But the thing is… it might as well be me they’re skewering. Swap Portia’s name for mine and “actress” for “lawyer,” and the warning still stings. More so than my aching shoulders.
Did I get seduced by convenience? Mistake teamwork for permanence? Or did I like how smooth the day ran when Jack was around and I let that feel like a promise?
It would explain why I’ve been so out of sorts since thatnewspaper article. I believed it was because my faith in Jack’s legal skills was put into question—but maybe deep down I was questioning my faith in Jack…in general.
Today made it obvious: without him, every task was doubled; every smile for customers felt stapled on; even the oven timers sounded lonely.
Hold back, the women said.Just a fling.
Maybe that’s the smart play.
A gust ratchets down the street, turning the wreaths into spinning halos. I pull my scarf higher and keep walking, past the bookstore with a cardboard cutout of Santa reading romances, past the Chowder House with clam-steam fogging the glass, past the bench where town teenagers practice looking bored in four layers of wool. The square opens ahead—strings of bulbs zigzagging over the gazebo, volunteers fussing with a microphone that squeals like a distressed elf.
I slow when I spot him. Jack, head tipped toward Amanda, smiling at something Portia says while she tucks a candy cane into Amanda’s pocket—easy, unashamed, as if everyone in town has already agreed to their happiness. His hands are shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders loose, the light catching on the sharp line of his jaw. People keep drifting over like he’s always been part of this place.
My stomach flips. Because if the gossips are right about Portia—a fling, a crush, a meteor—what does that make me? The intermission. The filler act. The one the crowd forgets once the headliner comes on.
Jack
The square glitterslike a holiday movie set nobody ever struck. Bulbs strung from eave to eave cast warm halos onto brick and cobblestone. Fir garlands loop over the gazebo railing where a crooked sign readsCAROLS AT SEVENin glitter-glue handwriting. Skippy has installed himself by the hot cocoa stall like security, chin on paws, tail thumping whenever a marshmallow hits the ground.
I’m early. Amanda is not because she got waylaid in The Sweetest Thing “sampling” peppermint bark with Portia—and by sampling, I mean flirting shamelessly while Portia pretended to explain crystalized sugar like it was a love language.
A dad in a down jacket hoists a kid onto his shoulders. A grandmother tugs wool hats onto reluctant teenagers who pretend they’re above joy. Everywhere I look is some version of this—units, pieces that click. Family.
There’s a tug in my chest I don’t have a precedent or clause for.
The mayor’s words from earlier in the week refuse to unhook from my ribs: me not just staying for my legalese but for the traditional small-town life—aka a family. It had landed like a compliment and a dare. The subtext was clear:not just contracts. Community. People who show up for bake sales and carols, not billable hours.
Shifting in my loafers, I wedge my hands in the pockets of my Burberry coat. I left the warmer, locally purchased one at the hotel in case any rogue reindeer decided to join tonight’s fun. I look polished as Amanda’s agent should but decidedly colder than I want to be.
I catch Eileen’s eye from across the square, and we wave. She helped me out big time today at the Santa Fun Run, introducing me to the people I needed to talk to to get the epiphany I had during Peppermint Mocha Day up and running. It made me understand more thoroughly why Audrey was drawn to small-town life, the way neighbors rally around each other in times of celebration and in times of need.
I just hope all their work pays off in the way I’m hoping and Audrey doesn’t mistake it for a gesture of gratitude instead of the truth.
As if conjured by my thoughts, my practical baker appears at the edge of the crowd, walking fast like the night air is a rope pulling her forward. Hair tucked into her scarf. Cheeks wind-bitten and gorgeous. Cocoa powder dusts the sleeve of her coat like glitter that refuses to leave after a party.
She sends me a small smile when our eyes catch, but it doesn’t land. Something shuttered. Tired, yes, but more than that.
My head tilts in question, but she averts her eyes, suddenly distracted by the milling crowd.
I take a step forward, but Amanda and Portia materialize beside me in a flurry of cinnamon air and laughter. A strandof Amanda’s hair snags in her lip gloss, and Portia gently frees it and tucks it behind her ear. Amanda beams like she just unwrapped Christmas.
Everyone around us notices, including Audrey.
“Get a room,” I mutter, nudging Amanda with an elbow, my pretend jab sounding a little more sour than I intended.
Portia smiles, and Amanda shoots me a what-the-hell look that demands an answer I don’t have.
What’s wrong with me?
Seeing the mayor huddled with his family the way people who belong together can, I have a feeling I know exactly what’s wrong with me. My eyes cut to Audrey once more, standing in front of the tree we both almost took down on my second day in town, and I wonder if she’s already reached the same conclusion I have and she’s too scared to say out loud.
But I’m not.
I may think about aesthetics before practicality when it comes to clothes, and I may overthink everything else, but if there’s one thing I do well, it’s act when I know the answer.
Pulling out my phone, I check the signal. The universe must be on my side because there’s actual service. Not much, but enough to fire off a text.
