Chapter 6 Gavin
Gavin
Christmas Eve morning, I woke to her hand trailing down my chest, her lips pressing soft kisses along my collarbone. Even half-asleep, my body responded instantly, and when she wrapped her fingers around me, I groaned her name into the pre-dawn darkness.
"Good morning to you too," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep and desire.
What followed was slow and thorough and perfect—the kind of morning loving that made a man believe in forever.
She moved above me in the faint comet light still visible through the windows, her hair spilling over us while Christmas morning approached with quiet magic.
When she came apart in my arms, whispering my name, I felt something settle deep in my chest that I'd been afraid to name.
It wasn't until after, when she was curled against my chest humming softly, that the doubts crept back in.
Dawn painted her sleeping face in soft gold and rose.
I'd been content to watch her breathe for an hour, cataloging the small details I'd missed in last night's urgency.
The tiny scar above her left eyebrow. The way her lips curved slightly upward even in sleep.
The trust implicit in how completely she'd surrendered to rest in my arms.
She wants to stay.
The thought sent warmth flooding through my chest, followed immediately by a chill.
Women had said they wanted to stay before.
Emma had sworn Paris was just temporary, that culinary school was an investment in our future together.
Three months later, she'd sent me a postcard from Provence and a Dear John letter.
But this felt different. The way Sadie had looked at me last night when she'd said she wanted to choose this—us—there'd been desperate honesty in her eyes.
Through the bedroom windows, Christmas Eve morning was crystalline and perfect. Snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the mountain in fresh white. The comet's faint trail was still visible against the brightening sky.
Tonight. It reaches its zenith tonight.
My phone buzzed from the nightstand. Text message from an unknown number:
Thank you for a beautiful night. I meant what I said about staying, but I need to know you want me to. See you at the festival. —S
I stared at the message until the screen went dark. She'd given me her number. She'd also given me a choice to believe in what we'd started building, or let my fears turn it into another story about why love never lasted.
Choose, MacLeod.
By the time I made it to the festival grounds, Christmas Eve energy buzzed through the air.
Families strolled between vendor booths, kids chased each other around the snow-covered playground.
Above it all, a massive banner proclaimed: "Welcome to the Christmas Comet Festival - Peak Viewing Tonight! "
I threw myself into prep work with single-minded focus. Soup stock simmered, bread warmed in portable ovens, and my hands worked with automatic precision while my mind spun through variations of the conversation I needed to have with Sadie.
"You look like someone shot your dog," Beth commented, appearing at my stall with her usual clipboard and caffeine-powered energy. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," I lied, ladling soup into containers with more force than necessary. "Just focused on getting through the day."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain country singer who's been asking everyone if they've seen you this morning, would it?"
My hands stilled on the ladle. "She's been asking about me?"
"Honey, she's been asking about you, your schedule, whether you usually work the afternoon shift or the evening one, and if anyone knows what your favorite coffee is." Beth's smile was knowing. "Girl's got it bad."
Hope and guilt warred in my chest. If she'd been looking for me, that meant she wasn't writing off what had happened between us. It also meant I'd hurt her by not responding to her text.
The morning blurred into lunch service, and I was in my rhythm—ladling soup, wrapping sandwiches, accepting compliments on Grammy's recipes—when Mrs. Francis approached my stall.
She was eighty-seven, had lived in Silver Ridge her entire life, and could reduce me to feeling ten years old with nothing more than a look.
"Gavin MacLeod," she said, accepting her usual bowl of venison stew, "what's this I hear about you moping around when that sweet singer girl has been looking for you all morning?"
I concentrated on ladling her stew. "It's complicated."
"Horseshit." The profanity from someone who'd taught Sunday school for sixty years made me look up in surprise. "You know what's complicated? Regret. Wondering 'what if' for the rest of your life because you were too scared to fight for something good."
"Mrs. Francis—"
"My Harold was supposed to go to Toronto for work in 1962. Good job, big promotion, everything a young man should want." She leaned closer. "But I was here, and he couldn't stand the thought of leaving me behind. Know what he did?"
I shook my head.
"He turned down Toronto and opened his hardware store right here in Silver Ridge.
Forty-three years we had together before the cancer took him, and not once did he regret choosing love over ambition.
" Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "That girl looks at you the way I looked at Harold.
Don't you dare let her slip away because you're too proud or too scared to believe in what's right in front of you. "
She took her stew and walked away, leaving me staring after her with my chest tight and my assumptions crumbling. Harold Francis had given up Toronto for love, and she'd called it the best decision of his life.
Before I could fully process that conversation, Keisha appeared at my stall, looking like she'd stepped out of a business magazine despite the mountain setting. Designer coat, perfect makeup, and the kind of smile that probably closed million-dollar deals.
"Gavin, right?" She extended a manicured hand. "Keisha Chen. We met yesterday, briefly."
"I remember." I shook her hand, noting the way her eyes cataloged my setup with professional assessment. "What can I get you?"
"Actually, I was hoping we could talk. About Sadie." She glanced around, making sure we weren't overheard. "Somewhere private?"
Every protective instinct I possessed went on high alert, but I gestured toward the prep area behind my stall.
"She's making some interesting decisions lately," Keisha began without preamble. "Turning down opportunities that most artists would kill for. Talking about staying in Silver Ridge indefinitely." Her smile never wavered, but there was steel underneath it. "I'm trying to understand why."
"Maybe you should ask her," I said.
"Oh, I have. And she keeps talking about authenticity and finding her voice and choosing what makes her happy over what makes financial sense.
" Keisha's expression shifted to something more genuine.
"Look, I'm not the villain here. I've been her friend since before either of us had careers worth managing.
Everything I do is because I want what's best for her. "
"And you think what's best for her is leaving?"
"I think what's best for her is security and creative freedom.
And this morning, I got a call that changes everything.
" Keisha pulled out her phone. "Three-year contract, complete creative control, advance money that would set her up for life.
They want her so badly they're willing to be flexible on everything—tour schedule, recording locations, even where she bases herself. "
My stomach dropped. "That's good news."
"It gets better. They've been watching her Silver Ridge performances online.
They're calling it 'mountain mystique' and they want to capture that authenticity in the studio.
" Keisha's smile turned triumphant. "But the offer requires an immediate response and a commitment to start recording in Los Angeles by January 15th. "
Just like Emma leaving for Paris.
"If you really love her, you'll help her see that she doesn't have to choose. The label is willing to work around her personal commitments—she could tour shorter routes, spend more time here between recording sessions. She can have both, if she's smart about it."
Keisha's words echoed Emma's promises about Paris being temporary, about making long-distance work. I'd believed those promises right up until the postcard arrived with her engagement announcement.
"And if she says no to the deal?"
"Then she'll spend the rest of her life wondering what could have been. And eventually, that regret will poison whatever happiness she thinks she's found here." Keisha's expression softened slightly. "Love isn't always enough, especially when one person gives up their dreams for the other."
She left me with that cheerful thought, disappearing into the festival crowd. Her words echoed in my head as I served soup and bread to families celebrating Christmas Eve, as I watched couples stroll hand-in-hand toward the viewing areas where they'd wait for the comet to reach its peak.
Love isn't always enough.
The parallels were devastating. Emma in Paris, Sadie in Los Angeles. Emma's culinary school, Sadie's recording contract. Both brilliant women with opportunities I couldn't match.
What if Keisha was right? What if I was asking Sadie to make the same impossible choice Emma had faced—dreams or love, ambition or contentment?
The sun was setting when I finally saw her again. She appeared at the edge of my peripheral vision, talking to Beth near the main stage. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she held herself when she was performing the role of gracious professional.
Our eyes met across the festival grounds, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Then Keisha appeared at her elbow, and the spell broke. I watched them have what looked like an intense conversation, Keisha gesturing emphatically while Sadie's face grew more and more shuttered.
She's telling her about the deal. About the choice she has to make.
As I watched, Sadie's posture changed. Her shoulders straightened, her chin lifted, and she looked every inch the successful artist who'd built her career on making difficult decisions. When she glanced my way again, her expression was unreadable, professional.
She's already choosing.
Above us, invisible in the sunset sky, Comet Kringle continued its ancient journey toward its moment of greatest visibility. In a few hours, it would blaze across the midnight sky, granting authentic wishes to anyone brave enough to make them under its light.
I had a wish forming in my chest, but it felt selfish compared to the magnitude of what Sadie could achieve if she took Keisha's deal. Who was I to ask her to build her life around mine?
But as I watched her across the festival grounds, saw the way her shoulders sagged under whatever Keisha was telling her, I realized I'd been asking the wrong question all along.
The question wasn't whether I was enough for someone like Sadie Reynolds.
The question was whether I was brave enough to fight for her, even if fighting meant risking everything I'd built to keep myself safe.
Mrs. Francis' words echoed in my memory: Don't you dare let her slip away because you're too proud or too scared to believe in what's right in front of you.
Above us, Comet Kringle blazed invisible toward its destiny, carrying the hopes and dreams of everyone foolish enough to believe in cosmic magic and second chances. And I found myself hoping that when midnight came, I'd have the courage to make a wish that mattered.
But first, I had to decide whether I was going to spend tonight watching her perform from the safety of the crowd, or whether I was finally going to fight for something worth keeping.
As the Christmas Eve sunset painted the mountains in shades of gold and rose, as the festival lights began to twinkle against the approaching darkness, I made my choice.
I was going to fight.