Her mother’s first to approach. A beautiful woman, sharp-eyed and elegant, the kind of lady who never needs to raise her voice to make a point. “Olivia, darling.” She kisses the air beside Olivia’s cheek. Then, turning to me, “Hello again, cowboy.”
“Merry Christmas, ma’am.” I take off my hat, offering a polite nod.
Her gaze flickers briefly to the boots, then the bolo tie. One eyebrow lifts just enough to make a man feel like he’s tracking mud across her Persian rug.
“Welcome,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Her father’s handshake is firm, appraising. Her brother gives me the once-over, then a smirk that says he’s already decided what kind of man I am. Caroline, her sister, is different—warm smile, curious eyes. She thanks us for coming.
Olivia hands out the gifts she picked, each one thoughtful and perfectly wrapped. Her father looks genuinely pleased with the vintage book on architecture. Caroline runs her fingers over the leather journal, eyes lighting up. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “I’ll actually use this.”
Her brother’s next. She hands him a slim box tied with navy ribbon. When he opens it, the gleam of silver cufflinks catches the light—engraved with his initials. He looks down at them longer than I expect, then clears his throat and mutters, “Nice touch, Liv.”
Her mother’s gift comes last—an elegant package wrapped in cream and gold. Inside is a silk scarf in soft winter tones, hand-painted with mountain peaks and a spray of wildflowers. The look on her mother’s face is surprise at first, then something gentler, something almost human.
“You always said you missed Colorado’s wildflowers,” Olivia tells her. “Now you can take a few wherever you go.”
For once, her mother doesn’t have a quick reply. Just folds the scarf between her fingers and murmurs, “It’s lovely.”
And it is. But the real beauty in the room is the way Olivia glows from giving.
Dinner’s served at a long table dressed in gold and white. The kind that belongs in magazines. I take the seat beside Olivia, across from her parents. The food’s fancy, but I make do, careful not to clink my silverware wrong or say “ma’am” too many times.
Her father asks about the ranch. That’s safe ground. I talk about feed quality, cattle rotation, winter prep — things that make sense no matter where you live. He listens, nods. Even seems impressed.
Olivia looks at me like she’s proud. That’s all I need to steady my hands. The conversation drifts from travel to family gossip. The wine keeps flowing. I’m just starting to relax when her mother sets down her fork and leans in with a smile too polite to be harmless.
“So, Olivia,” she says, voice smooth as satin. “Rumor has it your grandfather’s will had a rather … interesting clause. Something about needing to marry before Christmas to inherit the ranch and the trust fund. I suppose now we know what prompted this whirlwind romance.”
The table goes still. My stomach tightens. I don’t say a word. It’s not my place … not yet.
Olivia’s wineglass hovers halfway to her lips. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t flinch. Slowly, she sets the glass down and meets her mother’s gaze head-on.
“You’re right,” she says softly. “That’s how it started.”
Her father shifts in his chair, frowning. Her mother blinks, clearly not expecting her to admit it.
“Yes,” Olivia continues. “The clause was real. I had to marry before Christmas to keep the ranch and the trust. And I did.”
Her voice doesn’t shake. If anything, it gains strength with every word.
“But what you don’t know,” she says, “is that it stopped being a marriage of convenience. I fell in love with James. Completely. Unexpectedly. And whether there’s a clause or not, whether anyone believes it or not … that ranch is my home. James is not just the man who helped me keep it. He’s the one I want for the rest of my life.”
You could hear a pin drop.
Her mother blinks rapidly, lips parting, searching for something to say. Her father clears his throat, looks at me, then back at Olivia. “Well,” he says quietly, “your grandfather would’ve liked that answer.”
Caroline hides a grin behind her napkin. “Finally, someone said it.”
The tension breaks like glass. A few chuckles, a sigh of relief. Olivia exhales, her shoulders lowering. I reach under the table, find her hand, and squeeze.
“You didn’t have to fight for me,” I murmur.
She squeezes back. “You’re wrong. I did. You’re worth it.”
Her mother takes a slow sip of wine, the color finally returning to her face. “Well,” she says lightly, “I suppose that settles that.”
Dinner picks back up, the conversation cautious but warmer. Olivia laughs again, this time real and bright. Every time she does, my chest gets a little tighter.
