Page 73 of Holiday at Home
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
We grab our coats and keys and step outside. The air is cold and clean, the kind of crisp Florida winter morning that passes for brisk. Dew glints on the grass like tiny lights.
There, on the porch, sits a single card.
I pause and glance at Simon. He’s smiling softly, that secret-keeping tilt to his lips. I bend and pick it up.
His familiar handwriting curls across the envelope:
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…
I open the card. The inside is blank. My brow furrows as I look up at him, and he ducks his chin, those blue eyes gleaming.
“That first day,” he says quietly, “you gave me a cinnamon roll that warmed my heart. You didn’t want to—I could tell—but you did. And I’m ever so grateful.”
My throat tightens. “No more than me, Simon Holiday. No more than me.”
I kiss his cheek, and he offers his arm. I thread mine through, feeling the rough wool of his coat under my hand, the steady warmth of his body beside mine.
We take the steps, and at the base of the walk, another card waits.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
Another blank interior. Simon leans in and presses a kiss to the top of my head, whispering, “You gave me a chance at the tree-lighting ceremony. You didn’t want to, but you did. That night’s become one of my favorite memories. Thank you for taking a chance on me.”
Emotion ripples through me, sweet and sharp. “I’m so glad I did.”
We keep walking. The neighborhood is hushed, the sky faintly pink with dawn. Under the first streetlamp lies another card. Then another. And another.
By the time we reach the bakery, my gloved hand holdselevencards—eleven tiny love notes, each one stitched to amemory, each word a thread weaving us closer. My heart feels full to bursting.
Right in front of the door waits the final card. Simon bends, picks it up, and, before I can blink, drops to one knee.
He hands it to me, and though I already know what’s coming, my hands tremble as I unfold it and read aloud:
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…
My voice shakes. My heart soars. Simon takes my hand.
“Today,” he says, eyes bright, “I hope you’ll give me all the rest of your years. The entirety of forever. I’ve existed without you in my life, and I never want to experience that again. Violet Sterling, will you be my wife?”
He reaches into his pocket—just like he did a dozen times in New York when I washoping—and pulls out a small, black velvet box. Inside, a diamond catches the morning light and scatters it like frost.
I drop to my knees beside him, laughing through tears. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Si. So long.”
He slips the ring onto my finger, and I fling my arms around his neck, crying freely, dizzy with joy.
When he kisses me, the world goes still—the kind of stillness that hums with promise.
“Do you trust me?” he murmurs.
“Always. Forever. With everything.”
He traces a thumb along my cheek. “I couldn’t let you walk into your bakery with thewronglast name.”
I laugh through the tears. “Hate to break it to you, but my name doesn’t change just because you proposed.”
He shrugs. “Not legally. But now you know, without a doubt, that I’m yours and you’re mine. You can walk into that bakery and feel like a Holiday from the very first step inside our dream come true.”
And suddenly, for a heartbeat, Ifeelthem—Mom and Dad—standing behind the counter inside, shoulder to shoulder, smiling through the glass.
I gasp and glance toward the window. The bakery is dark. Silent. Still.
Simon slides the key into the lock and swings open the door. Warm air spills out, carrying the faint scent of sugar and coffee beans waiting to be brewed.
Together, we step inside—into light, into laughter, into the future we’ve spent a lifetime finding our way back to.
