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“Very funny.” The corners of his lips settle into a straight line, but they’re twitching up on each end, and I am high on the feeling of teasing Gabe.

Scratch that. It’s the reindeer magic. That’s all this bubbly feeling in my chest is. A combination of the whimsy of the reindeer and the crisp, cold air filling my lungs and the finest snowflakes that are flurrying down making me feel enchanted.

“I am, aren’t I?” I say loftily to Gabe, smirking at him before turning my attention to Felipe. “This place is incredible, but it’s totally up to you if you want to let us use it for the Christmas Dash. No hard feelings either way.”

“I said you could use it, so you can use it.” Felipe’s tone is gruff.

“Right,” I say with a small smile. “Thank you so much.”

“Now that that’s taken care of”—Gabe claps his hands—“I want to walk the trails with Beth, and we need to pick out a tree for my mom, if that’s okay with you, Felipe?”

Felipe waves us toward the lines of trees. “Have at ’er.”

Chapter 19

Gabe

Beth checks her watch. She tries to be covert, but I see her. I’m not about to be deterred, though. It’s time she starts practicing what she preaches with the whole “take some time to smell the roses” thing—or in this case, the evergreen trees.

“Come on.” I grab for her hand and tug her in the opposite direction of Felipe’s house. It’s snowing in that gentle, hushed way that makes everything glow. The fresh powder frosts the trees, and the air smells clean and fresh, like a newly laundered sheet. I feel more settled than I’ve felt in ages. There’s always been something about this place—this farm—that centers me. Some things never change.

I glance at the woman hiking along next to me. Her breath clouds out in front of her, and when she catches me staring, her cheeks pinken. She drops her gaze to where I’m still holding her hand, and I drop it, tucking my fists into my pockets. I’d love nothing more than to keep a hold of her fingers. Better yet, to wrap my arms around her and hold her close, shielding her from the chill of these woods. But I can’t. It’s not my place. Not yet. She wants a guy like Cal Kell. Or maybe Where’s Wallace. I broached the subject of the future earlier, but we need to have much more of a conversation before I make any moves.

“It’s beautiful out here.” Beth stares ahead over the lines of Christmas trees. “A perfect spot for the Dash. Good call.”

I smile. “I’m just happy Felipe went for it.”

“You guys are close.”

I dip my chin. I don’t know how to put into words how much the old farmer means to me.

“He says you call every week.”

I cut Beth a sidelong look, and she’s staring back at me, like she’s trying to work out a trivia question in her head but she’s missing something.

“I do,” I say simply. I should visit home more. I know I should. But it’s been difficult to get away from the schedule that’s set out for me. I’ve had my nose to the grindstone of music and fame for the past five years. My people in Nashburg—agents, managers, the record label, everyone—say we have to strike while the fire’s hot. We don’t want to lose momentum. I’ve listened to them, pushing out three albums and going on two headline tours and one major tour, where I opened for Penn Stewart and Pita Paige, country music royalty. It’s been incredible to experience the crowds, the fans, and to get to make music.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t exhausted—that I didn’t crave some quiet hours here, on the farm, with the reindeer.

Guilt over not coming back to Dasher Valley is always there, just under the surface, but I’ve been able to mostly keep it in check because I know my why. There’s a reason I went on Hidden Gems, even after I told Beth I wouldn’t. There’s a reason I’ve pushed so hard.

Beth comes to a stop and studies me without pretense.

“What?” I turn to face her, holding my arms out wide. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Trying to reconcile something.”

“Something like . . . ?”

“I don’t know. Musicians in general. My parents. You,” she adds more quietly.

I hold my breath. There’s a charge of hope in the wintry air. Like the atmosphere is laced with possibility. That missed chance from five years ago feels like it’s an inch away from sliding into a place of let’s try again.

I search Beth’s gaze, looking for some sort of sign in her beautiful eyes that she’s willing to hear me out. That she’s willing to let me prove to her I can do music and be good to her. Even though I hurt her, I want to scream out loud that I won’t leave her again . . . that I want to be with her always, and I’ll figure out how.

But she blinks, shoves her glasses up her nose, and swivels her head toward the trees again. “So, your mom needs a Christmas tree?”

I punch out a breath, the moment lost. “Yep.”