“You didn’t have to,” she said finally, her voice low but clear.
I didn’t answer right away. Let the silence stretch a beat too long before saying, “I know.”
The words came out softer than I meant. Caught me off guard.
Maybe it caught her too.
The air shifted between us. Not cleared—just… thinned. Like the silence wasn’t so heavy now. Still full of things unsaid, but not pressing the way it had been.
She curled deeper into the jacket, her hands tucked beneath the sleeves like they were holding something fragile. I shifted in my seat, elbows brushing the door, the empty space between us charged with something I couldn’t name.
Outside, the snow built up on the windows like the world was being buried slow and quiet. Inside, everything felt… suspended. Still. Like this cab had turned into its own world and neither of us wanted to break it.
She spoke again, softer this time. “When he says an hour, do you think he means it?”
I shrugged, still watching the snowfall blur out the trees. “Sam gets where he needs to go.”
Her mouth quirked—just barely. “Good. I was starting to worry I’d have to carry you out of here.”
I almost smiled. Almost. “You wouldn’t make it ten feet.”
She gave a little snort and went quiet again, pulling the coat closer around her. My coat. My scent. My silence.
I should’ve hated this—being stuck, being close. But I didn’t. Not really.
“Guess we’ll be here a while,” I said, more to myself than her.
She didn’t reply, but her head leaned just slightly against the window. Still wrapped in my jacket. Still here.
And somehow, for once, I didn’t mind the waiting.
Chapter8
Callie
Icrouched beside a box half-filled with tangled lights and pine-scented ribbon, surrounded by a battlefield of packing peanuts and glitter-stained tissue paper.The Book Nooklooked like it had been hit by a holiday tornado, but to me, it was perfect chaos.
I glanced at the clock, anxiety twisting my stomach. An hour and twenty minutes yesterday felt like a lifetime, waiting for Sam to haul us out of that snowbank. He’d promised the truck would be ready soon, but the memory of Cavil’s tense silence still clung to me.
I brushed a stray pine needle from my sleeve, shaking off thoughts of him.
Focus, Callie.I inhaled deeply, forcing a smile as I turned back to my work.
The lights in my hand slipped through my fingers, soft and glowing like stars waiting to be strung. I could already imagine how the windows would look once I got them up—warm, inviting, like the kind of place people would want to come in from the cold and stay awhile.
“All right,” I whispered to myself, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “This is your moment. Don’t screw it up.”
The bell above the door jingled, and for half a heartbeat, I thought maybe one of the volunteers had arrived early. But it was just the courier dropping off another donation—this time a box from Margie at the Sweet Spot Bakery. Marmalade flicked his tail, as if he couldn't be bothered.
I peeled back the tape and was hit with the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. Inside were neatly wrapped cookies—some shaped like trees, others like tiny books with sugar-scripted titles. I pulled one free and took a bite before I could second-guess myself.
Instant comfort. Like buttered nostalgia wrapped in sugar.
I smiled and let out a hum of approval. If the rest of the night went down as smooth as that cookie, I’d be golden.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ithadto go smoothly. I wasn’t just throwing a holiday event—I was trying to prove I could carry this place, keep it thriving after everything that had happened. No Mr. Fletcher. No Leo calling the shots. Just me, standing on my own.
I stood up and wiped my hands on my jeans, surveying the shop. Tables half-set, decorations half-hung. So close, and still so much to do.
