Her eyes shine with unshed tears as I continue. "We've purchased the Sullivan property on Ridgeline Drive." Murmurs of surprise and approval ripple through the gathering. The historic property, with its stunning views of both the mountains and the town, has been on the market for years, too expensive for most locals, too remote for typical vacation homes.
"We'll be renovating it as our primary residence," I explain, "with construction beginning in spring, after our April wedding."
"Which you're all invited to, of course," Sloane adds, her voice steady despite the emotion I can see swimming in her eyes.
"But we didn't want to wait until spring to put down roots," I continue. "So as of yesterday, we're officially Hope Peak property owners and full-time residents."
The cheer that erupts is genuine and heartfelt, especially from the local contingent who understand what this commitment means. Not just a corporate outpost, not just a seasonal retreat, but a true investment in becoming part of the community.
"Merry Christmas, everyone," I conclude, raising my mug of cocoa. "To new beginnings, unexpected journeys, and the family we choose along the way."
"To family," echoes through the room as glasses and mugs are raised in response.
As the formal portion of our announcement concludes, Sloane turns to me, her expression reflecting everything I feel, joy, certainty, and the perfect peace of knowing we're exactly where we're meant to be.
"Well done, CEO," she murmurs. "Very inspiring."
"I had excellent material to work with," I reply, drawing her closer. "And even better motivation."
Her laugh: that bright, infectious sound I fell in love with long before I recognized what was happening, warms me from the inside out. "Smooth talker."
"Only with you," I assure her, bending to press my forehead to hers. "Always only with you."
Sloane
The Christmas brunchcontinues around us, Jenna organizing the gift exchange, Marcus quietly ensuring everything runs smoothly, Brynn and Callum stealing not-so-subtle glances at each other by the refreshment table. But for a moment, despite the crowd, it feels like just the two of us exist.
"I have something for you," Atticus says, his voice low and private. "Not your official Christmas gift, that's for later. But something I wanted to give you here, with everyone around us."
Curiosity piqued, I watch as he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and extracts a small box, not velvet like the ring box had been, but worn leather that speaks of age and history.
"This belonged to my grandmother," he explains, opening the box to reveal a delicate gold locket. "She gave it to me before she died, told me to save it for 'the woman who sees past the Morgan name to the heart underneath.' I've been carrying it for fifteen years, waiting for the right moment."
Emotion tightens my throat as he gently removes the antique piece from its cushioned nest. "May I?"
I nod, turning so he can fasten it around my neck. The weight of it settles against my skin, light but significant, like the history it carries.
"It opens," he murmurs, his fingers warm against my collarbone as he shows me the tiny catch.
Inside, I find a miniature photograph I recognize from his office in New York, the two of us at that business conference three years ago, laughing over coffee during that first all-night conversation that had changed everything. On the opposite side, elegant script readsWhere it all began.
"You had this prepared," I realize, touched beyond words. "Before you even proposed."
"I told you," he says softly, "some decisions are easier than others. Loving you has always been the easiest choice I've ever made, even when I was too stubborn to acknowledge it."
"Atticus," I breathe, blinking back tears that threaten to ruin my carefully applied holiday makeup. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll still marry me in April," he suggests, his smile warming his entire face. "Say you'll build that ridiculously large house on the ridge with me. Say you'll navigate board meetings and small-town politics and my mother's excessive involvement in our wedding planning."
"Yes to all of it," I promise, rising on tiptoes to press my lips to his. "Though I reserve the right to reconsider if your mother suggests ice sculptures of our initials."
His laugh vibrates against my lips. "Fair enough."
Someone, Brynn, most likely, calls out "Mistletoe!" and I glance up to find that yes, indeed, we're standing beneath one of the several sprigs Jenna insisted on hanging throughout the HQ. Atticus follows my gaze, his smile turning mischievous.
"Well," he says, his voice dropping to that register that never fails to send shivers down my spine, "we can't disappoint our audience."
This kiss is different from our private moments, appropriate for the setting yet still carrying the heat and promise that neverseems to dim between us. When we part, applause and good-natured whistles erupt around us.
