Chapter 1 #2
“Fine,” I had lied, crumpling the paper in my fist. “Perfect. Great.”
Brenton.
The firefighter with the easy smile and the quiet eyes who always seems to show up when things are about to tip over into chaos.
The man who once carried a crate of centerpieces up three flights of stairs for me without breaking a sweat while I trotted behind him feeling like my lungs were going to explode.
The man I have had a mild, persistent crush on for approximately three years.
Having his name for Secret Santa is not a big deal, I had told myself. It is random. Fun. I will get him some nice coffee or a new mug, maybe something with a firehouse joke on it. Easy.
Except it did not feel easy. It felt like holding something fragile in my hand.
My first gift for Brenton is ready. I just need to sneak it into the firehouse later without making a fool of myself.
I picture him opening it. The little bag of coffee beans from the fancy roaster in town, the travel mug with a mountain range etched into the side, the small tin of honey packets tucked into the corner because I noticed he takes honey instead of sugar.
It is not as elegant as embroidered hand warmers, but it is thoughtful. I hope.
My heart kicks harder at the idea that he might feel even a fraction of what I felt just now.
The door opens behind me and I jump, hand flying to my chest.
“Sorry.” Holt steps in, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Someone left a note that they’re putting out more cookies in ten, in case you need a reason to stay.”
“I already have my loot,” I say, patting my bag. “And my blood sugar level is at maximum acceptable cookie intake for the day.”
“Bold claim,” he says. His gaze slides to my envelope, then back to my face. “Whoever drew you did good?”
“Yeah,” I say, softer than I intend. “They really did.”
He smiles. “See? Worth the insanity of organizing this thing every year.”
“Let me have my control,” I say. “It is the only thing keeping me from turning into a puddle on the ballroom floor.”
“Speaking of control, Rhodes asked if you can come sign off on the wreath situation outside when you get a second,” Holt says. “He said something about ‘I promised Greer I wouldn’t improvise this time’ and looking nervous, which was entertaining.”
I laugh. “I do not have the emotional capacity to deal with another Rhodes improvisation this week.”
“Then go save him from himself,” Holt says. “I can wrangle the lights for a minute if you want.”
“You’re a saint,” I tell him honestly.
“Tell that to the people who keep asking me where the hot tub is after I’ve pointed to the sign three times,” he says, then waves me toward the door. “Go.”
I slide my bag over my shoulder, feeling the reassuring weight of the little box inside, and head back into the hallway.
The world feels a tiny bit brighter than it did half an hour ago.
The problems have not changed. The ballroom still looks like a disaster zone.
But I am carrying proof in my bag that someone out there sees past the clipboard.
I walk toward the front of the lodge. The buzz of conversation from the lobby grows louder with each step. When I reach the big windows again, I pause.
Outside, the wreath is up, hanging perfectly centered over the main entrance. A wide red ribbon arcs over it, ends trailing down in a graceful curl. Rhodes stands back with his hands on his hips, nodding in satisfaction. Jovie claps her mittens together excitedly.
Brenton is on the ground now, coiling a length of rope. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, dark hair damp with melted snow.
Jovie spots me through the glass and waves emphatically, then gestures for me to come out.
I could pretend I do not see her. Go back to my lights. Stay safely in my little bubble of organized chaos.
Instead, I find myself pushing through the front doors into the crisp winter air.
The cold hits my cheeks, sharp and invigorating. My breath puffs white in front of me. The world smells like snow and pine and the faint hint of woodsmoke from the nearby cabins.
“You are a genius,” Jovie says as soon as I step outside. “Look at this. Is this not the most beautiful wreath placement that has ever existed?”
“It is very well centered,” I say, looking up. The wreath really does look good. “I am impressed. There was no improvisation?”
“Minimal improvisation,” Rhodes says. “Brenton refused to let me stand on the top rung of the ladder.”
“That is because I enjoy keeping you alive,” Brenton says mildly.
His voice rolls over me, low and warm. I turn toward him, heartbeat picking up.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “I would like my favorite cowboy to make it through the holidays without any dramatic falls.”
Rhodes tips an imaginary hat. “You hear that, sweetheart? I am her favorite cowboy.”
Jovie snorts. “You are extremely lucky I am not territorial.”
“You are both my favorite couple,” I say, smiling. And it is true. Seeing them like this, happy and relaxed and so clearly in love, makes my whole chest feel like it has been wrapped in twinkle lights.
Brenton coils the last of the rope and hooks it neatly on a nail by the door, then turns to me. His gaze flicks down to my hands, bare now, then back to my face.
“How is the ballroom?” he asks.
“On the verge of mutiny,” I say. “Half the lights are dead, the tree is naked, and I am five minutes away from eloping with a box of ornament hooks.”
He chuckles, the sound warm enough to melt icicles. “Sounds like standard pre-event conditions.”
“Do you enjoy minimizing my suffering?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I enjoy watching you turn chaos into something beautiful.”
The words slip into my chest and lodge there, unexpectedly soft.
“That is very poetic for someone who just argued about ladder safety,” I say, trying to deflect.
“Rhodes brings out the philosopher in me,” he says. “Or maybe it is the threat of paperwork if anything goes wrong.”
Jovie laughs and loops her arm through Rhodes’s. “We have to get these cookie trays inside before I freeze,” she says. “Want to walk them in with us, Greer?”
“I will be right behind you,” I say, giving her a grateful smile. “I just want to look at the wreath from a few more angles.”
“Perfectionist,” she sing-songs, blowing me a kiss before steering Rhodes toward the doors.
The moment they disappear inside, the air between me and Brenton shifts. Not dramatically. Just enough that I feel suddenly, acutely aware of how close we are standing, the way our breaths mingle in the cold.
“So,” he says. “Secret Santa started today.”
My fingers twitch around the strap of my bag. “It did.”
“Any good gifts?” he asks, voice careful.
The heat in my cheeks returns full force.
“Yes,” I say. “Mine was really thoughtful.”
“Yeah?” He smiles, small and genuine. “That is good. You deserve that.”
My heart stutters.
“What about you?” I ask, because I cannot help it.
He looks surprised. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t opened my gift yet.”
I wonder what he’ll think when he does. But I have to sneak out first.
“Thank you for helping with this,” I say. “It looks really good.”
“You are the one who planned all of it,” he says. “I just followed directions and tried not to fall.”
“Still counts,” I say.
For a second, neither of us speaks. Snowflakes catch on his dark lashes. The urge to reach out and brush them away hits me with embarrassing force.
Stop it, I scold myself. You cannot develop deeper feelings for a man because he hung a wreath and maybe has a thoughtful Secret Santa.
The little box in my bag feels suddenly heavy. He has no idea his first gift is waiting for him across town. He has no idea how many times I went back and forth on what to pick, wanting it to be perfect.
He tips his head slightly, studying me. “You look tired,” he says gently. “Busy day?”
“Busy week,” I say. “But it is fine. This is what I signed up for.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Still does not mean you have to grind yourself into the ground.”
Something inside me squeezes at the quiet concern in his voice.
“I have reinforcements,” I say, pushing a smile onto my face. “Holt is keeping an eye on the lights. I am about to bribe myself with hot chocolate. It is all under control.”
“If you need anything heavy lifted or ladders moved or Rudolph escorted out of the bar, you know where to find me,” he says.
I laugh. “Is Rudolph causing trouble again?”
“He started a fight with one of the elves over whose costume was historically accurate,” Brenton says. “It was a whole thing last year.”
“That’s impressive.”
He grins. “Small towns. We have to make our own entertainment.”
I look at him for one beat too long. The breeze lifts a strand of hair across my cheek. I push it back, aware of his gaze tracking the movement.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“For what?” he asks.
“For always showing up,” I say. “For this. For the wreath, the safety checks, and…everything.”
His expression softens in a way that makes my lungs forget how to work for a second.
“Anytime,” he says. “Seriously.”
The lodge doors creak open behind us as a burst of laughter spills out. Holt sticks his head out, eyes flicking between us.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt a moment.”
I scowl, but he ignores me. “Just wanted to let you know the ballroom lights are currently winning the standoff, but I found two working strands in the supply closet.”
“Bless you,” I say, grateful for the distraction yet resentful for it all the same.
Brenton steps back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “I should get back to the station,” he says. “We are running the toy drive drop-off tonight.”
“Right,” I say. “Good luck.”
“You too,” he says. His gaze lingers for one more heartbeat. “Try to get some sleep sometime this week, okay?”
I make a noncommittal noise that might pass for agreement.
He gives me one last smile, then heads down the steps toward his truck, boots crunching on the packed snow.
I watch him go, heart doing a slow, confused spin in my chest. Then I square my shoulders and turn back toward the warmth of the lodge.
There is a ballroom waiting, and lights to tame, and a gift to deliver later to a firehouse across town.
And there is a thin, bright thread of hope twisting through the exhaustion now, courtesy of a pair of embroidered hand warmers and a firefighter who always seems to be nearby when I need him most.