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“Sometimes it might be a yule log.”
“A gingerbread house if we’re lucky.”
I laughed. “Okay, William Dixon. Stay.”
Relief moved across his face. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
He beamed at me.
I took a step toward him and slipped my arms around his waist. “I know coming back here is hard for you. I promise I will never make you go caroling. Or listen to Christmas music in your own home—”
He brushed my hair gently behind my ear. “I promise to carry your tree in a flannel.”
“I promise to let you put it down sometimes.”
He smiled at me softly.
“I thought you didn’t like Little Christmas,” I said, gazing up at him.
“No. But I very much love Little Christmas with you in it.”
And he leaned down and kissed me.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
LAUREN
Christmas Eve
NOEL HAD HER HANDS over her mouth. “It’s perfect,” she breathed.
I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. “It is perfect.” I smoothed the skirt of my wedding dress down. “The guy and the dress.”
It was my wedding day. William and I had been engaged way longer than two rational people who don’t believe in falling in love in three days would like to admit—but, when you know, you know.
Noel let out a happy sigh. “You look so beautiful.” Then she stared down at herself. “And you’re sure you want me in this? There’s still time to go change.” She looked back at me hopefully.
I grinned mischievously at the ugly sweater I made her wear. It was a gingerbread man on a stripper pole. “I’m sure.”
She slumped. “They’re going to hang these pictures in the town hall, Lauren. William’s from a founding family.”
“Oh, I know.”
She gave me a look. “Nick’s has a llama smoking a cigarette on it. That’s what you want immortalized in your wedding photos? Forever?”
I shrugged. “I think it’s cute. First me and William, now you and Nick. We’re trendsetters.”
“Lauren! How long are you going to be mad at me for the sweater thing?” She looked at me bleakly. “There was no time for you to go change. Believe me, I’m not happy about two boob ornaments either.”
I tried not to laugh at the face she was making.
“Do you know how many people bring it up when they come into the shop?” I said, feigning seriousness. “You have condemned me for life, Noel. If I have to be the ugly sweater lady, so do you.”
“Pleeeease,” she begged.
