Eight
Something had changed in the eight days since Celeste’s talk with Stephanie, and Brodie wondered what his ex had said to her in those short few minutes they’d had alone. Whatever it was, it had made a distinct impression. He hadn’t seen a trace of her reckless anger in the time since, and at the moment, she was currently singing along with the Christmas song emanating from the ski lodge’s stereo system—the song Shannon had written the day Ty had proposed, Mistletoe Kisses—as she perched precariously atop the ladder to tack the glittery tinsel garland around the windows. Even if the view out those windows weren’t hidden in darkness, it would’ve had a hard time competing with Celeste’s beauty.
It wasn’t the air of joviality about her; he’d seen plenty of that the night he and Brendan
