Page 87 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Get a room," Giuseppe says, then pauses. "Oh wait, you own the entire building now. Get several rooms."
"That's the plan," I tell him, not taking my eyes off Wren.
The morning continues with its usual chaos. Finn stops by to inform us that Mr. Jackson has indeed taught the Border Collie to run a meeting. Delia arrives with new committee assignments that nobody asked for. June documents everything for what she's calling "The Snowfall Chronicles: Volume Seven."
But through it all, I keep catching Wren's eye across the shop, and she keeps smiling that smile that made me fall in love with her in the first place. The one that says she knows exactly how ridiculous our life is and chooses it, anyway.
By noon, we've sold three vintage toys, prevented Giuseppe from starting a revolution against non-organic pasta, and received two more corporate offers.
"We should close for lunch," Wren suggests, flipping the sign on the door.
"It's twelve-fifteen," I point out. "Lunch isn't until?—"
She pulls me toward the stairs. "Lunch is whenever we say it is. We own the building and the business, remember?"
"Excellent point, partner," I agree, following her up to what will soon be our apartment.
The space is dusty and needs work, but Wren's already pointing out where things will go.
"Kitchen there, reading nook by that window, and maybe a music room for Helena's boxes?" she suggests.
"Sounds right," I say, watching her spin through the rooms with her arms spread wide.
"We'll need better furniture in our home," she notes. "Our home. That sounds..."
"Right," I finish. "It sounds right."
She crosses to where I'm standing, taking my hands. "Six months ago, you were Holden Pierce, corporate raider."
"Six months ago, you were about to lose everything," I remind her.
"Instead, I gained everything," she says softly. "A saved shop, a reformed corporate spy, a town full of lunatics who'll defend us with pasta and binders."
"Don't forget Mr. Jackson dog army," I add.
"How could I forget the dog army?" she laughs.
"Plus, you gained one more thing," I say, pulling her closer.
"What's that?" she asks.
"A partner with one very impressive callus who can almost change oil correctly," I say proudly.
"Almost correctly is generous," she teases. "Finn says you're successfully wrong now instead of dangerously wrong."
"That’s progress," I insist.
"Definitely progress," she agrees, then her expression turns serious. "Holden?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you," she says simply. "I love this ridiculous life we've built. I love that you gave up everything for a town that weaponizes baked goods. I love that you can't fix cars but try, anyway. I love that you make charts about us when you think I'm not looking."
"You know about the charts?" I ask, embarrassed.
"I know everything," she says. "Including the ring you've been hiding in the old music box downstairs."
I freeze. "How did you?—"
