Oh, What Fun It Is To Ride (Sleigh All Day Holiday Romances #8)

Chapter 1

ONE

IVY

The first thing I do when I hit Chimney Gorge is face-plant into Christmas.

To be fair, the town doesn’t exactly ease you in.

There’s a twelve-foot peppermint-striped arch that says WELCOME TO CHIMNEY GORGE in curly gold script, twinkle lights stitched across every roofline, and a giant snowman wearing a scarf that could double as a sail.

It’s like a Hallmark set and a Yankee Candle had a baby and then gave it a sugar rush.

I step out of my rental car in my very sensible big-city boots and promptly skid on a patch of black ice so sneaky it should be prosecuted.

I flail, my cardboard tray of sponsor hot cocoa kits rockets into the air, and I—PR professional, fixer of crises, proud carrier of glitter gel pens—slam shoulder-first into a gleaming red sleigh.

The sleigh wobbles.

I wobble.

The box of cocoa kits explodes like a peppermint pinata.

“Whoa there!” A deep voice snaps across the cold air. Arms like steel cables catch me before I can make the world’s most embarrassing snow angel. I end up clutching flannel.

I look up and see a jaw carved by Nordic gods who probably chop their own firewood for fun. A beard lumberjacks are most likely jealous of. He’s got stormy blue-gray eyes under a knit cap and a mouth that looks made for scowling.

“Are you okay?” he asks, not sounding particularly invested in the answer.

“I’m… festive?” I wheeze, because my coat is now dusted in instant cocoa mix and little marshmallows. One is stuck to my lip. Excellent. “Hi. I’m Ivy. Ivy Garland.”

“Of course you are,” he says, prying a marshmallow off my collar and tossing it into the snow. “I’m Rhett Ryder.”

The name lands with a thunk in my brain, pinging off the panic already rattling around in there.

I know that name. I’m here because of that name.

Jingle Bell Rides—his sleigh ride business—is the anchor attraction for the Snowflake Jubilee, which my agency’s client sponsors.

Said sponsor now wants to pull out unless I generate an avalanche of cozy content, stat.

So here I am, armed with cocoa kits, a smile, and a proposal to turn this very grinchy-looking man into a viral holiday heartthrob.

“Jingle Bell Rides,” I blurt, pointing at the hand-painted sign on the barn behind him. “Rhett Ryder. Great name. On brand. So…ridery.”

He leans past me to inspect the sleigh. “You cracked the runner.”

“I—what? No.” I crouch, mortification burning hotter than the air nipping my cheeks. Yep. Thin silver fissure along the wood. “Oh, holly heck.”

A woman in a tartan coat comes hustling over, bells chiming on her boots. “Rhett, I heard a crash and—oh!” She gives me the kind of sympathetic smile people reserve for toddlers and disasters. “You must be the PR lady.”

“Please tell me that’s not my official title,” I say.

“It is now,” Rhett mutters.

“Tally Turner,” the woman chirps, holding out a hand. “Mayor. We are so delighted you’re here to work your Christmas magic, Ivy. The Jubilee needs all the sparkle it can get. Donations dropped after last year’s storm, and the sponsors—”

“—are skittish,” I finish, because that’s why my boss sent me instead of anyone else. I have a reputation for turning coal into diamonds and crises into hashtags. “Don’t worry, Mayor Turner. I’m here to save Christmas.”

Rhett snorts. “Christmas doesn’t need saving. It needs people to stop breaking things.”

I paste on my best client-facing smile. “I’m happy to pay for the repair.”

“It’s a handcrafted runner from the forties,” he says, eyes cool. “The artisan who can fix that is three towns over and booked solid.”

“Okay,” I say, brain revving. “What if we partner the repair with a sponsor? ‘Heritage Holiday: Restoring a Classic Sleigh’—we film it, highlight craftsmanship, community, tradition—”

“No cameras,” he says, sharp as icicles.

Mayor Turner frowns lightly. “Rhett.”

“I said no cameras when they pitched using my horses for a commercial,” he says. “I’m not turning the barn into a set.”

I open and close my mouth like a caroling goldfish. “What if there’s…no set? Just, you know, understated storytelling. B-roll. Hands. Wood shavings. Manly competence—”

“No,” he repeats, turning away. Conversation apparently over.

“Wait,” I say, jogging after him as he heads toward a stall where a massive chestnut draft horse peers out like it’s judging my life choices. “I can’t go back to my boss with a no. She’ll make me stuff stockings for the rest of eternity.”

He pats the horse’s neck. “Maybe you’ll learn the difference between boots with traction and whatever you’re wearing.”

“These are traction-adjacent,” I say, then flush when he glances at the heeled leather with all the contempt of a man who’s never known the joy of a pre-Christmas sale. “Look, Rhett. I messed up, and I’m sorry. But I can fix this.”

“You can fix a broken runner?”

“No, but I can trend.” I gesture grandly and a marshmallow flies off my sleeve like a sad snowball.

“If we don’t keep the sponsor on board, the Jubilee loses funding.

Kids lose the tree lighting, the toy drive shrinks, and Mrs. Claus over there—” I nod at the giant fiberglass matriarch in the town square “—looks personally disappointed in me. Help me help you help Christmas.”

His lips twitch. Briefly. Like a shooting star: blink and you miss it.

“Rhett,” Mayor Turner says, placing a mittened hand on his flannel-clad arm, “we need the exposure. Not…overexposure,” she adds delicately, “but some. Perhaps Ivy could keep things tasteful?”

“I have very tasteful vibes,” I say. “Ask anyone in my office. My vibe is a warm sugar cookie that also pays taxes.”

He studies me. Up, down, pause at my cocoa-dusted scarf as if questioning my life choices on a cellular level. “You city people come up here, you want a postcard and a quick fix. But out here we don’t do quick. We do right.”

The words should irritate me. They do. And yet the stubbornness in them also clicks into place with something equally stubborn inside me that refuses to go back to the agency as the girl who lost Christmas.

“Then let me do it right,” I say, softening. “No fake snow. No lip-synced jingles. We tell your story. Why you run this place. Why it matters. No faces on camera if you hate that. Hands, horses, bells. We keep it authentic.”

The big chestnut nudges my shoulder, warm and impossibly heavy. I squeak and lean into it. “Hi. I’m Ivy. I break antique runners and then pitch content.”

“That’s Donner,” Rhett says, deadpan. “He likes sugar.”

“Same,” I say. “It’s one of my core values.”

A twenty-something guy with a dusting of freckles darts by with a broom. “I saw the spill! You okay?” His name tag reads Jared in block letters.

“Just marinating in cocoa,” I tell him.

“Cool,” he says, clearly meaning not cool at all, and keeps sweeping.

Rhett sighs, that resigned sound of a man who knows the path of least resistance now involves me. “If I say yes, what do you need?”

I blink. “Yes?”

“Conditional,” he warns. “We can talk about…something. Limited. Quiet. No faces.” He glares at my phone peeking out of my pocket like it’s a tiny gremlin. “And you don’t get in the horses’ way.”

I grin so hard a second marshmallow falls off my body. “Deal. I am the least in-the-way person you’ll ever meet. I float like a snowflake. I—ow!” Donner has helpfully tried to chew on my scarf.

“You’re wearing a candy-cane pattern,” Rhett says. “He thinks you’re a walking buffet.”

“Relatable.” I gently wrestle my scarf back from Donner’s enthusiastic lips. “Okay, logistic question: do we have a place we can film that’s not icy and perilous to clumsy PR people?”

“Barn,” he says. “Afternoons are quieter. Mornings are rides for the preschool groups.”

My phone buzzes. Margo, my boss. I ignore it, then think better and pick up. “Margo! Hi! I’ve arrived and am currently, uh, embedded on-site. I’m with Rhett Ryder now.”

There’s a pause. “You mean the handsome grump with the horses? Do not flirt with vendors, Ivy.”

“I would never,” I say, staring straight at the handsome grump in question while a horse mouths my sleeve. “Our focus is authenticity. We’re thinking long shots, texture, restrained branding—”

“Good,” Margo says. “The sponsor wants a deliverable by Sunday. That’s three days. Make content. Make it merry. Make him agree to something photogenic.”

“On it,” I say. “We’ll—ah—ring in something perfect.” I hang up and beam at Rhett. “Tiny deadline. Nothing terrifying. We’ll just…sleigh it.”

Jared groans. “Do you…do you talk like that all the time?”

“Only when I’m awake,” I tell him.

“Storm’s coming,” Rhett says, cutting through my pun-haze. He gestures toward the sky, which has drifted from postcard blue to iron gray while we’ve been standing here negotiating with horses. “If you’ve got filming to do, start today. Roads get dicey when it blows in from the ridge.”

“You get storms often?” I ask.

“Enough,” he says. “You staying in town?”

“Peppermint Inn,” I say. “Do they give out candy canes at check-in? Be honest.”

“Yes,” Mayor Turner says, patting my arm. “And hot cider on the hour. Tell Lolly I sent you. Also,” she adds, looking between us with a smile too wide to be strictly mayoral, “if you need anything for your, ah, project, the town is here to help.”

Rhett’s jaw ticks. “We’ll manage.”

“We’ll manage,” I echo, surprising us both by sounding like I mean it.

He relents with a sigh. “Come on, PR Lady. You can shadow while I tack up. You keep quiet, don’t spook the horses, and if you must pun, do it under your breath.”

“I can do quiet,” I say, following him into the warm, hay-scented barn where strings of white lights loop from beam to beam and glossy harnesses hang like jewelry. “Also, under-my-breath punning is one of my specialties.”

He glances back at me, mouth curving that whisper of a smile again. “I’m starting to believe you.”

“About the quiet?”

“About the specialties.”

Heat flickers under my scarf—part embarrassment, part…not embarrassment. I shove the feeling down, focus on the task. Save Christmas. Secure sponsor. Do not ogle the man who looks unfairly good in flannel and a knit cap.

“So,” I say, pulling out my notebook. “Tell me why you do this, Rhett Ryder.”

He adjusts a bridle, long fingers steady. “Because my granddad did. And because people forget how it feels to slow down until they’re in a sleigh under a quilt with the bells going and the horse’s breath puffing in the cold. Then they remember. And they breathe.”

I stop writing. It’s the first thing he’s said that’s not a prohibition or a judgment, and it lands warm in my chest. “That’s…beautiful.”

“It’s just true,” he says, no brag in it. He hands me a pair of work gloves. “You’re going to hold a lead rope.”

“I am?”

“You want authenticity?” He nods to a gentle gray mare whose eyelashes are longer than my last situationship. “Meet Comet.”

I pull on the gloves, aware of the way they swallow my hands. “Hi, Comet. I’m Ivy. I swear I’m not edible.”

Rhett places the rope in my palm, his gloved fingers brushing mine. A small, ridiculously festive hum zips through me, like someone plugged me into a string of lights. For a heartbeat, his gaze meets mine and my brain forgets every crisis-management bullet point it’s ever learned.

“Don’t let go,” he says softly.

I nod, gripping the rope like it’s the last candy cane on Earth. Outside, the first snowflake drifts past the barn door, lazy and certain. I breathe in hay and pine and something new, something that feels like possibility.

Okay, Chimney Gorge. Okay, grumpy sleigh man. Okay, Christmas.

Let’s ride.