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)
Melanie cackles. “Grippy?”
“He caught me when I almost ate the icy sidewalk.”
“He caught you?” she gasps.
“He did, but enough about me. How are you?” I ask, smiling because the last few weeks have been a whirlwind for her in the best way. “Is the baby doing jazz hands?”
“She, or he, is doing full choreography,” Melanie says, then gives a soft, private smile that makes my heart expand. “Lucas came to the baby store, and I don’t know. We’re…good. Weird, and good.”
Warmth pools through me like I took a sip of Keely’s cider. “You deserve good.”
“So do you,” she fires back, because she is relentless when it comes to my happiness. “Now tell me why you look anxious behind the eyes.”
I sigh, roll over, attempt a starfish to stretch the stress out of my limbs. “I got here and immediately broke a piece of Rhett’s sleigh.”
Melanie’s hands fly to her face. “No.”
“Yes. I’m a hot mess. Also he hates cameras, crowds, and fun.”
“Or he hates staged fun,” she says mildly. “Which, to be fair, can be…a lot.”
“I know.” I press the heels of my hands to my eyes until I see tiny firework sparks. “I’m worried I won’t get enough usable shots for the sponsor. He only agreed to hands and bells and no faces. If I don’t deliver something with heart and holiday, Margo will turn me into a cautionary tale at the agency Christmas party.”
Melanie tips her head. “Ivy. You could film a snowflake melting and make the internet cry in thirty seconds. You’re a natural at finding the true thing.”
I swallow around the knot of nerves that’s been living in my throat since the runner cracked. “He did say one true thing. About how people forget to breathe until the bells and the cold and the horse’s breath make them remember. It was—”
“Hot?”
“Profound. And maybe a teensy bit hot.”
She grins so big her dimples come out of retirement. “So the locals. Is this Rhett your only…subject?”
“The mayor is a tartan-clad fairy godmother. The baker’s name is Lolly and she weaponizes sugar. There’s also a guy named Jared who is a walking, talking eye roll.”
“And Rhett?”
I groan into the pillow. “Fine. He has a jaw that could cut wrapping paper and eyes like a snowstorm. He’s very…capable.”
“Is he nice to you?”
“In a ‘don’t spook the horses and stop punning out loud’ way.”
“So yes.”
I laugh, because somehow with Melanie, it is that simple. “Keely at the front desk said he hasn’t been the same since he got back from Iraq.” The smile slips out of my voice, replaced by something gentler. “Christmas is hard for him.”
Melanie’s features soften. “That makes sense.”
“It makes me want to…know more.” I pick absent-mindedly at a candy cane crumb. “And also not push. And also get my job done. And also—”
“Kiss him?”
“Melanie.”
“What? I’m pregnant, not dead. I live for your romcom.”
“Even if I wanted to—which I don’t, because professionalism and content deliverables and—”
“And?”
“And Saint Pierce is an hour and a half away. Once the Jubilee’s over, I go home. I’m not starting something just to drive away from it.”
She nods, serious now in the way only your best friend can be. “Then don’t start something. Make something beautiful for the town. Be your sparkly, competent self. And if a certain grumpy horse whisperer eventually smiles at you in a way that feels like the start of a Christmas song, you can smile back and still keep your boundaries.”
I blow out a breath. “Who authorized you to be so wise?”
“Lucas,” she says dryly. “We should teach a class on long-distance.”
We sit in companionable silence for a beat, me watching the square as the snow deepens and lights begin to flicker on, her rocking gently because the baby is, as promised, performing a tap routine. A violinist in the gazebo starts warming up, thin notes threading through the glass.
“Okay,” I say, rolling onto my side and getting efficient, because nervous energy is best fed spreadsheets. “Morning plan: bakery b-roll at eight, choir kids at nine, goat parade at ten. Then if the roads cooperate, seniors’ sleigh ride in the afternoon. I can build a ‘Day in Chimney Gorge’ montage that bookends with bells and ends on the tree lighting tomorrow night. If the storm behaves.”
“Look at you,” Melanie croons. “Queen of the deliverable.”
I preen. “Long may I reign.”
“And, just…check on him,” she adds softly. “You don’t have to fix anything. But if you see him look like he can’t breathe, remind him how.”
My throat tightens. “Who authorized you to be so—”
“Still Lucas,” she says, smirking. “He’s very generous with the wisdom.”
We sign off with air kisses and promises for me to text her a photo of the candy cane cookies and not of the handsome grump, because she knows me too well. After the call, the room feels larger, quieter. I open my laptop, build a quick shot list, scribble a few story beats in my notebook: