“I did,” I said. “Though I can’t take credit for the idea. The knitting club ambushed me outside the hotel and practically shoved the invitation down my throat.”
That made her laugh, bright and soft, her shoulders easing for the first time in days.
“That sounds about right,” she said. “Those three are unstoppable.”
“It was… impossible to say no,” I admitted. “Though to be fair, I didn’t want to.”
Something shifted in her eyes, a softening, a glow, something almost fragile.
“I’d like to go with you,” she said quietly, sincerity threading through every word.
“And I’d very much like to go with you too,” I replied, letting the truth settle between us, warming the space more than the ovens ever could.
A few seconds lingered–sweet, hesitant, electric. Her fingers brushed a stray bit of flour from her apron, then she gestured toward the counter.
“Do you want a coffee? Before the rush hits?”
“I’d like that,” I said.
Her smile in that moment, though small, real, impossibly gentle, felt like sunlight in winter. And as she turned to make the coffee, humming softly again, I realised something startling:
The thought of leaving Pine Hollow suddenly felt a little like walking away from something I shouldn’t. Something that might matter.
Chapter Nineteen
By the time evening settled over Pine Hollow, the town felt like it had been dipped in magic. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, collecting in soft piles along the windowsills of my flat. From upstairs, I could see the glow rising from the town hall, looking golden and warm, shimmering against the frost-covered streets as groups of neighbours hurried inside in their finest clothes.
The Pine Hollow Christmas Ball.
A tradition older than I was. A night where the town came together, dressed in glitter and tartan and smiles. A night that, as a child, I used to dream about attending with my mother.
She’d always said,“One day, Bri. One day you’ll go with someone who makes the world feel lighter.”
Tonight… I wasn’t sure what the world felt. And I definitely wasn’t sure what walking in with Oliver Grant would mean.
I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing my hands over the shimmering silvery-blue dress Ivy had insisted I wear. The fabric sparkled softly, catching the light like frost over deep water. Theslit along the side made me feel both elegant and exposed, and the way my auburn hair glowed against the cool colour.
It didn’t feel like me. Not the me that woke at four a.m. to knead dough, not the me who scraped ice off the bakery windows every morning and not the me who carried grief in her chest like an old bruise.
Tonight, I looked like someone who belonged somewhere far more magical than the life I’d been living these past few years. And that terrified me. Because the ball wasn’t just a celebration, it was a stage. A place where eyes would turn, whispers would spread, and assumptions would be made.
About me.
About Oliver.
About us.
Me, the girl whose bakery lease was hanging by a thread. Him, the man who could cut that thread if he chose.
What would people think seeing me arrive on his arm? Would they think I was desperate? Maybe naïve? Perhaps they will think I am playing a dangerous game? Would they wonder if I had forgotten what was at risk? And what would my mother say?
I pressed my hands to the vanity, fighting the sudden ache behind my ribs.
She’d want me to keep the bakery, to fight for it, to stand my ground. But she also would have hated seeing me shut myself away, letting life pass me by because I was scared of losing something else.
“Don’t let the world shrink around your fears,”she’d said once while helping me frost gingerbread cookies.“You deserve joy too.”
A buzz at the flat door jolted me from the memory.
