Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
The drive down the mountain feels shorter than the ride up, even though we take it slow. Ice clings in the shadows, glittering like someone spilled diamonds. My phone bings every few minutes with another notification, but I tuck it away and watch Rhett instead—the way his hands move on the wheel, sure and steady. The way his jaw works when he’s thinking.
We hit the main pass, then the turnoff, and suddenly Chimney Gorge spreads out in front of us: colorful storefronts, wreaths on lampposts, families in puffy coats, kids dragging sleds through the slush. Banners flutter across Main Street:
CHIMNEY GORGE SNOWFLAKE JUBILEE
Lights. Laughter. Sleigh Bells.
“They fixed the runner,” Rhett notes, spotting his sleigh parked by the gazebo as we roll into town. “Artisan must’ve worked late.”
“The sponsor probably sent him a fruit basket,” I say. “Or a new belt sander.”
We park near the Peppermint Inn, and the second I climb out of the truck, Keely barrels off the porch like an excited puppy in a peppermint sweater.
“You’re alive!” she squeals, throwing her arms around me.
“Barely,” I say, hugging her back. “We had to resort to extreme survival tactics, like cozy socks and emotional vulnerability.”
She pulls back, eyes shining. “The campaign is everywhere. Everyone’s sharing it. Mayor Turner made us play the couch video on the lobby TV. A lady from Denver called to ask if we rent out your mystery couple as part of a romance package.”
My brain short-circuits. “Please tell me you said no.”
“I said we’d ask,” she says, grinning past me at Rhett.
He clears his throat. “No.”
Keely clasps her hands under her chin. “God, you’re grumpy. It’s perfect.”
Before I can respond, a whirlwind of tartan and authority appears: Mayor Turner herself, cheeks flushed, bells jingling on the hem of her coat.
“There she is!” the mayor trills. “Our Christmas miracle! And Rhett, who we all know is secretly delighted under that scowl.”
“I’m not—” he starts.
“He is,” Keely and I say at the same time.
The mayor waves us closer like she’s conducting a parade. “Come, come. I need to see everything. The sponsor called this morning—they’re sending a team up for the tree lighting tonight. Apparently one of your videos ‘performed extremely well with key demographics.’”
“That’s marketer for ‘everyone cried,’” I say.
She clasps my forearms. “Tell me it’s the one with Mrs. Hadley’s quilt.”
“That one’s doing great,” I say. “But the viral one is, uh… a little different.”
Keely squeals. “The couch one.”
I press my lips together, trying for professional instead of mortified. “It’s just socks and silhouettes. No faces, no identifiers.”
“Except romance,” Keely says dreamily. “That’s a pretty strong identifier.”
Mayor Turner beams like someone wired her directly to the town’s joy supply. “We have people driving up from three towns over tonight because of that clip. Bookings are up, donations are up. The sponsor doubled their food bank match. You did this, Ivy. You and your bells.”
Warmth floods my chest, right next to the ache of knowing I’m leaving soon. “We all did. You gave me good material.”
She pats my cheek. “Humble. We love that. Come to my office. Show me everything before the sponsors arrive. Rhett, you too—You’re the face of Jingle Bell Rides, whether you like it or not.”
“No faces,” he mutters, but follows us anyway.
We end up in the mayor’s office overlooking the square, my laptop perched on her desk, all three of us squeezed into her tartan universe. Outside, vendors are setting up cocoa stands and ornament booths. The big tree in the square is half lit as volunteers check strings and replace bulbs.
I cue up the best cuts.
We watch the seniors’ sleigh ride—gloved hands on quilt edges, the soft jingle of bells, Comet’s breath in the cold air. Mrs. Hadley’s voice saying, Nothing hurts when the bells go.
The mayor dabs at her eyes with what I’m pretty sure is an embroidered handkerchief. “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”
Keely sniffles openly. Rhett stands behind us, arms crossed, jaw tight—but not in a bad way. In a this means something way.
I click to the next video. The birch lane, branches arching overhead. Close-ups of Donner’s harness, the glint of polished brass. Kids’ mittens as they reach out to touch the sleigh. The stove door closing, glow flaring.
And finally, the couch clip.
Two pairs of socked feet stretched toward the fire. Red-and-cream quilt. A slow zoom that catches the moment one foot nudges the other and the two people shift closer under the blanket, their silhouettes merging.
Mayor Turner actually presses a hand to her heart.
“Oh my,” she says. “That’s…that’s good television.”
Keely clutches my arm. “Look at the comments,” she whispers.
I tilt the screen. The platform’s notifications are a blizzard—hearts, snowflake emojis, comments like:
@HolidayHeartEyes: I don’t know who they are but I’m rooting for them
@RomanceReader22: Someone write this as a book immediately
@SnowedInAndSoft: Going to Chimney Gorge with my husband now so we can reenact this