Page 61 of Rebel Without a Claus
My stomach drops.
All eyes turn on me, hitting me like a sniper’s scope. “Well… if the kids didn’t know I wasn’t the real Santa before, they definitely will now,” I mutter.
Eve merely shakes her head, smothering her laugh as the crowd starts to clap for us.
I should hate this. I should want to run the opposite direction, rip off the suit, and disappear into the snow. But Eveis looking at me like I’ve hung the moon—or at least strung Christmas lights around it.
And for the first time, maybe ever, being in the middle of this circus that we call our hometown doesn’t feel like punishment.
It feels… right.
Even if my beardisstill crooked.
The roar of the crowd hasn’t died down when another chant starts up, faint at first, then swelling until it drowns out the sleigh bells. “Kiss Mrs. Claus! Kiss Mrs. Claus!”
I stiffen. My first thought is that it’s the kids—because of course it’s always the kids—but then I spot the ringleaders from the front row: Eve’s parents.
Amidst the chaos, Mike has hobbled closer to the sleigh. Her mom is cupping her hands like a megaphone, leading the chant with surprising gusto, while her dad—propped up on crutches but grinning like a fool—joins right in. ““C’mon, Santa! Plant one on her,” he calls out, loud enough to echo.
Mouth agape, I stare at her parents. I mean, I expected them to be skeptical of me and Eve, maybe protective. Not cheerleading the mob into demanding I kiss their daughter.
I turn to Eve. She looks like she wants the snowdrifts to swallow her whole. Her cheeks are blazing, her hands fluttering uselessly at her sides, caught between waving them off and hiding her face. “Oh my god. I can’t believe they’re seriously doing this,” she mutters, eyes wide with horror.
“What in the hell is happening…” I start under my breath, then clamp my jaw shut. It’s not anger, not exactly—it’s shock. Pure, gut-punch surprise.
Eve groans, burying her face in her hands for a second before peeking out. “They’re not going to stop, Luke,” she says miserably.
And she’s right. The crowd is in full frenzy now, stomping boots, clapping mittened hands, the whole town caught up in the chant. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
I let out a rough laugh, low and incredulous. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, tugging at the beard. Then to Eve, a little softer: “Quick. Just for show. Then it’s over.”
She exhales shakily, nods—and leans in.
The whole crowd holds its breath, the chants quieting as we come together, our lips touching gently.
Her lips are soft and tentative. I intend for the kiss to be just a simple brush to appease the crowd but the second our mouths touch, something in me shifts. The noise of the crowd falls away. The cold doesn’t matter. The fact that she didn’t tell me about the job offer doesn’t matter. Hell, the beard slipping sideways on my face doesn’t even itch anymore.
All that matters is the way she tastes like cinnamon and vanilla and December air. All I care about is the way she makes a tiny startled sound against my mouth—like she isn’t expecting this to feel like anything at all.
We’ve kissed before. Dozens of times in the past few days. Butthiskiss was supposed to be pretend. A show. A one-second peck so the town can clap and laugh and move on. But my hand betrays me, finding her waist, pulling her closer. She gasps, her mittened fingers fisting in the fur trim of my red coat. The kiss lingers—longer than it should. Much longer.
When we finally part, the crowd erupts like it’s the fourth of July, not Christmas Eve. Stomping, cheering.
Eve’s face is scarlet, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. Her parents are beaming like they just got front-row seats to the best show in town.
And me? I’m reeling. Because that definitely wasn’t a peck. And it most certainly didn’t feel like it was only for show.
I’m still trying to get my bearings—trying to figure out why in the hell my knees feel like jelly over a simple kiss—when the sleigh lurches beneath us.
At first, I think it’s just the vibrations from the crowd stomping too hard. Then I hear it: the jingling harness, hooves crunching snow.
The reindeer are moving.
I clear my throat, ready to make some kind of gruff remark to cover the way my pulse is sprinting, when a sudden commotion snaps both our heads forward.
The reindeer jolt. One tosses its head at the roar of the crowd, the harness jingling wildly. Another stamps and snorts, muscles bunching.
“Uh, Luke…” Eve whispers, panic threading her voice.
