Chapter Sixteen Sleighbells
Jane
I changed three times before I settled on the sweater.
It was nothing dramatic. Soft wool, deep green, comfortable enough to breathe in without thinking about it.
I told myself I was choosing practicality, not nerves, but my hands still hovered at the hem as if the fabric held a final decision I had not quite made.
I smoothed it down, checked the neckline, then checked it again as though a different angle would reveal a hidden flaw.
What did it matter? It was going to be hidden under my coat, I finally decided.
The pool house mirror was small and slightly fogged at the edges from the heater’s uneven effort.
The bathroom light flickered once, like it wanted to remind me not to expect too much.
I looked like myself. I was pink-cheeked from the cold.
Hair loose for once, even though I wasn’t used to it not being held back by something.
A date.
The word still felt unreal. Not because Braxton had asked, but because I had said yes without talking myself out of it, or making a list of reasons why I shouldn’t go, or if it was safer to keep things friendly.
Lucy leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed, watching me with an expression that suggested she had prepared commentary and was waiting for the right moment to deploy it.
“You look nice,” she said.
“I always look nice,” I replied.
“Yes,” she said calmly, “but this is a different category of nice.”
I reached for my gloves. “It’s just a simple outing. I look presentable.”
Lucy’s grin widened. “I was going to say you look like a person who has been kissed.”
I stared at her.
She held up both hands quickly. “I was hoping. You look… hopeful.”
“I don’t know about hopeful ,” I said, but my voice softened without permission. “I just feel… lighter.”
Lucy nodded, pleased. “Good. That is the correct emotional response to a man who looks at you like you are the only calm thing in a building full of chaos.”
I tugged on my gloves. “Are you going to stand here and narrate my feelings all night?”
“I would never,” Lucy said, then paused. “I would absolutely do that, but I won't tonight if you bring me back hot chocolate.”
I pointed at her. “Extortion.”
“Negotiation,” she corrected.
I grabbed my scarf and stepped into the hallway, heading down the stairs. The courtyard was quiet, snow tucked into corners and along the path. The inn looked like something from a postcard tonight. Lights in the windows. Garland along the railing. The warm glow of a place that promised comfort.
Inside, the Snowdrop Inn hummed with a softer energy than it had all day.
Dinner was finished. Dishes were done or in progress as I had conned Meri, Lydia, and Kitty to do them which made me wonder if I would have broken plates in the morning.
Guests drifted toward the stairs with the relaxed gait of people who were not responsible for anything beyond enjoying themselves.
In the lobby, the tree glowed, ornaments reflecting lamplight.
A fire crackled in the hearth, and the smell of pine mixed with cinnamon.
Braxton stood near the front windows, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders relaxed. When he turned and saw me, his face softened immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting as if his smile had started before he even realized.
For a moment, I simply watched him.
There had been so many days where he appeared in doorways, carrying boxes, offering help, making the world feel more manageable. Tonight he wasn't carrying anything. He was just waiting for me.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I replied.
He gestured toward my sweater. “You look… warm.”
I laughed, tension loosening from my shoulders. “That was the goal.”
He nodded with approval that was far too charming for such a simple statement.
Kitty bustled past us with a stack of papers and a pen clenched between her teeth. She paused, eyes widening as she registered the scene. For once, she didn’t ask either of us a question. She simply pointed at us, then gave a brisk thumbs-up like a coach sending players onto the field.
Braxton’s eyebrows lifted.
I covered my mouth to hide my laugh. “Don’t encourage her. She will start assigning romance as a task.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Is romance not a task?”
“It isn’t supposed to be,” I whispered back.
His smile warmed, and for a second my brain offered a terrible thought. What if I didn't know how to do this, actually do it, without getting tangled in old instincts?
Then he held the lobby door open for me, and the cold air rushed in, and my mind cleared. Braxton had the rental car out front, opening the passenger door for me before he carefully shut it.
The drive to Maple Ridge was short. Outside, the night was crisp and bright.
Snow covered the sidewalks in a smooth white layer that reflected the glow from shop windows.
Holiday garlands wrapped lampposts. Music drifted faintly from somewhere down the street, cheerful and slightly off-key, as if a speaker had been placed near a wreath and forgotten.
We started walking, side by side. At first our hands brushed occasionally. Each time it happened, my body reacted like it had been startled by kindness. Braxton noticed too. I could tell because he adjusted his pace to match mine more closely, as if he was trying not to rush me into anything.
I appreciated that. I also found it maddening, because part of me wanted to take his hand again and stop overthinking the entire concept of closeness.
“I forget how pretty this town looks at night,” he commented.
“You forget because you are usually inside fixing things,” I replied.
He smiled. “Guilty.”
We stopped at a small café near the square for hot chocolate. It was crowded with people in scarves and hats, cheeks rosy from the cold. A chalkboard sign announced peppermint, salted caramel, and something called Snowdrop Special that sounded suspiciously like an attempt to capitalize on our inn.
Braxton studied the menu. “Do you think they named it after you?”
“Perhaps,” I answered.
“Two hot chocolates,” he told the barista, then looked at me. “Any preference?.”
“Peppermint,” I said.
He nodded. “One peppermint.”
The barista’s eyes flicked between us with mild interest. “You two are cute.”
I nearly dropped my gloves.
Braxton simply smiled, unfazed as he paid for the order. “Thank you.”
I stared at him as we moved aside to wait. “How are you so calm?”
He shrugged lightly. “People say things.”
“Yes,” I said. “But usually I feel like hiding under a table.”
“I could stand in front of you,” he offered, tone gentle.
I huffed a laugh. “You already do that.”
His expression softened. “I like being near you.”
My throat tightened. I stared at the pastry case as if croissants could save me from emotional vulnerability.
We carried our drinks outside. The steam rose in warm curls. Braxton handed me the peppermint hot chocolate like it was something precious. The cup warmed my hands immediately, and the scent made me feel like I had been wrapped in a blanket from the inside.
We walked toward the town square. Sleighbells chimed softly in the distance.
“There are sleighbell rides near the square,” he said, as if confirming the plan in case I had changed my mind.
“I remember,” I said. “I’m not backing out.”
His shoulders eased. “Good.”
The sleigh ride line was longer than I expected, families and couples bundled in layers. The horses stamped patiently, breath puffing out in clouds. Bells jingled with every small movement, a sound so cheerful it felt almost unreasonable.
Braxton and I stood in line, sipping hot chocolate. The warmth spread through me slowly. My nerves didn't vanish, but they settled, like they had found a place to sit.
Braxton glanced at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said, and realized it was true. “I am. This is just… new.”
He nodded. “For me. too.”
That surprised me. He always seemed so confident. Like he knew what to do in every situation, even when everything was falling apart. But he was looking at me now with something slightly uncertain in his eyes, like he was aware this mattered.
I took a breath. “Thank you for not making me feel rushed.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “Why would I?”
“Because some people do,” I said softly.
Understanding flickered across his face. He didn't ask for details. He simply nodded once.
“I want you to feel safe,” he remarked.
I swallowed. “I do.”
When it was our turn, the driver helped us up. The seat was narrow enough that we sat close without trying. The blanket he handed us was thick and smelled faintly like wool and winter air.
Braxton tucked it around us both with careful movements, his hand brushing my arm through the fabric. The touch was brief. It still made my pulse jump.
The sleigh moved, bells chiming softly, and Maple Ridge rolled past in a blur of lights and laughter. The horse’s hooves made a steady sound on the packed snow, like a slow heartbeat.
For a while, we didn’t talk.
It wasn’t awkward. It felt like a shared pause, like we were both absorbing the fact that we were here, together, without pressure or expectation.
“This is nice,” I mentioned.
He nodded. “It is.”
The driver pointed out landmarks, stories I had heard a hundred times from my parents who had grown up in this town. There was the old courthouse, the square where the tree lighting happened, and the little bridge over the river.
Braxton listened with interest, asking questions. His curiosity was sincere. It made me feel like Maple Ridge wasn't just a backdrop to him, but something he wanted to understand because it mattered to me.
“I like how everyone knows each other here. It’s different being in the city,” Braxton commented. “Here people wave, and greet each other. Although I imagine there are still some surprises.”
“That’s Maple Ridge,” I said. “You think you know what you are getting, and then someone shows up with mistletoe on a stick.”
He laughed. “I’m still recovering from that.”