Page 18 of Chloe

I smile and nod. A second later, Maggie bustles away. I raise an eyebrow at Oliver. “Famous gingerbread cookies?”

He grins. “Oh, you’re in for a treat. Maggie’s gingerbread is legendary in Benton Falls. It’s not really Christmas until you’ve had one of her cookies.”

A few minutes later, Maggie returns with a plate piled high with gingerbread men, the scent of molasses and spices wafting through the air. “Here you go, dears,” she says, setting the plate between us. “On the house. It’s the least I can do for the dynamic duo behind this year’s toy drive.”

I start to protest, but Oliver cuts me off. “Thank you, Maggie. That’s very kind of you.”

As Maggie walks away, I take a bite of a gingerbread cookie, and my eyes widen in surprise. It’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted, the perfect balance of sweetness and spice melting on my tongue.

“Oh my goodness,” I mumble around a mouthful of cookie. “These are incredible.”

Oliver laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes my heart do a little flip. “Told you. Maggie’s cookies are magic.”

As we continue to discuss the toy drive, munching on gingerbread, I find myself relaxing more and more. The cafe is bustling with activity, locals coming in and out, greeting each other warmly. More than once, someone stops by our table to chat with Oliver, and he introduces me with a proud, “This is Chloe, the brains behind our new toy drive system.”

Each time, I’m met with genuine smiles and heartfelt thanks. It’s... nice. Really nice, actually. For the first time in years, I feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself, something that matters beyond profit margins and market shares.

“You know,” Oliver says, interrupting my thoughts, “I can’t thank you enough for all your help with this, Chloe. It means more than you know.”

I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just applying basic business principles to—”

“It’s not nothing,” Oliver interrupts gently. “You’re making a real difference here. I just wish...”

He trails off, his expression suddenly clouding over. I lean forward, concerned. “You wish what?”

Oliver sighs, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “I wish I could apply some of your business savvy to the store. Things have been... tough lately.”

My heart clenches at the worry in his eyes. “What do you mean? I thought the store was managing.”

“If you mean getting by, then yes, although I’m not sure for how long,” Oliver says. “We’re still the heart of the community, especially during the holidays. But with the big box stores and online shopping... I’m worried about the future. About whether there will even be a Hanks’ Department Store for the next generation.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugs at something deep inside me. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and take his hand. “Oliver, I’m sure if we put our heads together, we can come up with some strategies to boost business.”

This time, Oliver seems like he’s open to my suggestions.

He looks up at me, hope shining in his eyes. “You’d do that? Help me with the store?”

I nod, squeezing his hand. “Of course. It’s what I do.”

For a moment, we just sit there, hands clasped, eyes locked. The hustle and bustle of the cafe fades away, and all I can see is Oliver. The warmth of his touch, the gratitude in his gaze, the way his thumb is gently stroking the back of my hand... it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

Suddenly, reality comes crashing back in. What am I doing? I’m leaving Benton Falls after the holidays. I can’t let myself get attached, can’t let myself care this much. I pull my hand away abruptly, clearing my throat.

“So, um, what ideas did you have for the store?” I ask, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.

Oliver blinks, looking a bit dazed. “Oh, right. Well, I was thinking maybe we could expand our online presence? Set up an e-commerce site?”

I nod, slipping back into business mode. “That’s a good start. We could also look at your inventory management, maybe streamline your supply chain...”

As we dive into discussing the store’s business model, I can feel a tension building between us. Our approaches are fundamentally different—I’m all about efficiency and modernization, while Oliver is focused on preserving the store’s heritage and personal touch.

“But Chloe,” Oliver says, frustration creeping into his voice, “if we automate everything and cut back on staff, we’ll lose the personal connections that make Hanks’ special. Our customers come to us because they know they’ll be greeted by name, because we remember their kids’ sizes and their grandma’s favorite perfume.”

I sigh, exasperated. “I understand that, Oliver, but you can’t run a business on sentiment alone. You need to adapt to survive in today’s market.”

“At what cost, though?” Oliver counters. “If we lose our soul, what’s the point of surviving?”

We stare at each other across the table, the gulf between our worldviews suddenly seeming impossibly wide. How could I have thought, even for a moment, that this could work? That I could fit into Oliver’s world, or he into mine?

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