Page 100 of Mistletoe & Magic
“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” she says. “I figured I’d test the idea this spring with a weekend workshop, see how it goes, and if people like it, I could expand. With your blessing, of course.”
I can’t stop smiling. “This is brilliant. You’d be amazing at this, Ivy. Kids would love it. Parents would love it. You could do it year-round if you wanted. Use the barn or hell, we can build you a new building just for this. You could host your own retreats, kids’ parties, whatever you want.”
She goes quiet, blinking like she’s trying not to tear up.
“Hey,” I say, stepping around the counter to stand between her knees. “Whatever you want, I am here for you.”
She smiles, soft and certain, and kisses me. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen my marketing plan.”
Her laugh makes my chest feel too full. I tuck her hair behind her ear just because I can, and the oven timer dings before I can kiss her again.
The front door opens, and cold air and trouble blow in.
“Hey, guys!” Finn calls, stomping snow off his boots. Rowan is right behind him, scarf trailing like she was running here.
They look like they have been up to something, which means they have.
Ivy calls from the kitchen, “You’re early.”
“Had to be,” Rowan says. “We brought a special guest.”
I frown, dusting flour off my hands. “What?”
Finn grins like a man who knows he’s about to get punched. “Marco.”
“Marco?” I repeat, not following.
“As in Marco’s Pizza,” Rowan says, practically vibrating with glee.
I stare at Finn. “You didn’t.”
He grins wider.
“You’re going to get it,” I tell him, trying to be dead serious.
Rowan laughs so hard she has to hold onto the back of a chair. “Finn might have told Marco that his pizza was just as good as yours, and Marco was wildly curious. So…he’s joining us for pizza night.”
“You’re both dead,” I inform them.
Finn shrugs. “I regret nothing.”
Before I can reply, there’s a knock at the door and Marco himself steps in, cheeks red from the cold, carrying a crate of fresh garlic bulbs and a tiramisu cake like some sort of saint.
“Remy!” he booms, his Italian accent warm as summer. “Thank you for having me. I am so excited to watch you cook.”
I glance at Finn, who is trying not to laugh, and then shake Marco’s hand. “Come on in. But if you tell me my pizza is trash, you’re never allowed back.”
He just grins. “I would not dare.”
It turns into the best kind of chaos. Marco jumps in like he has been part of pizza night forever, tossing dough in the air to show Junie, who squeals every time it lands without falling. We talk shop, dough fermentation, oven temperature, hydration percentage. He teaches me a new trick for stretching dough without tearing it, and I have to admit, the man knows his craft.
“If you ever get tired of your tree farm,” he says, “come partner with me. We will be the best!”
“Tempting,” I say, laughing. “But I think I’m where I belong. And you’re already the best, Marco.”
“Good answer,” Ivy calls from the couch, smiling at us.
