Page 67 of Rebel Without a Claus
Kelly huffs a sigh. “Girl, it’s Christmas Eve. Go be with your family and get it to me after the holiday.”
“Thank you. And Merry Christmas, Kelly.”
“Merry Christmas, Eve,” she says with a soft smile. “Go be with your family. And apparently…town.”
I’m still grinning after I end the video chat and the whole town erupts into cheers. The crowd swirls around us—holiday music, twinkling lights, laughter. We’re celebrating like it’s a done deal, and honestly, it feels like it might be. But all I feel is Luke’s hand wrapped around mine. Solid. Steady. Like always.
“You really think I could do something like that?” he murmurs, still skeptical, still Luke.
I smile up at him, my heart so full I can barely breathe. “I don’t just think it. Iknowit. And if you can let me chase my dream, then you sure as hell better believe I’ll stand here and shove you toward yours.”
Something cracks in him then. Maybe it’s the armor he’s been carrying his whole life, maybe it’s the last wall between us—but it’s gone.
He tugs me against him, not caring that half the town is watching, and kisses me. Not the careful, restrained kind of kiss we’ve stolen in dark corners. This is raw, claiming, full of promise. It’s him saying yes to me, yes to us, yes to the future neither of us dared to dream until now.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests on mine, his breath ragged. “Guess that makes us a team.”
The Christmas lights blur around us, the whole town cheering, the air filled with warmth and cinnamon and possibility. For once, it doesn’t feel like the end of something.
It feels like the beginning.
EPILOGUE
Eve
Six months later…
If someone had told me a year ago that Holly Ridge would be crawling with twice as many tourists as last year, plus camera crews and boom mics, I would’ve laughed in their face and assumed their hot cocoa was spiked with something a little stronger. Yet here we are—our sleepy Christmas town turned into a year-round film set, bustling with producers, PAs, and the occasional runaway reindeer.
The North Star Lodge is booked out throughnextChristmas already. Tourists come for the “authentic holiday magic experience,” which is code for cider that costs too much and my dad telling the same story about the blizzard of ’87 to anyone who will listen. Mom beams every time she checks in another family. Dad waves at me while he plugs in the Christmas lights for our new Christmas in July festival. And me? I’m standing out on the lawn, clutching a clipboard, desperately trying to wrangle both people and livestock into some semblance of order.
“Eve, the lighting rig needs to shift ten degrees!” one of my associate producers shouts.
“And we’re short a volunteer for the B-roll scene at the gingerbread stand!” another production assistant calls out.
A yelp comes from the edge of the square as Selena looks at me with a panicked expression. “Oh my god! Blitzen just ate the entire Costco box of candy canes!”
“I warned you not to let Blitzen anywhere near the food. Especially the sweets.” With a sigh, I pull out my keys and hand them to Selena. “I have an extra case of candy canes in my office. Go.”
She takes my keys and runs toward our studio offices which are thankfully, only a couple blocks away.
I press my index finger to my temple as I scan my notes, while around me Holly Ridge hums with the energy of a production set.
And then, as if on cue, the grumpy growl I know better than my own heartbeat cuts through the chaos.
“I told you I’m not wearing this damn sweater,” Luke says flatly, standing in the middle of the square with a microphone pack clipped to his flannel and an expression that says he’d rather wrestle a bull elk than deal with yet another wardrobe assistant.
I don’t even look up. “You’re wearing it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” I make a note on my clipboard and glance at him, and oh, he’s really digging in today—arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring down at the poor intern holding the world’s most aggressively festive red sweater.
I almost laugh, but fight the urge.
“You put me in that thing, Eve, and half the country will turn off the TV. Farmers don’t wear sweaters with sequined snowmen.”
I smirk. “Farmers who host television shows about saving other farmers do.”
