That part I know, at least in the secret corners of my heart. But what Penn wants? That’s the real question, and the one that keeps me up at night.
After I pay for the stockings, I slip back into festival mode. Row by row, I check in with vendors, making sure their tables are stocked, their cocoa warm, their smiles genuine. Everything about this reminds me why I love this community. But despite that, the big city is still calling.
When I push through the door into the back room, the hum shifts. The air is sticky with glue and glitter, the tables a kaleidoscope of craft paper and pipe cleaners. Laughter bounces off the walls, full of joy.
“Where’s Penn?” Little Liam pipes up, his eyes shining with the kind of hero-worship only a child can give.
I grin, my chest softening. Somehow, between hockey and hot glue guns, Penn has become a local celebrity. “He’s working on the nativity set.” I lean down to peek at Liam’s project. “What are you making?”
“It’s for the tree.” He holds up a crooked but dazzling ornament—a hockey stick drowning in glitter.
“It’s perfect,” I say with conviction, because it is. His toothy grin makes me laugh, and I ruffle his hair before drifting on to chat with a few more kids, their sticky hands leaving smudges of sparkles everywhere.
By the time I return to the main hall, the crowd has doubled. The air is alive with energy—boots stamping snow from the entryway, voices overlapping, the faint jingle of a bell from one of the volunteers by the door. I glance around, pride swelling in me at the turnout.
And then I see her.
Sloane.
My stomach knots. Because where Sloane is, Dylan usually lurks nearby, and the last thing I want right now is a forced conversation with my ex. Especially knowing in two nights’ time, after the parade and tree lighting, Dylan will be front and center in the community center’s kissing booth. Good for fundraising, sure. Great for the children’s hospital. But the only thing I’m certain of is I won’t be lining up to pucker up.
Sloane lifts her head, as if she can feel my gaze tugging at her. She smiles, but it’s brittle, sliding across her face without reaching her eyes. Something about it makes me hesitate. I could turn away, bolt for the café and bring Penn and Dad their well-earned coffee and snacks. But my gut tugs me in the opposite direction.
I weave through the crowd, the scent of cinnamon and pine clinging to my coat. Up close, Sloane looks… different. Her makeup isn’t flawless, and for the first time, her phone isn’t glued to her hand, documenting her every move. Instead, she stares down at the merchandise on the table.
“Hey, Sloane,” I say, careful to sound casual. “Are you enjoying Snowberry?”
Her voice is flat. “It’s okay.”
“Dylan not with you today?”
She shakes her head, a small movement that seems to take effort. “No, he said he had some business to deal with. I thought I’d come over here and check things out.”
There’s a shadow about her, a loneliness that feels heavier than all the glitter in the room combined. Before I can think better of it, words tumble out. “I’m just about to bring Penn and my father some coffee and snacks. They’re out in the cold fixing the nativity set. Want to help?”
Her head jerks up, eyes sparking. “Really?”
“Sure.”
For the first time since I spotted her, Sloane smiles, an actual smile that reaches her eyes, softening her entire face. “I actually didn’t think you liked me,” she admits shyly.
To be fair, maybe I just hadn’t given her a chance. “Of course, I like you, come on.” I gesture toward the café, and she falls into step beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine.
“What did you buy?” she asks, her tone lighter now, almost curious.
I can’t help but grin as I pull the bag open. “Oh, this is the first Christmas Penn and I are spending together here in Snowberry, so I grabbed us matching stockings.”
She peers inside, her hand brushing mine as she tugs the fabric gently. “They’re so cute.” Then her voice dips, almost wistful. “I don’t even have a stocking at Dylan’s parents’ place.”
The ache in her words surprises me. Sloane, with her million followers, her curated perfection, suddenly seems… alone.
“They have more,” I say quickly, my heart tugging. “We can go back.”
She gives a quick, almost violent shake of her head. “No. I don’t think so.”
The firmness in her voice makes me pause, but her eyes—flat, tired—say more than she wants to admit. Something’s wrong, but I don’t press. We reach the café, and the warm, sugary air rushes over us like a blanket, thick with the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and fresh-baked bread. Behind the glass case, pastries glisten under the lights.
“My treat,” I say lightly, and Sloane’s gaze locks on a cinnamon roll like she’s been starving for more than just food.