Page 32 of Holiday Tides

Nick

“Awhat?” I ask at the same time Carol sputters, “What in blue blazes? No. Just slap his cocky face and be done with it.”

I lean past Summer to stare at the woman who’s never taken to me no matter how many times I’ve fixed the broken things in her house, or contributed to her church’s donation drives, or mentored her nephew before he moved to Texas—probably to getawayfrom her.

“Seriously?”

Carol shrugs. “You have a very slappable face.”

I glance at my friends for backup, but they’re all looking at me with wrinkled foreheads like they’ve never noticed this trait before. “Really, guys?”

“As I wassaying,” Summer raises her voice over my co-workers’ snickers, “there can only be one.”

“Highlanderreference.” Ezra nods in appreciation. “Nice deep cut.”

I’m so thoroughly confused at this point I’m wondering if someone spiked my cranberry crush cocktail with something other than vodka. Carol flaps her hands at us before cane-walking away, and I have half a mind to join her. The only thing stopping me is Summer, and the insatiable need to know what she has in store for me. Whatever she’s playing at, I’m game. I’ve always been game when it comes to her.

“You and I are going to sing a Christmas song, and the town will vote who’s the king or queen of Christmas.”

“You should sing a duet. That way, he can’t claim that your song was better when you win,” Ruby adds before swallowing the dregs of her beer in one gulp.

I splay my hands over my chest like Don’s wife just filled it full of bullet holes. “Et tu, Ruby?

A chuckle rounds the table, but Summer is delighted by this idea, practically luminescent. On one hand, it’s so breathtaking my heart stops for a few beats. On the other, it’s exceedingly annoying that I’m still responding to her like this when she’s been Stubborn Summer since we got here.

“A duet it is.” Summer gives me a tight smile before speaking with Izzy, Bayside Table’s event coordinator.

By the time I arrive at the small stage area, Izzy’s jubilant grin has doubled.

“All right, folks. We’ve got an exciting turn of events,” she says into the mic. “We’re having a Christmas competition between these two to see who sings the next song better. Listen carefully because we’re unofficially crowning one of them the king or queen of Christmas.”

Alcohol-emboldened cheers go up from the audience, including several chants of encouragement for “Surfing Santa.” I smirk at Summer, tilting my head.

“Hear that?” I lean close, my words only audible for her. “While you’ve been off—”

“Earning a degree to dedicate my life to the well-being of children.”

I ignore her snappy, yet accurate, comment. “Living elsewhere… I’ve been Mr. Christmas to the people of this town.” My grin widens. “I hope you like pie, because the kitchen is servinghumbletonight.”

Summer rolls her eyes at me, taking the proffered mic from Izzy. When the familiar intro to “White Christmas” plays over the speakers, a roguish smile splits my face. Summer has lost this competition before it’s even started.

Only…when Michael Bublé begins the lyrics, Summer overtakes the line, lowering her voice. The crowd hoots and claps in response to her shockingly accurate portrayal of thetrueMr. Christmas. Grinning, I lift my hands then give a half bow, graciously relinquishing the part to her.

The gleam in Summer’s eyes is premature because she doesn’t know I’m a huge Charlie Puth fan. When Shania Twain begins her embellished lyrics, I not only carry the falsetto, Icrushit. After shooting Summer a flirty wink, I casually stride around the small stage, soliciting whistles from the crowd. Before long, she’s singing along with Bublé’s part, placing a hand to the center of my chest to stop my grandstanding.

During the short instrumental interlude, I trap her in a simple dance frame. Summer tersely smiles but follows along for the sake of our audience, allowing me to spin her a few times before we have to sing again. I nearly guffaw into the mic with the amount of distance she puts between us once we begin the last lines of the song.

Before the final bars of music finish, Izzy turns on her mic. “That was quite a performance, but we need to know who did it best.” She takes my hand, raising it like I’m a prized fighter. “Is it Nick?” The restaurant cheers. “Or is it Summer?” Again, another burst of enthusiastic applause. “Or…” Izzy pauses with a wickedgrin as she joins our hands in front of her. “Were they the best together?”

The building explodes. That’s the only explanation for why my eardrums are ringing.

“Not gonna lie,” Izzy continues. “I could cut the sexual tension with a knife.” She releases us to fan herself. “King and queen indeed.”

While I gamely smile, Summer sets her mic on a nearby table and cuts toward the exit. The first notes of “Mele Kalikimaka” chase me from the stage as I follow.

“Summer,” I call after her. “Summer, wait.”

I’m about to throw locals out of my way, like Hulk barreling through buildings, when she gets stalled by a group of pregnant women who’ve decorated the bellies of their maternity shirts to look like snowmen.

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