Page 7 of Never Sleigh Never

And I pray he doesn’t bail and leave me completely and utterly alone when he finds out.

Thomas

The cheerful jingle ofbells above the door grates on my nerves as I duck into Coastal Charm, my work boots scuffing against the polished hardwood floor. The shop is only yards away from my hardware store, but it might as well be on a different planet. The smell of peppermint floats in the air, and the place is so warm I start sweating like a pig the moment I step inside. It takes grit not to turn right back around and head home.

But I’m committed. I gave Cara my word. We both knew it, even if I didn’t actually say the words. Plus, I owe it to my dad, rest his soul, to help. He always said a community is only as strong as its willingness to come together. So here I am, feeling more out of place than a sledgehammer at a tea party asFrosty the Snowmanplays softly over the speakers.

I haven’t been in here in years, but it feels as if I’ve walked straight into one of those Hallmark movies my mom used to watch twenty-four seven. The ones set in a small town where it’s perpetually snowing, yet nobody ever seems cold and a well-timed kiss under the mistletoe can miraculously save the career-focused city girl’s job just in the nick of time on Christmas Eve.

This place is decorated like a set of one of those movies. Or it could have been ripped straight out of the pages of those fancy home decor magazines my customers bring in when they want to recreate a look that’s either above their budget or skill level, usually both.

Twinkling lights hidden among the displays of fancy clothes and impractical shoes give off a soft glow that reflects off the strategically placed mirrors to make the whole place sparkle. It’s…unnerving, as is the enormous artificial Christmas tree that dominates one corner. Ten feet tall and perfectly shaped, it’s nothing like the fresh, aromatic Virginia pines my dad used to sell all season long out of the back lot at the store.

And the decorations couldn’t be further from the trees that would stand in the corner of our family room every year when I was little. The ones strung with popcorn and cranberries, sagging under the mismatched assortment of homemade ornaments my mom would break out on the day after Thanksgiving.

I close my eyes against the wave of nostalgia that sweeps through me. My molars grind as the long-buried memoriesof happy Christmas mornings come flooding back with a vengeance.I knew joining this committee would be a bad idea.

But before I can escape, a curse from the back of the store, in a familiar voice and loud enough to be heard over the music, distracts me. Because it wasn’t actually a curse Cara snapped, rather some nonsense along the lines of, “Oh sugar plum fairy.” I turn my head and spot her, head down, concentration locked on whatever she’s doing.

I take a step in her direction, as if tugged by an invisible magnetic force. Cara glances up from a folding table covered with a large map of Main Street, her green eyes widening as she spots me. She scrambles to her feet, smoothing down a gray skirt tight enough to hug her curves.

“Thomas, you’re right on time.” There’s a hint of surprise in her voice, as if she expected me to be late.

I raise an eyebrow, taking in the chaos spread across the table. A faint blush creeps up her neck as she hurries to clear space. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away with some ideas for the festival.”

As she gathers a few sketches, I can’t help but notice the splint still on her wrist. A twinge of concern flickers through me, but I bite my tongue. I’m here to help with the festival, not serve as a nursemaid.

Plus, there’s a more pressing question I need to ask, though I dread the answer worse than I fear a root canal. I glance over her head toward the curtained fitting rooms and stockroom door. Sure enough, both areas are as empty as a ghost town. “Where’s the rest of the committee?”

Cara bites her ruby red lip, and I brace myself for confirmation of my hunch. “Actually,” she says, her nose wrinkling, “it’s just us planning the event. But don’t worry! Lots of folks have offered to help with the execution.”

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to curse like a sailor. And to make the, “You’ve got to be kidding,” that escapesmy lips not sound as if I want to strangle this woman with my bare hands this very moment.

“I know it’s not ideal,” she rushes to add, her eyes pleading, “but we can make it work. Unless… Unless you’re going to back out.”

Cara’s fingers twist together, but I hold her gaze, wrestling with my frustration. Every bone in my body tells me to walk away from this disaster waiting to happen without so much as a goodbye. But those damn green eyes of hers, filled with hope and determination, are my kryptonite. Not that I knew that until this very second.

Cara’s tone is desperate, though she’s trying her damndest not to let it show. And, if there’s one thing I’m a sucker for, it’s feeling as if someone needs me. Service is my superpower. I give generously of my time and knowledge and even money, when I can. Lending a helping hand is a skill that comes in handy at the store. Not so much when I end up buying ten rolls of holiday wrapping paper from the kid down the street fundraising for his little league team when I haven’t wrapped a present in over a decade.

“I gave you my word,” I force out finally, my voice as rough as sandpaper.

An awkward silence fills the air until Cara clears her throat and nods. “Alright then. Well, since you’re officially the co-chair now, let’s get to work, shall we?”

Co-chair? What the ever-loving fuck?

And also, how is it possible that, two seconds ago, I would have bet my favorite socket wrench this woman was close to tearing up, and now, she’s got a smile as wide as the Nile?

She must see the steam shooting from the top of my head because she spins and grabs a plate. “Cookie?”

Cookie? This is worse than I thought.

But I eye the gingerbread men warily, and then, because it’s late and I haven’t eaten dinner, I take one. A single bite and a rich, spicy-sweet flavor explodes on my tongue. Damn, it’s good. Like really good. I reach for a second one before I can stop myself.

Her wide smile curls into a satisfied grin as she sets the plate on the table close to me, and I get the sense I’m nothing more than putty in her hands. “I might be terrible at power tools, but give me a mixing bowl and wooden spoon and I’m set.”

“I guess I’m here to help with the power tools then,” I say, flipping around a chair to straddle it and resigning myself to this crazy situation.

“Power tool operator and truck driver,” she confirms, looking genuinely grateful.

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