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I glance her way. So do several other people, a few of them scowling at her language. But I don’t tell her to tone it down. It’s all part of her charm.

“What’s wrong?”

She gestures wildly at the property. “This place looks like a giant Christmas explosion. And you grew up here?”

“It wasn’t always like this.” I steer her toward the rows of gingerbread-house-shaped booths. “It used to be a working horse ranch. Every year, the owners would decorate it for Christmas and let people come see the lights. Sometimes they’d have hot chocolate or Irish coffee. Eventually, they added a Santa for the kids. Then some ornament-making stations. Then a few vendor booths. Then more. Now it’s one of the biggest Christmas festivals on the West Coast.”

Hilde looks around, impressed. When I told her about the Holley Ridge Christmas Festival, she probably expected some lame market with a few vendors. Not a huge property thousands of people flock to every holiday season, some driving hundreds of miles just to experience it.

“You know I love to support local businesses, so let’s go do that.” She hooks her arm through mine and drags me toward the first row of booths.

I expect her to just stroll through the market. Maybe buy one or two things.

Instead, she stops at every single booth. Strikes up conversations with the people running them. Asks about their products. How they got started. What inspired them. How they’re made. Then she buys something at each one.

As much as I’d prefer not to spend more time at Holley Ridge than necessary, I refuse to rush Hilde. Not when she’s supporting so many people from the area.

And especially not when she’s clearly enjoying herself.

Truth be told, I’ve never seen this side of her. I may have known her for years, but I only know the glamorous version of her. The woman who can walk into the most exclusive restaurant in the city and make everyone else look underdressed. The woman who lives in penthouses and wears designer shoes like they’re sneakers.

But here, no one knows her. Not like they do in Houston.

She’s not Beau Elliot’s daughter.

Or the heir to Elliot Oil.

Or Dwight Gunter’s ex-wife.

She’s just Hilde.

I know all too well what it’s like to be defined by someone else’s name.

“Is that booth doing wine tastings?”

I follow her gaze toward the large tent at the end of the row.

“That’s Vivanza, a local vineyard. It’s actually really good. Beckham, the owner, makes a mulled wine you can only get at the festival.”

“I wouldn’t mind some walking wine.” She grabs my arm and pulls me in its direction.

But as we draw near, a familiar figure comes into view, standing on a ladder by a booth a few stalls down, his brow knit in concentration as he fixes whatever it is that needs fixing.

I lower my head, praying Joshua doesn’t see me. Thankfully, he’s preoccupied, but I pick up my pace anyway, tugging Hilde through the crowd.

“Where’s the fire, babe?” she asks, struggling to keep up with me in her heels. “I love a good glass of wine as much as the next person, but I usually don’t sprint toward it.”

“I’m not sprinting.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I thought⁠—”

“Wynter?”

At the sound of that husky voice, I freeze. I’d love to ignore Joshua for the rest of my time in Sycamore Falls, but there’s no ignoring him now. Not when I can sense Hilde’s curiosity from beside me.

I turn around slowly, coming face-to-face with Joshua for the first time since Saturday morning.