Page 40 of Rebel Without a Claus
I cross my arms. "And if I was?"
That stops her, mouth gaping open, her retort lost somewhere between her throat and tongue.
She looks at me like she’s seeing something new. Or maybe something old she’s finally letting herself admit. She presses her hands to her hips and tilts her head.
"Then you need to figure out what you want from me. Because I can’t keep doing this push-and-pull thing. One minute you’re carrying me across snowbanks like you’re auditioning for a romance novel, and the next minute you’re glaring at me like I’ve personally offended your reindeer."
I drag a hand through my hair.
Truth is—I don’t know what I want. Scratch that. Ido. I just don’t think I deserve it. Or her.
“Webothagreed this morning to play it cool around town?—”
“No,” she interrupts me. “You told me that’s what you wanted. I just… sort of nodded and went along with it! But that’s pretty much out the window now, wouldn’t ya say?”
She’s right. I lasted all of twenty minutes in public with her before trying to claim her like some testosterone ridden caveman. That’s not something you do unless you’re willing to deal with the aftermath.
And judging by the way Mrs. Abernathy and three other members of the festival committee are now whispering frantically behind a stack of folding chairs, that aftermath is going to include at least five matchmaking attempts, one impromptu duet suggestion, and probably our names spelled out in Christmas lights by morning.
She throws her hands into the air again. “What do youwant, Luke?”
I sigh. "You, okay? I wantyou. Are you happy?"
Eve’s lips twitch.
I narrow my eyes. "You’re enjoying this."
"A little," she admits, grinning. "You should’ve seen your face. You looked like you wanted to body-slam Tom into the nativity set."
"Still might."
She laughs. A real one. Loud and warm and ridiculous.
And just like that, I’m lost again.
Because I want this. I want her. I’ve wanted her since high school. Back when she used to challenge everything I said and call me out in front of teachers and make me feel like the world was more than just football and frostbite.
I step closer. "You’re right, you know."
She blinks. "About what?"
"I need to figure out what I want. And stop pretending it’s not you."
For a second, she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes search mine. And I know she’s afraid. I know she’s been guarding her heart with sarcasm and holiday-themed sass because she’s been burned before. I want to tell her she’s safe with me. But I’ve first got to prove it.
So I offer my hand.
She stares at it like it’s a live bomb, ready to be detonated.
"Just for the rest of rehearsal," I add, smirking. "To prove I won’t throw Tom Mitchell into a manger."
She snorts and takes it.
And we walk back toward the stage together with Cringle leading the way.
Hand in hand.
With the entire town watching like they’re waiting for a kiss-cam to appear.
