Page 55 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Probably," she whispers back.
The inspector arrives—a stern woman with a clipboard thicker than my guilt and an expression that suggests she's seen too many Christmas disasters.
"Snowfall Creek," she says, like it's a diagnosis. "Tree appears festive."
"Very festive and straight," Delia confirms. "Geometrically straight. Mathematically verified."
"That's not necessary," the inspector says, making notes.
She walks around the tree slowly, examining every angle. We all hold our breath. Even the wind seems to pause. Then she nods.
"Acceptable. You maintain your points," she declares.
The town erupts in celebration. Teddy starts crying. Giuseppe starts singing what might be the Italian anthem. Mrs. Chang breaks out emergency cookies from her purse.
"We should celebrate," Wren says, tugging my hand. "Want to help me reorganize my anxiety spreadsheet? I need to add 'Tree Gravity' between 'Traffic' and 'Unexpected Guests.'"
"That's the most romantic offer I've received all day," I tell her honestly.
"I also have wine," she adds. "Real wine, not apple juice."
"Sold," I say.
As we walk away from the chaos, my phone buzzes one more time. A text from an unknown number that must be Sterling
Unknown:This isn't over.
But it is. I delete that too without responding.
"You okay?" Wren asks, noticing my expression.
"Yeah," I say, looking at my hands. They're red from rope burn, dirty from tree sap, with that one callus I'm oddly proud of. They look nothing like the manicured hands that signed corporate documents just weeks ago. "I'm good."
"Your hands look terrible," she observes cheerfully.
"I know," I say, smiling. "Aren't they great?"
She laughs, linking her arm through mine as we walk toward her shop. "You're very weird."
"Says the woman who alphabetizes anxiety," I point out.
"It's very efficient. I can panic in alphabetical order," she explains.
My father would be appalled. He'd have tons of files about missed opportunities and profit margins, about legacy and family obligations.
But I'm walking through snow-covered streets with a woman who names her ceiling stains, toward a shop full of vintage toys that no acquisition could properly value, in a town that just spent two hours saving a tree for points in a competition that shouldn't matter but somehow does.
The tree stands straight behind us, wrapped in lights that will shine tonight. Tomorrow there will be new crises, new committees, new reasons for Giuseppe to cry into ice cream. And I'll be here for all of it.
Because somewhere between the soft hands and the calluses, between the corporate calls and the rope burns, I stopped being who I was supposed to be and became who I actually am.
And that person is completely, ridiculously, irrevocably in love with Wren Holloway.
Chapter 11
Wren
The bank meeting room smells like disappointment and Pine-Sol, which might be the same thing depending on your perspective. Miranda Fletcher sits across from me, her power suit so crisp it could probably file its own tax returns, while I fidget in my best "please don't foreclose on me" outfit—a dress grandma bought me for my college graduation that still has the tags tucked in.
