Chapter Nine
We stepped out of the maze and straight into a wall of warm, delicious smells, melting chocolate, spiced whisky, butter sizzling on hot plates, grilled bockwurst wrapped in soft buns. The Christmas market buzzed with life, lights glowing in the drifting snow like tiny golden stars.
Oliver paused beside me, taking it all in at once and for a second, I forgot to breathe.
His cheeks were a little pink from the cold, his hair damp with snowflakes, and that black turtleneck and warm coat made him look both completely out of place and strangely… right here. His expression wasn’t tight or guarded like when he first arrived. His features had softened, eyes wide with curiosity, mouth parting just slightly as he absorbed the sounds and scents.
Something inside me shifted, gently, unexpectedly.
“Oh wow,” he murmured. “This is… incredible.”
I’d seen this market a thousand times but hearing him say it and hearing something like wonder in his voice made my chestwarm in a way I wasn’t prepared for. We walked toward the row of stalls, and as we passed, a few townsfolk called out:
“Evenin’, Brianna!”
“Bri! Save me a mince pie for tomorrow!”
“Your mum would’ve loved this year’s lights, sweetheart.”
Each greeting tugged at me in that tender, bittersweet way Pine Hollow always did. But then something else happened. People noticedhim. Some slowed down subtly. Elderly neighbours gave that unmistakable look ofohhhh, so this is the London man.A few teens whispered as we passed. Mrs. MacLeary, who’d known me since I was in nappies, lifted her eyebrows in a way that practically shouted “Well, well.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. Oliver didn’t seem to realise the attention was directed at him. Or at us. He was too busy staring, eyes bright, at a stall selling crêpes dusted with powdered sugar. The soft glow of lanterns lit his face, and suddenly I saw him not as the man giving me bad news in my bakery… but someone who was trying, truly trying, to understand this place.
Someone open. Someone kind. Someone I hadn’t expected.
“Hungry?” he asked gently, his voice drawing me back.
I blinked, realising I’d been looking at him far too long. “Indeed!”
His laughter warmed the cold air, and I felt that little shift again, a soft flutter low in my stomach. As we moved through the crowd, I caught a few more knowing glances, especially from the older folk. They were subtle but sharp, the kind of looks people give when they’re already writing their own version of events. I ignored them as best I could, but even I felt the hum of awareness around us.
Oliver nudged my arm slightly, nodding toward a chocolate stall. “Should we?”
“Sounds great,” I said, trying to steady my voice.
We stepped up to the counter, and while he ordered two hot chocolates, with whisky, of course, I couldn’t stop myself from watching him. The way he carefully read the chalkboard menu, brow furrowing.
The way he softened when the vendor joked with him and the way he handed me the steaming mug, fingers brushing mine, warm, intentional enough to send a tiny spark racing across my skin. Not enough to mean anything. But enough to notice. We stepped aside, sipping our drinks while the carousel chimed softly nearby, painted horses rising and falling in golden circles.
“This is… surprisingly good,” he said.
I bumped his shoulder playfully. “That’s the dram talking.”
He looked down at me then, really looked, blue eyes soft and warm beneath the lights. And the flutter in my chest turned into something I didn’t have a name for yet. I tore my gaze away, pretending to focus on a stall selling knitted hats and tartan scarves. But I was suddenly, acutely aware of him beside me. His height, his warmth and the way the turtleneck framed his jaw and made him look–
No. Absolutely not. I wasnotgoing down that road. He was leaving as soon as the weather allowed. This was harmless. Just a walk, a simple showing him my town. But as the snow drifted softly around us and the lights reflected in his eyes, I knew–deep down–something had shifted, whether I wanted it to or not. And the night wasn’t even over yet.
We walked a little further, weaving between bundled-up families and couples holding steaming drinks, until the carousel came into full view. Glowing gold beneath the falling snow, each painted horse rising and dipping in time with the soft chiming music. Oliver slowed beside me, his gaze fixing on it with an expression somewhere between surprise and something gentler.
“I haven’t been on one of these since I was a kid,” he said, almost under his breath.
The way he said it, quietly, like it was a memory he hadn’t touched in a long time made something in my chest tighten.
“They’re different when you’re older,” I teased lightly. “Less magical, more dizzying.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Somehow that sounds accurate.”
We stepped closer. A few children rushed past us, scarves flying, parents calling after them as they scrambled toward the horses. The snow made everything soft and hazy, and the lights of the ride reflected in Oliver’s eyes like fragments of gold.
