announce to no one in particular, probably a little too loudly.
Ryder shoots me a sideways glance, but I’m already in my own little world, and I don’t care. Before I know it, I’m singing along to the music. Off-key, of course.
“Oh niiiiii-iiiiiight,” I belt out dramatically, making a show of holding a pretend microphone in one hand and gesturing like I’m about to launch into a full-on performance.
I hear a stifled cough from Ryder.
I keep going, though. “Diviiiiiiiiiiiiine.”
I’m so off-key it’s embarrassing, but it’s also so much fun. I grin as we walk through the crowd, all bundled up in our coats and scarves, my voice warbly in the chilly air.
Ryder’s face is a picture of conflict. His lips twitch. He’s doing everything in his power not to crack a smile.
I glance at him, noticing the tiny flicker of emotion in the corner of his mouth. “You’re grinning. You can’t fool me, Ryder Hale. I saw that.”
He clears his throat, his eyes narrowing in the most unconvincing attempt at a scowl. “I wasn’t grinning. I had something in my throat.”
I giggle. “Sure, you did. Keep telling yourself that.”
For a second, I think he’s going to snap back with one of his usual deadpan retorts, but he gives me a look. A look that’s somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement.
The performer reaches the big finish, and I can’t help myself. I have to belt out the last line.
“Ohhhh niiiii-iiiiight diviiiiiiine!
As I finish, I do an exaggerated bow, dropping my scarf dramatically, and when I look up, I find that he’s smiling.
Like, full-on, not just lip-twitch smiling. A real, almost soft smile that makes my heart do a little flip.
It’s brief, so quick that it almost doesn’t even register. But I see it.
I grin back, triumphant. “See? I knew you had it in you. You just needed a little Sunny magic.”
Ryder’s smile fades as quickly as it appeared, but there’s a lightness in his expression now.
He turns his gaze away, pretending to be all serious again.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but I can tell by the way he’s holding his hot cider that he’s not actually annoyed.
“I’m a holiday enthusiast with a gift for spreading cheer,” I say, taking a sip of my own cider.
We continue walking through the market, sampling everything from handcrafted soaps to overpriced mittens. We pass a stall selling tiny ornaments, and I can’t resist grabbing a glittery reindeer for the hotel’s tree.
Ryder’s looking at a vintage sign with the words Merry and Bright in swirly gold script, and I wonder, just for a moment, if maybe he’s getting a little bit into the spirit after all.
Maybe he won’t admit it yet. But I’ve got plenty of time to wear him down.
After we’ve exhausted the market’s supply of hot cider and cutesy ornaments, I’ve got one last perfect stop in mind. I’m practically vibrating with excitement.
“Alright, Ryder Hale,” I announce, giving him a sly grin as we walk toward the path leading to Boston Common. “Time for some ice skating.”
His eyes narrow. “Ice skating? You’re kidding, right? I’m not exactly a glide on frozen water kind of guy.”
“Oh, come on!” I tug at his arm enthusiastically. “It’ll be fun. Look, there’s nothing more Christmassy than skating under the stars, with the twinkly lights reflecting off the ice, and maybe a hot chocolate afterward. You’ll love it.”
He shakes his head, arms crossing over his chest in the most infuriatingly confident way. “No, thank you. I’ll watch.”
I roll my eyes, deciding not to give up so easily.
“Oh no. No, no, no.” I grab his hand, yanking him toward the rink before he can protest again. “You’re going on the ice. You don’t get just to watch. Come on!”
I’m laughing, but Ryder? He’s scowling with the look of a man who’s about to be shoved into a vat of cold cement.
He tries to slow me down, digging in his heels, but I’m stronger than I look. And maybe just a little too stubborn for my own good.
Finally, we make it to the rink, and Ryder’s doing that thing where he crosses his arms and glares at the ground as if it’s personally offended him. I hold out a pair of skates, grinning.
“You’re going to love this, I swear. It’ll be magical. You’ll feel like you’re in one of those cheesy Christmas movies.”
He doesn’t take the skates.
“Magical,” he mutters dryly. “Right.”
I sigh dramatically, grab his hand again, and lead him to a bench. We get the skates on, and despite his protests, I finally get him onto the ice.
At first, he’s a deer on roller skates, wobbling, stiff, and gripping the edge of the rink to keep himself upright.
He’s awkward. Seriously, it’s almost endearing. He might collapse into a heap of frustrated billionaire at any second.
“Come on, you’re fine.” I cheer, skating circles around him with a giggle. “Just trust the ice. Pretend it’s like walking, but on slippery ground.”
He shoots me a look that could melt all the ice in Boston. “Thanks for the tip, Miss Ice Skating Pro,” he grumbles, still clutching the side of the rink because it’s clearly his anchor to civilization.
I can’t help but laugh, zooming away in a smooth glide. “You’ve got this! Come on!”
Of course, Ryder doesn’t got this. Not yet.
He slips once, then catches himself. Then, not even two minutes later, he falls again, crashing into the ice with a disgruntled yelp.
“Ahh!” I bite back a laugh, skating back to him. “See? Wasn’t so bad, right?”
He’s not having it. He glares up at me as if I personally betrayed him.
“I’m just going to watch,” he mutters, starting to crawl toward the edge.
But I’m not having it. Not today.
I take his gloved hand, pulling him back toward the center of the rink. “You don’t get to quit. Come on. It’s just you, me, and the ice. Let’s do this.”
He gives me the most skeptical look I’ve ever seen. “If I fall again—”
“When you fall again,” I correct, chuckling. “But this time, I’ll make sure I catch you.”
I drag him a few more feet, my excitement fueling his resistance. But then, of course, when I think I’m starting to get him to loosen up, my foot catches and, whoops, I begin to fall.
I can practically hear the thwack of the ice coming for me, and I brace for impact. But before I even hit the ground, Ryder’s there, his strong arms reaching out to catch me, pulling me back into him with surprising ease.
It’s only a moment, but it could be a lifetime. Our bodies come together with a soft, breathless thud, our cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion.
We stand there for a second, just staring at each other, breathing the same frosty air. His grip on me tightens, and I can feel the tension in his chest as he pulls me up, but it’s not just about saving me from falling.
He’s holding onto something else, too.
I blink, suddenly aware of the way our faces are so close, the way his breath mingles with mine in a perfect, cloud-like fog.
And then we both start to laugh. Not just a chuckle, but real laughter. The kind that bubbles up unexpectedly, the kind you can’t stop once it starts.
I’m floating, the sound of his laughter mixing with mine, filling the space between us. Ryder, Ryder Hale, the man who’s been nothing but business and grumpiness, laughing, cheeks flushed, eyes brighter than I’ve ever seen them.
We both stumble a little as we regain our balance, still chuckling like a couple of teenagers caught in the middle of a snowball fight. I wipe a stray tear from my cheek, and his smile softens.
“You’re not as bad at this as you think,” I tease, still feeling a little light-headed. “Just don’t go falling again.”
“Funny,” he mutters, but there’s warmth in his voice now, something less guarded.
I give him a knowing look. “Come on, let’s keep going. We can’t stop now.”