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I guess we’ll have to flip the script.

“Three, four,” I finish. And then I launch into the first line of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” to save Paisley from having to sing first. I’m loud and spirited, doing as much as I can to draw as much attention away from Paisley as possible.

Thankfully, the carolers are in it to win it. They sing along loudly and boldly with me, their voices echoing around the courtyard. Paisley mouths her lines, and everyone is so busy having a good time, they don’t notice she’s not actually singing. My shoulders sink with relief, and I throw myself wholeheartedly into the next line.

Paisley turns away from the counter to mix up another batch of hot cocoa, and I can swear I hear her humming along. Her cheeks are bright red and her lips are rosy. My heart swells.

When she comes back to the counter, I’m sure I hear the soft, whispery tones of her voice mingling with the other carolers. I catch her eye and her mouth twitches with a sheepish half smile, like she’s been caught sneaking a Christmas cookie from the plate left out for Santa. There’s something irresistible and magical about this night, here under the twinkling lights surrounded by the scent of warm, creamy chocolate and the sounds of friends, neighbors, and strangers sharing in a moment like this.

The song ends, and the majority of carolers head toward the parking lot.

I don’t want Paisley to stop singing. I want her to find peace with a part of her that’s been left battered and bruised.

“Are you going to say anything?” she asks. “I know you heard me singing.”

There’s no one left in line, so she pours out two last cups, one for each of us. We toast and sip, leaning back against the counter, the side of our hips touching.

“I’m proud of you,” I say, bumping my shoulder into hers. “You didn’t have to do it, but you did. It was brave.”

Her brow lifts with skepticism.

“It took courage to stop lip-synching and start singing,” I insist. “You didn’t have to.”

“Even if you were the only one who heard me?” she whispers.

“Did it scare you?” I ask.

She sighs and twirls the cardboard cup in her hand. “Yes.”

“Did you do it anyhow?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was brave.” I reach over and adjust her hat, giving it a jaunty slant. “If a Christmas tree sings in the forest, and no one’s around to hear it, is it still brave?”

Paisley laughs and my heart is as warm and toasty as a flaming marshmallow.

Her face grows serious again and she sighs. “I’ve never really enjoyed singing or performing. And after everything that’s happened, I’m more convinced now than ever that I want to be a songwriter. Tonight was…” She narrows her eyes and scrunches her nose. “Fun adjacent, but I truly never want to set foot on a stage again. It’s just not for me.”

“I respect that,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’m glad you want to stick with songwriting, ’cause you’re really good at it. The world deserves to hear your music and lyrics.”

Paisley squeezes my hand back.

Fine, delicate snowflakes shimmer down from the branches above. White lights twinkle. The air is crisp and refreshing.

I take our empty cups and toss them in the trash. Then I wrap Paisley in my arms. “Sing with me,” I say, leaning back so I can look her in the face. “Just one song. Just for us.”

Paisley looks around at the near-empty courtyard and then looks into my eyes. “I just told you, I don’t like singing.”

“Even with me?”

Paisley tucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “I don’t hate it.”

“I promise, I’ll sing every word with you,” I say.

A flicker of temptation flashes in her eyes. “What song?”

I press a quick kiss to her lips and grin. “Taylor Swift wrote this song about a Christmas tree farm. Ever heard of it?”