Chapter 37 #2
I love showering with her. Not for the reasons people assume—though, yeah, that’s not bad either.
But I love getting to take care of her. Washing her skin after she’s had a long day in the barn or the studio.
Running my hands through her hair, rinsing paint out of it, rubbing her back when she’s tired and doesn’t ask for help but leans into me anyway.
It’s all of it. The ordinary things. The quiet, everyday moments that don’t look like much from the outside but mean everything to me.
And then, just like that, I’m back in it—back to real life, back behind the wheel, watching the town come into view through the windshield. Summit Springs looks like a snow globe that someone gave a good shake to this time of year.
Snow blankets everything like powdered sugar—rooftops, fence posts, the tops of mailboxes half buried in drifts.
The plows came through this morning, but the roads are already dusted over again, a fresh layer glittering under the early evening sky.
Every shop window downtown is lit up with Christmas lights and fake snow spray.
Wreaths hang from every lamppost, and the church on Main Street has a nativity scene out front that someone’s kid keeps rearranging—today the baby Jesus is riding the camel like a cowboy.
Kids in jackets and snow boots are waddling down the sidewalk, their hats sliding sideways over their ears while their parents try to steer them into the bakery or the general store. There’s a German Shepherd tied up outside the diner, watching the door. He lifts his head as I drive by.
I’ve never minded winter. I don’t love the cold, but I like the rhythm of it—the work it demands.
What I’ve never been able to stomach is the way the holidays sneak up on you.
Everyone gets louder, brighter, happier.
And for a while, I tried to go along with it.
Pretend I didn’t flinch every time I heard “Silent Night” on the radio or walk a little faster past the baby section at the store.
Julia died right before Christmas and every year since, it’s like my body remembers before my mind does.
I feel the ache in my chest before I’ve even flipped the calendar.
There’s a weight that presses down harder on me this time of year.
Some years I’ve welcomed it. Let it pin me to the floor so I didn’t have to fake being okay.
This year’s different. I’ve still got the weight, but it doesn’t feel like it’s crushing me.
Wren’s got a lot to do with that.
By the time I turn onto the long drive up to the ranch, the sun’s starting to dip low, throwing pink and gold across the snowbanks.
The porch light is already on, glowing soft and amber against the white.
Today must’ve been Wren’s day off. There’s something taped to the front door—bright yellow, crooked, and flapping in the wind.
I park, step out, and squint at it as I walk up to the porch.
Okay. Please don’t be mad at what you’re about to see. If you think you’ll be mad, turn around and come back later. - W
Wren’s loopy handwriting stares back at me like it’s holding its breath.
I bark out a laugh and my breath fogs up in the cold. How the hell could I be mad now?
But the second I step inside, I stop cold.
My house—my quiet, neutral, usually spotless house—looks like Christmas crashed through the front door and made itself right at home.
There’s garland everywhere. Draped over the banister, woven into the mantle, wrapped around the curtain rods.
Twinkle lights blink from nearly every corner—warm white ones, not the obnoxious multicolored ones, but still.
They’re everywhere. The smell hits me next—cinnamon, nutmeg, a hint of vanilla, and something rich and chocolatey coming from the kitchen.
But the part that knocks the air out of my lungs is the stocking on the mantle. Three of them. One with my name, one with hers…and one that says Hank. The stitching is a little crooked, but it’s perfect.
And then there’s the crown jewel: the tree.
Jesus Christ.
It’s enormous. I mean, I’m six-foot-three and I’d still have to reach quite a bit to put a star on it. Somehow it’s wedged into the corner by the front window. The lights aren’t plugged in yet, and there aren’t any ornaments, but the thing is still…a presence. A bold, unapologetic presence.
How the hell did she even get that thing through the door?
Wren’s at the stove, her back to me, stirring something with a big wooden spoon. Her hair’s half clipped up, the rest falling in soft waves down her back. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts and a pair of pajama pants covered in tiny red trucks with Christmas trees tied to the roof.
She turns around when she hears the door shut. Her eyes go wide. “Shit. I was hoping these brownies would be done before you got home.”
I’m still standing there in my coat, keys in hand, somewhere between stunned and…moved. Deeply, completely moved.
She stops stirring. Her hand lifts off the counter and she gestures vaguely at the room, her voice pitching high and tentative. “Surprise?” She winces like she’s bracing for impact.
I open my mouth, but she barrels right over me, already talking fast.
“Okay, listen. I know you don’t like Christmas.
I really do. And I wasn’t trying to make a big thing out of it, but I just thought maybe this year could be different.
Not like— different different, but a little less mopey and sad.
And it’s okay if you hate it, I just—something about the house felt empty , and I guess I wanted to fill it.
Not permanently. I can take it all down next week.
Or tomorrow. Or—hell, I don’t know, maybe never if you secretly love it, but you don’t have to love it, just—”
“Wren.”
“—I just thought maybe we could start a new thing. Like a tradition, or maybe just brownies on a random Wednesday in December, I don’t know.
And I know I should’ve asked first, and I probably over-did it.
” She pauses, then adds, “Okay, I definitely over-did it and I definitely should’ve waited on the tree, but it was on sale and I couldn’t pass it up—”
“Wren.”
She finally stops, blinking up at me. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s a streak of chocolate across her forearm. Her mouth is parted like she’s mid-thought, like if I don’t speak quickly, she’ll keep going.
So I cross the room, wrap my hands around her face, and kiss her.
She melts into it. Her fingers curl into the front of my coat, her body soft against mine. She smells like brownie batter and pine needles and the body wash she steals from my side of the shower.
When I pull back, her eyes are searching mine. “Do you hate it?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. I don’t hate it.”
Her shoulders relax the tiniest bit. “You hesitated.”
“I’m still processing everything.” I nod toward the giant tree. “Like…that beast over there.”
She bites her bottom lip, trying not to laugh. “Yeah. About that.”
I chuckle. “How the hell did you even manage to get that thing in here?”
“I might’ve recruited Ridge, Riley and Boone.”
I lift a brow. “Bribery?”
“A pan of brownies each.”
I laugh, real and full. “You’re smart.”
She shrugs, stepping back toward the stove to check the brownies. “I had a vision. Sue me.”
I look around again. The house smells like something warm. It looks like something alive. And for the first time in years, Christmas doesn’t feel like a ghost waiting to knock me flat on my ass.
It feels like her. And I think…maybe I could learn to love it again.
Hank trots down the hallway wearing a Santa hat. I snort, crossing my arms as he slows to a stop in front of me. “That’s a good look on you, buddy.”
He narrows his eyes real slow. Like he knows how stupid he looks but he’s doing it anyway—for her. Because she is undoubtedly his favorite person and he’d do anything for her, include wearing a Santa hat that he would’ve knocked clean off by now if I would’ve been the one to put it on his head.
Wren turns toward me, still stirring the bowl. “Isn’t it cute? I found it at the store the other day. Just wait until you see the whole thing.”
I try to suppress a laugh because I can tell she’s dead serious. “The whole thing?”
She nods, wide-eyed. “It came with a full Santa outfit. Like a jacket, belt, little booties. The works.”
I burst out laughing now, full and low. Wren joins in, that breathy kind of laugh she does when she knows she’s being ridiculous and loves it anyway.
Hank just sits down and stares at both of us like we’re the problem.
I walk up behind her while she’s still mixing and wrap my arms around her middle, letting my chin rest on her shoulder. Her shirt’s warm from the heat of the stove.
I press a kiss to her neck. “You know if you wanted decorations, you could’ve just told me. I would’ve given you my card. I feel bad that you paid for everything, or felt like you had to do it by yourself.”
She shrugs, still stirring. “It was actually kind of fun to go hunt everything down. I didn’t mind.”
I slide my hands along her hips. “Still. You didn’t have to do it alone.”
“I know. I just didn’t want to bring it up because…” Her voice drops slightly. “I know this time of year is hard for you, that’s all.”
My throat tightens, and I just nod, pressing in closer, letting my nose settle in that spot between her neck and shoulder where she always smells like home.
We stand like that for a minute, her hands moving slowly in the bowl, mine wrapped around her like I’ve got nowhere else to be that could be more important. And I don’t.
“I think next year,” I murmur, “we should decorate together.”
She pauses, turns her head slightly. “Next year?”
“Mhm.” I kiss the curve of her neck again. She tastes like vanilla and sugar. “I plan on spending the rest of my Christmases with you, Mrs. Hart.”
Her breath catches just enough for me to feel it.
“And Easter’s,” I say, kissing behind her ear.
“Sawyer—”
“And Fourth of July’s,” I mumble into her skin, grinning now.