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By three-thirty, I'm looking at my tablet and my hands are shaking a little.

Every delivery upgrade has been sold.

Every cider package gone from the hut.

Fourteen guests have asked how to book this exact experience next year. Next year.

A man in a very expensive coat cornered me by the hut and asked whether the farm does private corporate evenings. When I said we're exploring options, he handed me a card and said explore faster with the most serious face I've ever seen.

This farm doesn't need one heroic hockey contract to survive. It has a product people are desperate for, a resort willing to deliver customers, and a family who can sell the feeling of Christmas without even trying.

All it ever needed was somebody to help them see what they had.

And for the first time since I ran out of a bridal suite in a wedding dress, I know exactly what I'm here for.

With or without Miles.

Around me, the farm glows with bonfire light, children’s laughter and the warm festive promise of everything I’m beginning to build.

Then something dark moves beyond the rows of snow-covered trees.

A luxury car turns through the gates, its glossy paint reflecting the Christmas lights as it rolls slowly toward the welcome hut. The windows are tinted, the engine barely makes a sound and, unlike everything else arriving today, it carries no resort pass.

Immediately, I know it isn’t here for the cider.

My heart sinks as I look across the yard. That car is too fucking polished for a mountain road. It's creeping between the shuttle bus and the wagon like it's afraid of the mud, and I know who's inside that car before the door even opens.

"Oh, shit," I whisper to myself.

Brett steps out in a black cashmere coat, his shiny city shoes sinking into farm slush. My stomach clenches when I see he's holding my missing purse in one hand and a fucking phone charger in the other.

"Audrey." He picks his way toward the bonfire where I'm standing with my tablet held over my pounding heart. "There you are. Finally."

"Brett?" I take a step back. "How did you find me?"

He holds up his phone and the Wildcards team portrait glows on the screen. The image of me tucked between Eden and Stevie, laughing up at Miles in the official Wildcards team photograph.

The resort's location tag sits right under it.

Brett studies my eyes, and whatever look is on my face makes him roll his eyes and sigh, the same way he always used to whenever I disappointed him.

"Your mother saw it before I did," he says. "I drove through the night, Audrey, because you've ignored every attempt to reach you. Do you have any idea—"

"You drove twelve hours to return my purse?"

"What? No."

He shakes his head and that sick, controlling look I spent far too long putting up with splits between his brows.

"I drove twelve hours to bring you home, Audrey." He tosses my purse at me and I fumble to catch it. "Look. Everyone understands you panicked. Weddings are overwhelming. Our families have discussed it, but the embarrassment is repairable. We just need to tell people it was a health matter, reschedule for spring and maybe host it at a smaller venue. Everyone is prepared to forgive you if you come back now."

I stare at him and hope to hell I don't have an audience behind me right now, because suddenly, with this asshole standing in front of me, I'm not feeling so joyful.

"Forgive me."

"Yes."

"Brett." I keep my voice calm, but only because I don't want to screw up how successful this day has been for the farm. "I was in the hallway. I heard what you said."