Page 1 of Rebel Without a Claus
CHAPTER 1
Eve
The second my boots crunch down on the snowy pavement outside The North Star Lodge, I take a deep breath and let the crisp, pine-scented air fill my lungs.
Home. t
Nothing in the world smells like a Holly Ridge winter—fir trees, chimney smoke, and the faintest hint of peppermint. Like the entire town conspired to bottle up Christmas itself and pump it into the air every year. My chest swells with nostalgia and pure, unfiltered joy.
“It’s good to be home,” I murmur to myself, tugging my oversized red suitcase out of the trunk. And then another. And another. Okay, maybe I overpacked, but in my defense, it’sChristmas. There are festive outfits to consider, cookie-decorating ensembles, flannel pajamas for optimal cocoa-drinking comfort. A girl has to be prepared.
Plus… I’m here for the foreseeable future. I don’t have a lot to go back to Los Angeles for. Not since I got sacked. There’s a little yip from the front passenger seat as Cringle barks his indignation about being forgotten.
I slam the trunk shut and circle the car to lift my little havapoo out of his carrier. He thanks me with an energetic lick to my chin. “As if I could forget about you, little man.”
I shut the door and barely manage to turn around before I’m nearly tackled by a force of sheer energy.
“You’re here! You’re finally here!”
My mom, dressed in a sweater with a bedazzled reindeer across the front, throws her arms around me in a hug so enthusiastic, I almost lose my footing. “Mom! Oxygen!”
Cringle barks his agreement.
“Sorry, sorry!” She squeezes once more before pulling back, her eyes twinkling like the Christmas lights strung across the inn’s roofline. “We missed you, sweetie.” She pauses to scratch Cringle between his little ears. “You too, you little troublemaker. It’s not the same without you two here.”
“I missed you too,” I say, my heart warming as Mom takes Cringle from my arms, giving him a snuggle. “Where’s Dad?”
Mom sets Cringle down and he immediately runs into the snow covered yard to do his business. “Inside, fixing the garland for thethirdtime because he insists it’s ‘not symmetrical enough.’”
Ah. Classic Mike Winters. The man takes Christmas decorationsveryseriously. Especially since the town added a decoration contest component to the Holly Ridge Christmas festival ten years ago.
At first, it was a novelty to win, but in the years since? The cash prize is enough to keep a business afloat in bad seasons… not to mention, you receive free advertising for the whole year in the Holly Ridge newspaper.
“Here, let me help you with your bags,” Mom says.
“I’ve got them, don’t worry!” I insist, turning back toward my discarded suitcases to grab them and bring them inside.
Before I can get there, my boot skids across a slick patch of ice.
One moment, I’m upright, and the next, I’m flailing, my foot sliding across an icy patch like I’m an uncoordinated baby deer. My arms pinwheel uselessly, searching for balance that refuses to come. The ground tilts, the world narrowing to the sharp sting of cold air on my cheeks and the certainty that I’m about to eat snow face-first. Time stretches, every heartbeat loud in my ears as I brace for the inevitable crash?—
But it never comes. Because suddenly, strong hands grip my waist, steadying me before I can land flat on my back. I blink, slightly winded, as I stare up into the scowling, painfully familiar face of Luke Dawson.
Luke… my high school unrequited crush. Back then, I had dreamed about the day he would take me into his arms and hold me tight. Though I never pictured it likethis.
“Careful there, city girl,” he drawls, his voice all gravel and irritation. “I know you love the color scheme of Christmas, but blood on the snow isn’t exactly the look we’re going for here.”
My mouth drops open. Wellthatwas grim. Even for Luke. “Excuse me?”
He lets go of me the second I’m steady, crossing his arms over his flannel-covered chest. Luke has always been infuriatingly good-looking in that rugged, permanently scowling way, but winter somehow makes it worse. The flannel, the scruff dusting his jaw, the way his damn biceps strain against his seams of his red buffalo plaid shirt—completely unfair.
“You’re excused,” he says, smirking slightly before he turns to leave, like saving me from breaking my tailbone was just a minor inconvenience in his day.
Oh no. Nope. We arenotdoing this.
“You know, most people say ‘you’re welcome’ when they help someone,” I call after him.
Luke pauses, glances over his shoulder, and gives me a slow once-over, like he’s debating whether or not I’m worth the effort of a response. Finally, he settles on, “Well, I didn’t exactly hear a ‘thank you,’ so I figured we were skipping manners altogether.”
