Page 10 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

With a half-smile, he pulled a pair of thick work gloves from his back pocket and offered them. “I washed these just for you. Might still be a bit big, but they’re the smallest pair I had.” He took one of my hands, slipping the glove on, frowning slightly at the extra space. “Not perfect, but definitely better than what you had on.”

His touch sent a flutter through my stomach. “I appreciate the effort,” I said softly. He met my gaze, and for a second, the rest of the world faded. There was that hush again, that slow current of electricity that flowed between us. We didn’t need to name it; it hummed quietly in the space we shared.

Before the silence stretched too long, he gestured to a worktable. “Today we’re making wreaths for the Holiday Market. I’ll show you how to weave the branches and secure the decorations. Ready?”

I nodded, following him. The wreath-making was fiddly work, involving fresh evergreen boughs, sprigs of holly, pinecones, and bright red bows. Wyatt’s hands were sure and steady. I tried to imitate his technique, feeling clumsy at first, but soon caught the rhythm. We worked side-by-side, shoulders occasionally brushing. Each accidental touch felt charged with unspoken possibility, making me shiver.

After we’d made a decent stack of wreaths, Wyatt loaded them onto his truck. “Time to take these to the Market,” he said, and I climbed in beside him, eager to see how he managed his booth. The Market bustled as usual—carolers singing old Christmas tunes, kids decorating gingerbread houses, couples walking arm-in-arm. The booth was manned by a few of Wyatt’s farmhands, friendly folks who greeted him with easy smiles and teased him about bringing decent-looking help this time.

Sales were strong, the wreaths disappearing into eager hands. Wyatt observed the scene with pride, leaning against the truck bed, arms folded. There wasn’t much for him to do now that the workers were handling sales, and after a while, he turned to me, eyes bright.

“We’re not needed here,” he said over the cheerful hum of the crowd. “Want to do something else?”

“Like what?” I asked.

He tipped his chin toward a path leading out of the square. “There’s ice-skating nearby. Locals skate there every winter.” He shrugged, looking almost shy. “Care to join me?”

I grinned. “Ice-skating, huh? I haven’t done that since I was a kid. But I’m game.”

We trudged through the market and along a snowy trail until the trees parted to reveal a pristine, frozen lake. The surface glittered under the pale afternoon sun. After picking up skates from the rental booth, we changed into them, me tying the laces as best I could, since the last time I’d been skating was sometime in grade school. When I stood, wobbling slightly, Wyatt took my hand. “Easy,” he murmured, guiding me onto the ice.

For the first few minutes, I slipped and laughed nervously, clinging to his hand. He steadied me, patient and amused. Soon,we found a rhythm, gliding slowly, our breaths frosting in the air. The world felt pure here, amidst the sounds of laughter and the distant cry of winter birds. I couldn’t recall feeling so light, so free from worry.

As the sky began to blush with late-afternoon colors, Wyatt and I stepped off the ice, cheeks flushed, hearts thumping. “Thanks for that,” I said, meaning more than just the skating.

He nodded. “It was my pleasure. You caught on fast.”

We walked back toward his truck side by side, sneaking furtive glances at each other with smiles on our faces. Back at the farm, he offered me a hand down from the cab. “I appreciate all your help today,” he said in a gentle voice. “You didn’t have to make wreaths or haul them around with me. I know that’s not what you signed up to do when you took the assignment out here.”

My heart fluttered. “I wanted to,” I said simply. “I like feeling useful. And I can’t deny I’m enjoying seeing this town through your eyes.”

He studied me, lips curving into a half-smile. “If you’re not sick of my company yet, I’d like to invite you to dinner. I can’t promise a gourmet meal, but I make a mean spaghetti. What do you say?”

A quiet thrill raced through me. Dinner at Wyatt’s farmhouse, just the two of us. “I’d love that,” I replied softly.

His smile broadened, lighting up his face. “Great. Give me an hour or so. Take your time at the inn. I’ll have everything ready when you get back.”

My heart sang at the promise of an evening in his company. “I’ll see you soon,” I said, stepping back into my car. As I drove away, I caught him watching me, one hand raised ina casual wave. The image of him standing there—a tall, strong figure framed by pines and sky—seared into my mind.

Back at Hollyhock House, I climbed the stairs to my room, the old floorboards creaking companionably under my feet. In the bathroom, I took a long, hot shower, letting the steam curl around me as I washed away the dust, sap, and sweat of the day. My reflection in the mirror looked different somehow—eyes brighter, cheeks rosier. The woman who had arrived in Springfield a cynic was changing. I toweled off, dressed in something simple yet flattering, my heart fluttering at the thought of Wyatt’s invitation.

I’d come here to find a story. Instead, I’d found something else: a gentle unraveling of old wounds, and a man who made me question every guarded stance I’d ever taken.

As I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, I thought of Wyatt’s steady hands and thoughtful eyes. What would happen next? I didn’t know, but for the first time in a long while, I was excited to find out.

Chapter Six

WYATT

I stood in my farmhouse kitchen, heart knocking a steady rhythm against my ribs, as the last of the evening light slipped away behind the pines. Outside, the fields were already darkening into silhouette, and the snow-covered ground reflected a faint twilight glow. Inside, I had the lights turned low, relying on a few carefully placed candles to lend the space a warm, intimate flicker. The stove’s timer chimed softly: the spaghetti sauce I’d been tending all afternoon was ready, thick and fragrant with tomatoes, herbs, and a hint of red wine. I gave it one more stir before letting it rest. The fresh rolls I’d baked earlier were wrapped in a clean cloth, staying warm on thecounter. The salad greens were crisp in their bowl, dressed with a subtle vinaigrette, and a decent bottle of Merlot waited in the center of the small wooden table, breathing in candlelight.

I’d never done anything quite like this before. Cooking a simple dinner was one thing—I fed myself often enough—but going out of my way to create a sense of atmosphere, of romance, that was new territory. Yet here I was, making sure the candles were steady, straightening the napkins one last time, checking the wine glasses for spots. My hands felt a bit shaky, and I wiped my palms on the front of my jeans, wondering what this city girl had done to me.

Even though it had only been a few days since we met, I felt like we’d already come a long way from when she first showed up at Lawson’s Tree Farm, with her notebook and pesky attitude. She was a reporter, supposed to write something about our Wishing Tree tradition—something I’d feared would be critical and dismissive. Instead, over the past several days, she’d been willing to step outside her comfort zone to learn about the things that were important to me—the farm, this community, honoring my legacy. In doing so, not only had I shared my stories, but she’d shared hers as well, things that went a lot deeper than strictly business. Now I wanted to show her more of myself—including my hopes, maybe even my heart.

A gentle knock sounded at the door, and I crossed the wooden floorboards to open it. The moment I saw her, I sucked in my breath. The cool night air made her cheeks rosy, and she wore a black wrap dress that draped elegantly over her slender frame, the neckline dipping just enough to hint at the curves beneath. Her dark hair was sleek, falling like lustrous silk around her heart-shaped face, and she’d added a touch of color to her lips. Her coat hung open, revealing that perfect silhouette.The subtle scent of her perfume, something floral and warm, drifted in ahead of her as I stepped aside.

“You look…incredible,” I said, finally finding my voice.

---