Page 34 of Rebel Without a Claus
Her grin widens. “If you ask me, it sounds like maybeyoumade me that hot chocolate and used Aunt May as your front.”
Busted. “Well, if that’s how it sounds then it must be right, huh?” I stir the hot chocolate as it all melts together until the edges are bubbling and it’s all blended together. Using one of Aunt May’s old ladles she gave me, I fill two mugs and top them with mini marshmallows.
I hand her the larger of the two mugs and settle on the couch across from her, elbows on my knee, bringing my own mug to my lips.
The fire crackles beside us. The storm rages outside. But inside, something quiet and electric thrums between us.
I look at her and shake my head. “I can’t believe you really named my reindeer Princess Yuletide Sparkles.”
“Yep.”
A pause.
“…It’s kind of growing on me.”
She gasps dramatically. “Luke Dawson, are you finally admitting that my chaos has charm?”
I side-eye her. “I’m admitting you’re persistent.”
“And adorable?” She wiggles her brows.
I fight the pull at the corners of my mouth. “Something like that.”
We sit in silence for a beat.
“Why do you hate Christmas?” she asks softly, breaking the silence.
I blink. “What makes you think I hate it?”
“You flinch every time someone says ‘Merry’ anything.”
I lean back, balancing my steaming mug on my knee. “Didn’t realize I was being studied.”
“You’re like a fascinating reindeer-shaped puzzle.”
I exhale slowly. “Contrary to what everyone thinks, I don’t actually hate Christmas. I just…” My jaw tightens. “It reminds me of a time when everything in my life went sideways.”
Eve’s quiet, waiting. She doesn’t push, just watches me like she sees more than I want her to.
“I hate… what it reminds me of,” I continue. “What I lost. What I don’t have anymore.”
There it is. Out in the open.
Her face softens. “Luke…” She shifts to stand up and walks over to me. Then, sitting beside me on the couch, she pulls a blanket over our legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I should lean away. I should make space.
I don’t.
I keep my eyes on the fire. “My mom loved Christmas. Loved it likeyoulove it. Our house looked like a holiday movie threw up all over it every year.”
“I remember,” Eve says, softly.
“Since she and my dad died, it just felt…wrong. Being a part of it without her.”
After a moment, she whispers, “I bet your mom would love to see you enjoy the holiday again. Even if that means decorating gingerbread slaughterhouses every year.”
This earns her a little smile. And something that almost sounds like a chuckle escapes my throat.
