Page 84 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"That's weirdly romantic," Finn observes.
Looking around my shop—saved from corporate acquisition, full of committee members covered in frosting, with myreformed corporate raider boyfriend still trailing mistletoe, and Giuseppe's mystery puddle still smoking slightly on the floor—I realize something.
This chaos? This beautiful, committee-run, binder-creating chaos?
This is exactly where I belong.
"So," Holden says, finally freed from the last of the mistletoe, "want to make this official?"
"The committee already scored our relationship," I point out.
"Not us," he clarifies. "The shop. Want to make me officially part of it? Part owner of The Jolly Trunk?"
"You want to co-own a failing toy shop?" I ask.
"It's not failing anymore," he points out. "It has protection funds and committee backing and at least three people willing to commit frosting-based violence for it."
I look at Holden, this man who gave up everything for a town that barely knows him and a woman who alphabetizes her anxieties.
"Partners?" I ask, and the word means more than just business.
"Partners," he confirms. "In the shop, the committees, the frosting-based defense strategies. All of it."
He kisses me, and the committee scores it at nine point nine.
Holden's hand finds mine, sticky with mistletoe sap and gingerbread residue. This wasn't the plan. The plan involved spreadsheets and loan applications and definitely not falling in love with a corporate spy.
But watching my unlikely army of committee members plot our town's defense with pasta and PowerPoints, I realize something. The best stories aren't the ones that go according to plan.
They're the ones that happen when the plan gets pushed into a structurally unsound gingerbread nativity.
And ours? Ours is just beginning.
Epilogue
Holden
Six Months Later
The Jolly Trunk smells like cinnamon and fresh pine, which Wren insists is the right combination for June despite it being nowhere near Christmas. She's rearranging the window display again, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she positions a vintage train set we found at an estate sale last week.
"It's crooked," I tell her from behind the counter where I'm attempting to understand our inventory system.
"It's artistically asymmetrical," she corrects without looking back.
"It's going to fall," I warn.
"It's going to work out," she insists, then immediately knocks over three toy soldiers with her elbow. "Okay, maybe it needs adjustment."
I abandon the inventory system—which I still don't understand after six months of co-ownership—and go help her. My hands find her waist as I reach around her to steady the display.
"This is helping?" she asks, leaning back against me.
"This is supervising," I correct, pressing a kiss to her temple.
"Your supervision technique needs work," she says, but she's smiling.
"My supervision technique is flawless," I argue, spinning her around to face me.
