Chapter Three – Christopher
“What do you think?” Christopher asked. It was a simple question, at least on the surface. But to Christopher, it felt as if her answer would reveal so much.
If she liked the town square, the tree…then maybe he’d get a hint at whether she could see herself settling in a town like Bear Creek, with a man like him.
“It’s amazing,” Sorcha answered in awe. “It looks like a postcard someone forgot to take down after the holidays…in the best way.”
Christopher’s chest swelled with pride as he watched her eyes light up. A warm rush of relief flowed through him, bringing a wide grin to his face. She liked it. She liked something about his home.
And she’ll like everything about us when she knows we are fated mates, his bear said happily.
“Let’s take a closer look,” he suggested, moving toward the square.
As they stepped off the curb, Christopher held his arm out beside her, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. The protective gesture came naturally, an instinct he couldn’t have suppressed if he’d tried.
A couple walking past gave them the small-town once-over and a knowing smile; Christopher ignored it, but his bear hummed with satisfaction at having their mate so close, at showing the world—even if Sorcha didn’t understand yet—that she belonged with them.
They crossed the square together, their boots crunching through fresh snow. Morning sunlight caught on the thousands of ornaments adorning the massive tree, sending prisms of light dancing across the white ground.
Sorcha pulled out her phone and began snapping pictures, turning slowly to capture the tree from different angles. Her face glowed with childlike wonder as a dusting of new flakes drifted down like confetti, catching on Sorcha’s lashes.
“It’s so beautifully decorated,” she said, zooming in on a hand-painted wooden ornament. “These aren’t store-bought.”
“No, they are mostly handcrafted and donated over the years by the folks in Bear Creek. They have a history all of their own. There’s a group of volunteers who keep them safe and each year get together to decorate the tree after we bring it down from North Peak Pines,” Christopher explained, enjoying her fascination.
She lowered her phone, one eyebrow arching upward. “We?”
She does not miss a thing, his bear chuckled.
Heat crept into Christopher’s cheeks. “I might have a hand in it.”
“Tell me everything,” she said, tucking her phone away and giving him her full attention.
Do it, his bear urged. Tell her EVERYTHING.
Not yet, Christopher replied firmly, though everything in him longed to pull her into his arms right there beneath the tree, to tell her they were mates, to claim her with a kiss that would leave no doubt about their connection.
“Well,” he began instead, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her, “there are four of us. Michael North, whose family has donated a tree to the town since forever. There’s Daniel, who makes the most incredible bakes…
his gingerbread alone is worth a trip to Bear Creek.
And there’s James, who’s the town’s safety officer…
” He trailed off, suddenly unsure how to describe his own contribution.
Christopher had never been comfortable talking about himself. The others had such clear roles, such obvious talents. Michael was the tree farm heir, Daniel the baker, and James the protector. But what was he?
Caretaker, his bear supplied. Anchor. The one who keeps the lights on and the paths clear when the storm hits.
“And you,” Sorcha prompted, her smile warming him more effectively than any fire, “the guy who stays up late to make sure his guests get to their cabin safely.”
Her words stole his breath. No one had ever described him quite like that before, as if what he did mattered beyond the simple completion of tasks.
“It’s my job,” he said dismissively, looking down at his boots.
Sorcha stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume mingling with the crisp winter air. “A job title does not define you,” she said, her voice filled with emotion. “It’s how you do the job, the care you take…that is what defines you.”
Christopher swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. She saw him. Really saw him. Not as the night manager or the maintenance guy, but as someone who cared, who took pride in looking after others.
Not quite, his bear reminded him. She doesn’t see me.
But she sees the connection between us, Christopher argued back. She sees it; she feels it. I can tell.
“Okay,” Sorcha said, turning away from him and back toward the tree. “Tell me more.”
Christopher breathed deeply, gathering himself.
“Well, after the tree is decorated, we have a lighting ceremony, of course, and people hang their wishes.” He led her to the lower branches where dozens of small cards dangled from red ribbons, each bearing a handwritten wish.
A few were dotted with glitter; one had a crayon snowman, lopsided and yet oh-so-perfect.
Sorcha leaned in to read some of them, her expression softening. “That is so sweet,” she murmured, taking more pictures. After a moment, she looked back at him. “Did you make a wish?”
Christopher chuckled, remembering that crystal-clear night when they’d selected the tree. “I did, but not on the tree.”
“Oh?” Her questioning look returned, curiosity sparkling in those hazel-green eyes.
“I wished on a shooting star the night we chose the tree,” he admitted, the confession feeling strangely intimate. But who better to share it with than his mate?
And our wish came true, his bear said with deep satisfaction.
Christopher couldn’t argue with that. His wish had been for something meaningful this Christmas, something beyond the routine of work and duty. He’d wished for connection. For belonging. For his mate. And now here was Sorcha, the very embodiment of that wish.
“What did you wish for?” she asked, tilting her head.
The question caught him off guard. He couldn’t tell her the full truth—that he’d wished for his mate, for an end to his solitude—but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her either.
“I wished for something special to happen this Christmas,” he said carefully. “Something meaningful.”
Sorcha’s gaze held his, something shifting in their depths. “And has it?”
The world narrowed to just the two of them standing beneath the towering tree, snowflakes beginning to drift down around them like stars falling from heaven. Somewhere, a bell over a shop door chimed, as if in answer.
“Yes,” Christopher said, his voice rough with emotion. “I believe it has.”
A gust of wind swept across the square, carrying with it the scent of pine and wood smoke. Sorcha shivered slightly, and Christopher had to resist the urge to pull her against him for warmth.
His hand twitched as his bear rumbled, Mine.
Christopher curled his fingers into his palm. Not yet.
“Let me buy you some hot chocolate,” he offered instead. “The café across the street makes the best in town. Then I can show you the rest of Bear Creek.”
“That sounds perfect,” Sorcha said. “I need to warm up if I’m going to take more notes.”
As they turned away from the tree, Christopher cast one last glance at the wishes hanging from its branches. So many dreams and hopes gathered in one place. Children wishing for toys, adults asking for health or happiness for loved ones, families hoping for togetherness.
His own wish had been simpler: connection. Someone to share his life with, to understand both the man and the bear.
Walking beside Sorcha toward the café, feeling the invisible pull between them strengthen with every passing hour, Christopher allowed himself to hope that maybe—just maybe—the universe had been listening that night under the stars.
The café door jingled as Christopher held it open for Sorcha. Warmth enveloped them immediately, not just from the heating but from the golden glow of the lamps, the buzz of conversation, and the rich scent of coffee and baking.
“Morning, Christopher!” called Ellie from behind the counter, her silver hair tucked beneath a festive red bandana. “Take a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
Christopher nodded his thanks and guided Sorcha toward a corner booth with a perfect view of both the square and the café’s cheerful interior.
As they settled in, he noticed how she took everything in with those keen reporter’s eyes, the hand-knit stockings hanging along the counter, the vintage ornaments dangling from the ceiling, the way the locals greeted each other with easy familiarity.
“This place feels like something from a Christmas movie,” Sorcha murmured, unwinding her scarf.
“Ellie does like Christmas,” Christopher replied, sliding a menu toward her. “And the pancakes are worth writing home about, too.”
Ellie appeared at their table, notepad in hand. “What’ll it be, dears?”
“Two hot chocolates with all the trimmings,” Christopher said, glancing at Sorcha for confirmation. When she nodded, he added, “And a stack of pancakes to share. With the Bear Creek honey.”
After Ellie bustled away, Sorcha folded her hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. “So, Christopher Stiller, give me the inside scoop.”
She knows about shifters! His bear said happily.
“The inside scoop?” Christopher asked warily. What if the article about Christmas in Bear Creek was really a cover for an expose on shifters? No, Sorcha was not that kind of a reporter.
“Yes,” she said. “What is it you love about living in Bear Creek? What keeps you here?”
The question hung between them, deceptively simple. Christopher studied her face, trying to decipher her intent. Was this Sorcha the journalist collecting quotes for her article, or Sorcha the woman genuinely interested in knowing him?
His bear huffed with impatience. Does it matter? Tell her the truth either way.