Page 12 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

That was it. The mention of her article. My fears flared, turning into defensive anger. “So, you got what you came for, right?” I said, a harsh edge creeping into my voice.

She frowned, confusion clouding her features. “What do you mean?”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, grabbing my boxers and pulling them on. “Your story,” I said, refusing to meet her eyes. “You wanted to understand the Wishing Tree, to find an angle. I take it you’ve got more than enough material now.”

Her mouth fell open, stunned. “Wyatt, that’s not fair. I told you last night—in front of the fire—I’m not writing the piece I originally planned. I’ve decided to change it. I see the depth and meaning here. I was going to highlight how this town’s history continues to bring people together…”

I cut her off with a sharp laugh. “How do I know that? You came here wanting to show that this ‘magic’ is just a hoax. Why should I trust you now?”

Her face paled, hurt welling in her eyes. “Because I opened my heart to you,” she said, voice trembling. “Last night, I didn’t—” She took a breath, trying to steady herself. “I’m not the same person who arrived here days ago. I learned something real in Springfield. And with you.”

I paced the small bedroom, anger warring with regret. “I’ve seen people use this town’s charm before,” I said tightly. “Exploit it for a good story, a laugh. I won’t let that happen again.”

She stood up, gathering the sheet around her, fury and pain mixing on her face. “I can’t believe this,” she hissed. “After everything we shared, you still see me as some manipulator?”

I couldn’t find the words to reassure her. My tongue felt thick and clumsy. Instead, my silence condemned me. She shook her head, tears in her eyes, and reached for her clothes. I watched as she dressed quickly, yanking on her underwear and dress with trembling hands. Her face set in grim determination.

“You know what?” she said, voice breaking. “I invited you to that gala. Wanted you by my side. I was looking forward to it.” She zipped her boots, knuckles white. “Well, forget it. I take back the invitation. Stay home with your false assumptions, Wyatt. Merry Christmas.”

She marched out before I could respond, the door slamming behind her. A heartbeat later, I scrambled after her, shirtless and panicked. By the time I reached the porch, she was already backing out of the drive, tires squealing on the gravel. Snow dust kicked up in her wake, the taillights disappearing down the lane.

I stood there, the icy morning air biting my skin, watching her car vanish. The Wishing Tree caught my eye, its colorful ribbons fluttering like a mockery. I’d just allowed my insecurities to torch something that could have been beautiful. I cursed under my breath, fisting my hands at my sides.

What if Cassie truly had changed? What if she would have written something honest and kind about Springfield’s traditions? What if she really cared about me, about us, and I’d thrown it in her face out of stubborn pride?

The silence of the morning pressed in. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling like a jerk. I stepped back inside and stared at the remnants of our meal, the wine bottle half-empty, the candles guttering out. I wanted to smash something, to shout at the unfairness of it all. I might have just lost a genuine chance at happiness. And I had no one to blame but myself.

Chapter Seven

CASSIE

The evening sky had settled into deep twilight by the time I reached Candi Couture. The boutique’s windows sparkled with fairy lights, garlands of evergreen, and colorful ornaments. The door, framed by a large velvet bow, opened to a tide of music and laughter spilling onto the deserted sidewalk. I pulled my coat tighter, fighting a shiver of apprehension as I stepped inside, unsure if I should be here at all without Wyatt.

The Christmas Eve Gala, I’d been told, was the social highlight of Springfield’s holiday season, and I could hardly believe my eyes seeing how the retail space had been transformed into a glittering festive wonderland. Inside, the airwas perfumed with cinnamon and nutmeg, mulled cider and the subtle scents of expensive cologne and perfume. The lighting was low and warm, with candlelit tables tucked into corners, leaving room in the center for mingling guests dressed in their finest holiday attire.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. Perhaps a small gathering, given the town’s modest size. But the gala was more elaborate than anything I’d imagined. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed overhead, reflecting in a huge crystal chandelier. Beneath it, clusters of guests sipped champagne from flute glasses, while a quartet played gentle carols in the background. The entire atmosphere was jubilant and a testament to the town’s earnest embrace of Christmas. Standing there, just inside the door, I realized I’d come alone—of course, alone was the plan. After this morning, there was no chance Wyatt would be at my side, but I was nevertheless disappointed when he didn’t appear.

The memory of our fight stung. All day, I’d played it over in my head: how we’d shared that magical night in his farmhouse, how he’d opened himself to me, how I’d woken up and immediately put my foot in my mouth by mentioning the article right away. In the aftermath, I’d been furious at him for not trusting me, for assuming I’d been using him to dig for information to expose the Wishing Tree legend as a tool used for corporate gain. But as the day wore on, as I’d gotten ready for the gala in my rented room at Hollyhock House, my anger had softened. Now it just felt like an aching emptiness in my chest. He’d been scared—scared I’d hurt him or hurt this place he loved. When that, in fact, had been my very intention when I’d first set foot in Springfield. Not that I wanted to hurt anyone, but that I was determined to prove that there were no such things as miracles or Christmas Magic. When now…well, I still wasn’t sure exactly what I believed, but I was seeing things in a newlight because of what I’d learned from the people here—because of Wyatt. Could I really blame him for having doubts about me, when all I kept talking about was work?

I lifted my chin, smoothed the front of my emerald-green cocktail dress—a slim, satin number I’d chosen to project confidence. It flattered my figure, hugging my waist and draping gracefully past my knees. A pair of matching heels sparkled at my feet. I’d pinned my dark hair up, leaving a few strands to frame my face, and dabbed on a subtle perfume. I looked the part of a confident guest, but inside I was rattled. Without Wyatt, this world of twinkling lights and affectionate families felt hollow.

Across the room, I spotted Juniper McCall and her mother, Candi. They were standing together near a small stage where a silent auction display had been arranged—ornaments carved from local wood, hand-knitted scarves, gift baskets of preserves. Ginger, Juniper’s older sister, stood on Candi’s other side, holding her baby in one arm and smiling serenely. Both sisters had their partners at their side: Juniper’s fiancé, Mason, who was tall with kind eyes, and Ginger’s husband, who had a calm, confident demeanor. As I approached, I saw Candi dab at her eyes with a handkerchief, then open her arms to embrace both daughters at once.

The sight touched me—a small tableau of healing and unity. I remembered Candi’s story: how the Wishing Tree had brought Juniper back to Springfield, helping to mend old family wounds. How Ginger had found love after a chance encounter at that same magical tree. The Wishing Tree’s influence spread quietly through this family, weaving them together with threads of hope and reconciliation.

Candi noticed me and waved me over, smiling through her tears. “Cassie, darling!” she called above the gentle humof conversation. I approached, putting on my best warm smile, though my heart felt heavy.

“You look lovely,” she said, voice still choked with emotion. She wore a shimmering ivory gown that offset her platinum hair and a dramatic necklace of crystal drops. She pressed a hand to her heart. “Forgive my tears. I was just telling Juniper and Ginger how grateful I am. This town, that tree…it’s healed so many rifts in my family.”

Juniper, radiant in a deep red dress that complemented her strawberry-blonde curls, reached out and pulled me into a brief hug. “Merry Christmas, Cassie,” she said, voice soft. She didn’t mention Wyatt. Neither did Candi. Perhaps they sensed it was a sore subject.

Ginger smiled at me, shifting her daughter in her arms so the baby could grab at a sparkly ornament someone had hung on a low branch of a decorative topiary. Mason, along with Ginger’s husband, Brian, greeted me with warm handshakes, kindness shining in their eyes. No one asked me the question I dreaded: Why was I alone, when I’d promised to invite Wyatt to the gala?

The quartet in the corner segued into a gentle version of “O Holy Night,” and I took a moment to sip a flute of sparkling cider and tried to gather my thoughts.

I’d thought I’d be okay tonight. All day, I’d clung to anger at Wyatt, telling myself I didn’t need him, that he’d insulted me, and I was justified in cutting him out of my evening. But as I watched Candi’s family laugh together, saw Juniper lean into Mason’s shoulder, and glimpsed Ginger exchanging a gentle look with Brian, my anger dissolved completely. In its place rose loneliness, an ache that made the festive lights blur for a moment.

I could have been here with Wyatt, introducing him to my world, or rather letting him guide me through his. He would have worn something simple—a suit jacket, maybe feeling out of place, tugging at the collar of his shirt—but he would have done it for me. And I…I would have told him how I truly felt about Springfield and the Wishing Tree. About us.

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