Page 30 of Mistletoe and Magic

But reality was a relentless intruder, and as the moon cast its silvery light on all that was below, they knew the fight to save their dreams was just beginning.

Jace's hand trembled ever so slightly as he guided Felicity up the narrow staircase leading to the owner's suite atop the ski lodge. The scent of fresh pine from the newly installed wainscoting mingled with the lingering aroma of sawdust, an olfactory testament to the hard work poured into every corner of his dream.

"Watch your step here," he murmured, his voice low and protective as they ascended the final steps. The landing openedinto a spacious room where moonlight spilled across the unfinished hardwood floor.

Felicity's gaze swept over the space, taking in the vaulted ceilings and large windows that framed the majestic view of snow-laden pines and distant mountains. She turned to Jace, her eyes bright with unspoken questions, reflecting the dying light like twin pools of liquid amber.

"It's not much yet," Jace began, his words laced with a vulnerability he usually kept shielded. He gestured towards the barren walls and empty spaces where furniture ought to be. "But I want this place to feel like a home. Like somewhere you could curl up by the fire with a good book and forget the world outside."

He watched the play of emotions on her face, the way her lips parted slightly as if she were about to speak, only to close again in contemplation. A stray lock of hair had escaped her bun, and without thinking, he reached out to tuck it behind her ear, his fingertips grazing her skin with the lightest touch.

"Jace," she said softly, her hand finding its way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. "I'd love nothing more than to help you create a sanctuary here. A place that reflects the man I've come to know, the one who pours his soul into everything he touches."

His throat tightened with emotion, gratitude swirling within him like a warm tide. Here was this incredible woman, offering not just her design expertise but a piece of her heart. And though the world outside threatened to crumble his dreams to dust, in this moment, in the quiet solace of her acceptance, Jace felt invincible.

“Felicity,” he groaned as he pulled her close, her name escaping from his lips like a desperate prayer, a plea for strength and reassurance in the face of the unknown.

Their intertwined bodies stood as a symbol of their unbreakable bond, forged through passion and unwavering conviction. As they faced the daunting challenges ahead, their spirits wove together like tendrils of a flame, ready to fight against any storm that dared to challenge them.

18

FELICITY

Felicity's fingers sank into the supple mound of dough with a rhythmic, almost meditative motion. The bakery was her sanctuary, a place where the simple act of kneading could quiet the turmoil in her mind. With each press and fold, the tension in her shoulders ebbed away, replaced by the warmth spreading from her hands into the yielding mass before her.

"Ah, the perfect metaphor for life," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the soft whisper of flour dusting the wooden countertop. "Push, pull, rise."

The morning light streamed through the bakery's quaint front window, casting an ethereal glow throughout her space. Felicity brushed the curls that escaped the haphazard bun with the back of her forearm. She reveled in the solitude, finding solace in the repetitive task that required just enough concentration to keep her thoughts from spiraling but left enough room for her mind to wander.

She thought of Jace and the lodge—pillars of their small community, teetering on the brink of collapse. How could she, a simple baker, rally a town? The prospect was frightening, a stark contrast to the soothing ebb and flow of her current activity.

"Focus, Felicity, just like with your baking," she coached herself internally. "Heel of the dominant hand, push the dough forward, stretch it slightly; fold the stretched portion back; rotate a quarter turn; repeat.”

The dough beneath her hands was taking shape, becoming smooth and elastic. It was almost as if her efforts here, in this quiet morning hour, were kneading courage into her very bones. She took a deep breath, the rich scent of fermenting yeast mingling with the faint hint of vanilla, chocolate, lemon and various spices from pastries cooling on a rack.

"Everything has its process," she continued, half to herself and half to the empty room that echoed with the ghosts of yesterday's chatter. "Bread, books, life... even saving lodges."

"Right," she said aloud, trying to sound more convinced than she felt. "It's all about the small steps."

If only she could believe those words when it came to matters of the heart. As her hands worked the dough, her mind tiptoed around the edges of her own longing—a longing not just for success, but for a love as consuming and profound as the romances she’d penned in the reality she’d left behind.

"Can't write about love without feeling it, right?" she laughed in a tone that was almost a whisper, self-deprecating, and almost lost amid the clink of measuring cups and the rustle of parchment paper.

"Though," Felicity pondered with a wistful glance toward the snow globe perched on the shelf, "perhaps there's magic yet to be found in Christmas Valley."

And as she placed the rounded loaf onto the baking tray, there was a tiny spark of something new within her—the first inkling that maybe she could help Jace.

"Rise," she whispered to the bread, envisioning not just the dough in the oven, but herself, her aspirations, her entire world. Today, she would rise, too.

The rich, heady aroma of freshly baked bread and other treats wafted through the air as Felicity slid the tray of buns out of the oven. A dusting of cocoa shimmered on their spiraled tops like a promise of warmth in the chill of the Vermont morning. She inhaled deeply, letting the scent anchor her to the moment, to the homey comfort of her bakery that doubled as a sanctuary.

"Ah, there they are! My day has officially begun," came the cheerful voice of Mayor Moorehouse as she breezed into the shop, the bell above the door announcing her like a herald.

"Good morning, Mayor," Felicity greeted as she transferred the buns to a display case, their allure undeniable even to someone who had once been an aspiring novelist and who had preferred the company of words to people. Felicity wondered what had happened to that woman and prayed she never had to return to being her.

"Tell me, Felicity, what's the secret ingredient this time?" The mayor leaned over the counter, her eyes twinkling with mirth as she peered at the pastries.

"Well, if I tell you what it is, it won’t be a secret any longer, will it?" Felicity replied, her tone light but her mind racing. This was her chance, an opportunity to not just serve buns but to serve a friend in need.

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