Chapter 32
thirty-two
LAILA
Ever After Farms doesn’t look much different as we pull into the entrance.
The fall décor from my last visit is gone, replaced by garlands and bright red bows that make the whole place hum with quiet anticipation.
The Christmas lights glow faintly against the overcast sky—like they’re waiting for night to give them permission to shine.
Holden follows the winding dirt road to the parking lot, gravel crunching beneath tires, and I push open the door before he’s even shifted into park.
It smells like home.
Pine and wood smoke, sugar and spice from The Storybook Cafe. Scents that wrap around me like a warm blanket.
“Daddy—gingerbread!” Henry shouts from his car seat.
“Coming, little man,” Holden chuckles.
I open the back passenger door, where Luna waits, her big eyes trained on me.
We haven’t spent much time together yet, but I’ve already noticed two things: she may look like a tiny version of me, but inside she’s all Holden—quiet, watchful, kind.
When Henry got fussy at breakfast, she simply slid her bacon and a second pancake onto his plate.
“You look pretty today, Mommy.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, her gaze steady.
“Thank you. So do you.”
“You look different.”
I freeze halfway through unbuckling her. “Do I? How?”
“Dunno.” She shrugs. “Can I get hot chocolate? And one of Daddy’s cookies?”
Different how? What does she see that I don’t?
“We’ll ask him,” I say carefully.
“You do look different,” Ella calls, and relief floods me—until I actually see her. She’s got a navy beanie pulled low, a baby strapped to her chest, two more kids darting at her feet, and an older Lucy at her side.
“You haven’t even spent five seconds with me yet,” I blurt, my breath puffing white between us.
She narrows her eyes, absently patting the baby’s back. “It’s a feeling. Did you sleep well?”
“Why is everyone asking me that today?” I mutter.
Holden appears at my side, sliding an arm around my waist like it's something we do every day. “Ready to get the perfect tree?”
The kids erupt in cheers. His hand stays where it is, and the casual intimacy feels…effortless. Familiar. It’s a gesture I usually only get in snippets, but it never builds to this kind of natural intimacy.
“Yep,” I whisper.
“Go find your cousins!” Ella calls, waving the kids toward the rows of evergreens.
Holden laces his fingers through mine as we follow. Another quiet, everyday miracle I don’t want to take for granted again.
A husband. A family. Love. Belonging.
“How’s Luke?” I ask, aiming for normal.
“Somewhere out there, arguing with Dean about the barrel car train and the tractor. Something about dried kolache jelly on the seat.”
I laugh—a real, easy sound. Everything about that statement reminds me that this moment is grounded in normalcy, and it loosens the tightness in my chest a little.
“You seem happy,” Ella says. “It’s a good look for you.”
Luna barrels back toward us, colliding with my legs. “Mom, did you see?” She points toward a small booth nestled in the trees. My view is obscured by branches heavy with frost.
“What is it?”
For a split second, I almost believe that this is real. The warmth, the laughter, the simple ordinariness of it all—it feels like the universe letting me peek at what I’ve been too afraid to reach for.
“Mistletoe!” the kids chorus.
Sure enough, a stand waits ahead, draped in garland and twinkle lights, with signs reading ‘Meet Me in the Mistletoe’ and ‘25 cents’.
Ella shoots me a wicked smile. “You two need some luck.”
“We have plenty of luck,” I say. “Maybe you should find your husband.”
Ella arches a brow. “You’re turning down a chance with mistletoe?”
Alternate timeline Laila? I’d like a word.
“Aunt Laila, it’s tradition,” Lucy insists. “You have to!”
Holden elbows me, his eyes glistening with mischief. “It is a tradition. Hard to argue with that.”
“You really can’t ignore tradition.” Ella’s smile widens. “Or luck.”
“I’ll remember this,” I mutter as Holden tugs me toward the booth.
Luke’s sister Violet is manning the booth—of course, she is. She practically glows as she grabs a swig of mistletoe. With a bright smile, she swipes her braid off her shoulder and darts around to greet us, mistletoe in hand.
“You know the rules,” she singsongs, stretching on tiptoe to hold it above us. It’s too short, but the gesture counts.
“It’s a good thing I don’t need mistletoe as an excuse to kiss my wife,” Holden murmurs.
“Then what are we doing here?”
He steps closer, tugging me to his chest. “Tradition, remember?”
“Strange tradition,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Best kind.”
It’s an old song and dance that feels second nature. More muscle memory.
The world falls away as he leans in, and I catch the faint scent of cinnamon and cold air on his scarf. The roughness of his beard scrapes softly against my skin as he kisses me. Slow and certain, like the world could end tomorrow and he’d find me in the next one.
Or I’ll wake up from this glimpse, and he’ll still be waiting. I won’t have pushed him too far away this time. We’re meant for each other.
We’ve done this before, in another time and place. And just like before, everything feels like it’s coated in a soft glow. Like literal magic has us wrapped in a protective bubble that no one can touch.
His fingers press against the small of my back, and my body automatically takes another step into him, like it knows that’s where I belong. I run a hand through the hair that’s uncovered by his beanie, the other grasping his collar.
I didn’t understand the way his kiss felt like a promise before, so reverent and gentle that it felt like forever. It was all this.
We break apart to applause. I forgot we had an audience. The kids gag dramatically, while the adults whistle.
“Feeling lucky yet?” he whispers, brushing a stray hair from my cheek.
I can’t answer. I’m too busy trying to steady the ground beneath my feet.
Violet gasps softly. “Would you look at that?”
Lazy snowflakes drift and tumble from the gray sky, almost like they’re in slow motion.
“I thought you said it hadn’t snowed in years,” I say.
Holden’s gaze is fixed on the sky, wonder etched in every line of his face.
“It hasn’t, La. Not since the weekend we got engaged.”
Something in me stutters.
I’ve worn rings before—I’m wearing rings now—but I’ve never lived the moments that led to them.
This is what love should look like. The kind that lingers and stays.
Not burning, not consuming—just steady and golden, the way sunlight slips through snow.
Holden tugs me close again, swaying to the soft strains of a carol floating through the farm speakers. My mind flickers back to a memory that’s more recent for me than this Holden. How closely it reminds me of a first dance after promises made on a sleigh.
I’ve learned a lot since then.
The kids run shrieking through the first snowfall, their laughter carrying through the pines.
This isn’t simply a melatonin-induced dream; it can’t be. There’s too much of our real history rooted here. I think it might be a reminder of what’s waiting if I’m brave enough to finally choose it.
A breadcrumb in the snow, reminding me that home isn’t a place you find. It’s a choice you make—over and over again.
Maybe I’m supposed to stick to this path.
Maybe I always was.