Chapter Six

WYATT

I stood in my farmhouse kitchen, heart knocking a steady rhythm against my ribs, as the last of the evening light slipped away behind the pines. Outside, the fields were already darkening into silhouette, and the snow-covered ground reflected a faint twilight glow. Inside, I had the lights turned low, relying on a few carefully placed candles to lend the space a warm, intimate flicker. The stove’s timer chimed softly: the spaghetti sauce I’d been tending all afternoon was ready, thick and fragrant with tomatoes, herbs, and a hint of red wine. I gave it one more stir before letting it rest. The fresh rolls I’d baked earlier were wrapped in a clean cloth, staying warm on the counter. The salad greens were crisp in their bowl, dressed with a subtle vinaigrette, and a decent bottle of Merlot waited in the center of the small wooden table, breathing in candlelight.

I’d never done anything quite like this before. Cooking a simple dinner was one thing—I fed myself often enough—but going out of my way to create a sense of atmosphere, of romance, that was new territory. Yet here I was, making sure the candles were steady, straightening the napkins one last time, checking the wine glasses for spots. My hands felt a bit shaky, and I wiped my palms on the front of my jeans, wondering what this city girl had done to me.

Even though it had only been a few days since we met, I felt like we’d already come a long way from when she first showed up at Lawson’s Tree Farm, with her notebook and pesky attitude. She was a reporter, supposed to write something about our Wishing Tree tradition—something I’d feared would be critical and dismissive. Instead, over the past several days, she’d been willing to step outside her comfort zone to learn about the things that were important to me—the farm, this community, honoring my legacy. In doing so, not only had I shared my stories, but she’d shared hers as well, things that went a lot deeper than strictly business. Now I wanted to show her more of myself—including my hopes, maybe even my heart.

A gentle knock sounded at the door, and I crossed the wooden floorboards to open it. The moment I saw her, I sucked in my breath. The cool night air made her cheeks rosy, and she wore a black wrap dress that draped elegantly over her slender frame, the neckline dipping just enough to hint at the curves beneath. Her dark hair was sleek, falling like lustrous silk around her heart-shaped face, and she’d added a touch of color to her lips. Her coat hung open, revealing that perfect silhouette. The subtle scent of her perfume, something floral and warm, drifted in ahead of her as I stepped aside.

“You look…incredible,” I said, finally finding my voice.

She smiled, lips curving in a way that made my pulse spike. “Thanks. I thought I should dress up a little since you went to all this trouble.” Her gaze slipped past me to the candlelit table, the wine, the carefully arranged salad. She gave a pleased hum of appreciation. “It smells amazing in here.”

I helped her off with her coat, hanging it on the old wooden peg by the door. “I’m not a gourmet chef, but I can handle spaghetti pretty well,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

She settled into the small dining chair I pulled out for her, her posture relaxed, eyes shining as if this cozy farmhouse scene charmed her more than she expected. I poured the wine, and we toasted silently, our gazes meeting over the rims of the glasses. The tension between us was different now: it wasn’t suspicion or friction, but a current of electricity that drew us together like a magnet.

The meal began with laughter. I served the spaghetti: tender pasta coated in rich sauce, sprinkled with grated Parmesan. The rolls were soft, the salad crisp. We talked about small things at first. She teased me about my cooking prowess—“Who knew a lumberjack could cook?”—and I shrugged modestly, glad she liked it. I asked about her life in Chicago, how she found her way into journalism, and she asked more about the farm, my family, other traditions I upheld.

As we reached the comfortable lull after the main course, just sipping our wine and enjoying the candlelight, Cassie’s expression turned thoughtful. She leaned forward, her forearms resting on the table, fingers playing gently with the stem of her glass. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she began softly, her voice hushed as if we were conspirators in this intimate moment.

“Go ahead,” I said, intrigued by her sudden gravity.

“I’ve been invited to Candi’s Christmas Eve Gala,” she said. “I guess it’s a big deal around here—everyone attends. I thought I’d just show up, see what it’s about. But…” She paused, lips pressing together briefly. “I was wondering if you’d go with me. I know you’re not keen on fancy social scenes, but I’d like you by my side. Would you consider it?”

I sat back, surprised. The gala. I’d been invited every year—Candi McCall made sure of it—but I never went. Too many people, too much sparkle and small talk. But Cassie’s eyes were shining with earnest hope. She wanted me there. It mattered to her. My discomfort with crowds felt small compared to the thought of being her companion.

“For you?” I said quietly, “I’ll go.” Her smile at that moment could have lit the whole room brighter than the candles. “Just don’t laugh if I’m awkward in a suit,” I added with a grin.

She laughed, the sound soft and genuine. “I’ll help you pick something decent. And I promise not to laugh too hard.”

The mood changed then, humming with a deeper note of connection. We finished the wine, talking in low tones, our knees occasionally bumping under the table. Eventually, I rose and cleared the dishes, while she drifted into the living room where a small fire crackled in the hearth. The farmhouse had never felt so welcoming, so full of possibility.

I joined her, finding her standing by the mantel, hands clasped in front of her. The light from the fire played along her hair, making it gleam. We stood close, that anticipation crackling again. When I reached out and touched her cheek, she leaned into my hand. We kissed—soft at first, a gentle press of lips tasting of oak and warmth. Her hand rested on my chest, fingers curling into my sweater.

Before long, the kiss deepened, grew more urgent. She slipped her arms around my neck, drawing me closer. I could feel her heart beating through the thin fabric of her dress. Everything else fell away, and I focused solely on her: the sigh of her breath as she opened her mouth to me, the way her body pressed into mine, slender and strong.

“Maybe we should…go somewhere more comfortable,” I whispered, my voice husky as I brushed her ear with my lips. She nodded, and I guided her down the hallway to my bedroom. The space was simple—a wide bed, a dresser, a lamp casting soft light—but tonight it felt like an intimate refuge. We stood at the foot of the bed, and she turned to face me, and the desire I read in her eyes mirrored my own.

I reached for the tie of her dress, pulling it gently. The fabric parted with a soft whisper, sliding down her shoulders, revealing a lacy black bra and matching panties that hugged her hips. She was breathtaking, every inch of her porcelain skin glowing. My pulse hammered as I trailed my knuckles along her collarbone, down the slope of a breast.

She reached for my sweater, tugging it up. I lifted my arms, letting her strip it off, then helped her remove my jeans and socks until we stood in just our underwear. Her gaze roamed over my body, her lips curving in approval, and she stepped closer, pressing her palms flat against my chest. Her touch was warm, deliberate, stirring a deeper hunger inside me.

We kissed again, more passionately this time, tongues exploring slowly. I traced the curve of her spine, then dipped lower, cupping her ass, pulling her flush against me. She made a soft sound deep in her throat, hooking a leg around my hip. I guided us back until her knees hit the mattress and we tumbled onto the bed, laughing softly into the kiss.

The laughter faded into sighs as we explored each other, hands roaming freely. I slid the bra strap down her shoulder, kissing the newly revealed skin, then reached behind to unhook it. She arched her back, helping me remove it, and my breath caught at the sight of her bare breasts—full, soft, her nipples erect with anticipation. I bent to taste them, swirling my tongue gently, relishing her responding moan, the way her fingers wove into my hair, urging me closer.

She tugged at my underwear, and I helped her peel it off. Her panties followed soon after, until nothing separated us. The air was cool on our skin, but we were both flushed with heat. I let my hands explore every dip and curve of her body, from the graceful line of her neck to the inward curve of her waist and the flare of her hips. She did the same, fingertips leaving tingling trails along my muscles.

When I settled between her thighs, she welcomed me with a softness and eagerness that left me dizzy. We took our time, savoring every gasp and shiver. I kissed my way down her belly, tasting the salt of her skin, the sweet nectar of her core, then back up to her mouth, capturing her lower lip gently with my teeth. She responded by wrapping her legs around my waist, drawing me in, and we both groaned with pleasure when I finally entered her.

We moved together, slowly at first, finding a rhythm guided by whispers and murmured encouragements. She met each of my thrusts with a roll of her hips, her body arching beneath mine. The sounds we made—quiet moans, breathless sighs, the faint creak of the bed—wove into a symphony of shared desire. I watched her face, saw the way her eyes closed, her brows knitted with pleasure. I felt her nails press lightly into my shoulders, heard her whisper my name, voice husky and full of longing.

Our pace quickened, the tension between us coiling tighter and tighter. I grasped her hand, lacing our fingers, and she squeezed back, holding on as we reached the brink together. When we climaxed, it was like stepping off a precipice into a soft cloud of warmth and release. She cried out when she came, body trembling beneath mine, and I buried my face in her neck, breathing in her scent as I followed her over that edge with my own powerful release.

We lay entwined afterwards, chests rising and falling, the world outside utterly quiet. I pressed a kiss to her temple, and she turned her head, brushing her lips to my cheek. There were no words needed right then.

Eventually, I pulled the covers up over us, and we settled beneath their warmth. Cassie rested her head on my shoulder, one arm draped across my chest. I stroked her soft hair, marveling at how natural this felt, how right. Before long, we drifted into sleep.

Morning arrived with a gentle glow filtering through the curtains, casting soft light across the room. I woke first and rolled over to look at the gorgeous woman by my side. For a moment, I simply watched her sleep. Cassie’s face looked peaceful; her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks. My heart swelled, remembering how beautiful she looked on my doorstep, the way she’d invited me to the gala, the taste of her on my tongue.

But as I lay there, a knot of worry began to form. She was still a reporter—she came here originally to write a piece, likely intending to debunk the Wishing Tree legend and show Springfield’s traditions as quaint marketing ploys. What if all of this—her kindness, her laughter, even the way we’d come together last night—was just her manipulating me to gather inside information for her article? Maybe she’d softened her approach, but what if the final article still painted us as na?ve, our traditions as foolish fantasies?

The vulnerability I’d shared with her, both in conversation and in bed, curdled. I could almost see the headline: Small-Town Myths and Men Who Cling to Them . I hadn’t asked for guarantees. I hadn’t asked if she was truly changing her angle. Fear gnawed at the edges of my contentment, turning it bitter, and sudden regret tumbled over me like an avalanche.

Just then, Cassie stirred, blinking sleepily. Her hair was tousled, cheeks flushed. I managed a small smile, but she narrowed her eyes as if sensing something was off. “Morning,” she said softly.

“Morning,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral. We lay there a moment, neither of us sure what to say. Eventually, she sat up, pulling the sheet around her. The sight of her bare shoulders, the memory of last night, twisted a knife of doubt in me. Could it be real?

She ran a hand through her hair. “I suppose I’ll need to polish my story soon,” she said casually, as if talking to herself. “I’ve learned so much here…”

That was it. The mention of her article. My fears flared, turning into defensive anger. “So, you got what you came for, right?” I said, a harsh edge creeping into my voice.

She frowned, confusion clouding her features. “What do you mean?”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, grabbing my boxers and pulling them on. “Your story,” I said, refusing to meet her eyes. “You wanted to understand the Wishing Tree, to find an angle. I take it you’ve got more than enough material now.”

Her mouth fell open, stunned. “Wyatt, that’s not fair. I told you last night—in front of the fire—I’m not writing the piece I originally planned. I’ve decided to change it. I see the depth and meaning here. I was going to highlight how this town’s history continues to bring people together…”

I cut her off with a sharp laugh. “How do I know that? You came here wanting to show that this ‘magic’ is just a hoax. Why should I trust you now?”

Her face paled, hurt welling in her eyes. “Because I opened my heart to you,” she said, voice trembling. “Last night, I didn’t—” She took a breath, trying to steady herself. “I’m not the same person who arrived here days ago. I learned something real in Springfield. And with you.”

I paced the small bedroom, anger warring with regret. “I’ve seen people use this town’s charm before,” I said tightly. “Exploit it for a good story, a laugh. I won’t let that happen again.”

She stood up, gathering the sheet around her, fury and pain mixing on her face. “I can’t believe this,” she hissed. “After everything we shared, you still see me as some manipulator?”

I couldn’t find the words to reassure her. My tongue felt thick and clumsy. Instead, my silence condemned me. She shook her head, tears in her eyes, and reached for her clothes. I watched as she dressed quickly, yanking on her underwear and dress with trembling hands. Her face set in grim determination.

“You know what?” she said, voice breaking. “I invited you to that gala. Wanted you by my side. I was looking forward to it.” She zipped her boots, knuckles white. “Well, forget it. I take back the invitation. Stay home with your false assumptions, Wyatt. Merry Christmas.”

She marched out before I could respond, the door slamming behind her. A heartbeat later, I scrambled after her, shirtless and panicked. By the time I reached the porch, she was already backing out of the drive, tires squealing on the gravel. Snow dust kicked up in her wake, the taillights disappearing down the lane.

I stood there, the icy morning air biting my skin, watching her car vanish. The Wishing Tree caught my eye, its colorful ribbons fluttering like a mockery. I’d just allowed my insecurities to torch something that could have been beautiful. I cursed under my breath, fisting my hands at my sides.

What if Cassie truly had changed? What if she would have written something honest and kind about Springfield’s traditions? What if she really cared about me, about us, and I’d thrown it in her face out of stubborn pride?

The silence of the morning pressed in. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling like a jerk. I stepped back inside and stared at the remnants of our meal, the wine bottle half-empty, the candles guttering out. I wanted to smash something, to shout at the unfairness of it all. I might have just lost a genuine chance at happiness. And I had no one to blame but myself.