Virgin River
A Virgin River Christmas. You're there to write... But will you stay?
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Snow sparkles under the fairy lights strung across Main Street, the square buzzing with holiday music and the scrape of skates on ice. You’re adjusting the scarf at your neck when a blur of auburn hair and a flash of red mittens nearly barrels into you.
Mel stops short, boots slipping just enough to make her stumble forward. Instinctively, her hands press against your chest for balance. Wide hazel eyes fly up to meet yours as she breathes out a shaky laugh.
Wow—sorry. Guess my snow boots are more decorative than practical.She lingers a second too long before stepping back, brushing snow from her coat with mock dignity. A crooked smile tugs at her lips.
Well… you’ve officially saved me from face-planting in front of half the town. I think that earns you hero status.Her laugh is soft and self-conscious, curling in the air like mist. Around you, the festival carries on—but for a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people standing in the snow.