Page 22 of Chloe

The next few hours pass in a blur of transactions, gift-wrapping, and more interaction with children than I’ve had in years. At first, it’s overwhelming. I’m used to dealing with CEOs and investors, not seven-year-olds arguing over whether to buy the book about unicorns or the one about space pirates.

But as the afternoon wears on, I find myself... enjoying it? There’s something infectious about the kids’ enthusiasm, their unabashed excitement over stories and adventures. When a little girl with pigtails and missing front teeth tells me earnestly that she’s buying a book to read to her little brother who’s in the hospital, I feel a lump form in my throat.

“That’s very kind of you,” I tell her, carefully wrapping the book in shiny paper. “I’m sure your brother will love it.”

The girl beams at me, and for a moment, I’m transported back to my childhood. I remember the joy of losing myself in a good book, of escaping the harsh realities of foster homes and never quite belonging. Books were my refuge then, my ticket to worlds where anything was possible.

As I hand the wrapped book to the little girl, I make a split-second decision. “Wait,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “Pick out another book. On me. One for you this time.”

The girl’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Really? Are you sure?”

I nod, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the overheated gymnasium. “Absolutely. Everyone deserves a little magic of their own.”

As the girl scampers off to choose another book, I catch Rebecca watching me with a knowing smile. “What?” I ask, feeling oddly defensive.

She just shakes her head, still smiling. “Nothing. It’s just nice to see you getting into the spirit of things.”

I’m about to argue that I’m not getting into any spirit, thank you very much, when Oliver appears at the table, his arms laden with more books.

“Hey, Chloe,” he says, his smile doing funny things to my insides. “Rebecca roped you into volunteering too, huh?”

I nod, suddenly very aware of the ridiculous Santa hat perched on my head. “Apparently, I’m a sucker for a good cause.”

Oliver’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs. “Well, it suits you. The hat, I mean. And the volunteering.”

For a moment, we just stand there, smiling at each other like idiots. Then a small voice pipes up, “Excuse me, can I buy this book, please?”

We both jump, startled out of our little bubble. As I ring up the purchase, I can feel Oliver’s eyes on me, and I have to resist the urge to smooth my hair or check my lipstick.

The rest of the afternoon flies by in a whirlwind of transactions, laughter, and more warm looks from Oliver than I care to admit. By the time the last customer leaves and we pack up, I’m exhausted but filled with a sense of accomplishment I haven’t felt in a long time.

“Great job today, everyone,” the principal announces, beaming at all of us. “Thanks to your hard work, we’ve raised enough money to buy new books for every classroom and donate a bunch to the children’s hospital.”

A cheer goes up from the volunteers, and I join in, caught up in the collective joy of a job well done.

As we file out of the school, the frosty night air hits me like a shock after the warmth of the gymnasium. Snowflakes dance in the glow of the streetlights, and the sound of distant carolers drifts on the wind.

“So,” Oliver says, falling into step beside me. “Any plans for tomorrow night?”

I shake my head. “Not really. Why?”

“Well, there’s caroling in the town square. I thought maybe... if you’re not busy...” He trails off, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

Singing again? I should say no. I have work to do, emails to send, a life waiting for me back in the city. But looking at Oliver’s hopeful face, dusted with snowflakes and lit by the warm glow of Christmas lights, I say, “Sure, that sounds nice.”

His answering smile is brighter than all the Christmas lights in Benton Falls combined.

The next evening finds me standing in the town square, surrounded by what seems like the entire population of Benton Falls. The majestic courthouse clock tower looms above us, its face illuminated and hands pointing to just a few minutes before seven.

I shift from foot to foot, grateful for the warm boots Rebecca insisted I borrow. My designer heels might look great, but they’re not exactly made for standing around in the snow.

“Here,” Oliver says, appearing at my elbow and handing me a steaming cup. “Hot chocolate. Maggie’s secret recipe.”

I take a sip, and my eyes widen in surprise. It’s rich and creamy, with just a hint of peppermint. “This is delicious,” I admit.

Oliver grins. “Told you. Maggie’s hot chocolate is legendary around here.”

As the clock strikes seven, a hush falls over the crowd. Then, from somewhere near the front, a voice sings “Silent Night.” Slowly, others join in, the melody swelling until it seems like the whole town is singing in harmony.

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