Page 23 of Rebel Without a Claus
The cold bites as I shove my hands in my coat pockets, boots crunching against the snow-dusted sidewalk. The lights from the town square sparkle like someone went overboard on a glitter bomb, but for once, I don’t mind it. Not really.
Maybe because I know she’s in there.
What in the jolly holiday is happening to me?
I’m not even halfway to the community center before I start questioning my decision to come tonight.
Inside, the volunteers are running around getting every last minute thing ready for the gingerbread house contest. The air is thick with sugar, chatter, and the unmistakable tension of small-town competition. It's warm and loud and festive in a way that would normally make my eye twitch.
But then I see her.
Eve’s at the second table from the front, sleeves rolled up, and a candy cane tucked behind her ear like a pencil as she studies a piece of paper that I can only assume is some sort of blueprint for her gingerbread house. She's focused, tongue peeking out slightly as she concentrates.
Something tightens in my chest.
I clear my throat and move toward the empty table next to hers. The chatter dims for half a second when people realize I showed up, and I hear at least one person whisper my name in disbelief. Thegrinchhas entered the building. Alert the carolers.
I drop the thermos of hot cocoa I’m carrying in front of her like it’s no big deal.
She picks it up, giving it a sniff. “What’s this?”
“Hot cocoa,” I answer, then quickly qualify it for reasons I’m not sure. “It’s from my aunt. She said you looked like a peppermint cocoa kind of girl.”
Eve blinks up at me. Her eyes light up—not just from the string lights overhead—and she accepts the cocoa like I handed her the Holy Grail. “Thank you,” she says. “Or rather, thank Aunt May for me.” Then, softer, she adds, “I didn’t think you’d show.”
I arch my brow in her direction. “I issued you a challenge… I don’t back down from a challenge.” I sit down at my table and start unpacking the kit someone shoved into my hands as I walked in. Gumdrops. Licorice. Frosting in a piping bag. I’m already sweating.
From across the table, Eve leans a little closer. “Careful. If you keep doing thoughtful things, people might start thinking you like it here in Holly Ridge.”
I grunt, squeezing a bit of frosting onto the tip of my finger and tasting it. “Don’t push it.”
But she’s grinning, and I can’t help the tug of a smile at my own mouth. It’s not a full smile—God forbid—but it’s something. And it only gets worse when the Festival Committee members start circling like sharks smelling mistletoe.
There’s a loud jingle of bells from the front of the room as Mayor Shelby steps up to the microphone.
“Welcome everyone to this year’s gingerbread house decorating contest! Like in past years, we will rank everyone’sgingerbread house in order of best to worst and that number will go toward your overall festival scores. But I’m also excited to announce that tonight’s sponsor, Wilksbury Cookie Co, has generously contributed a cash prize of a thousand dollars to tonight’s winner! And since we have a few contestants tonight participating in only the decorating contest, we’re opening up that prize to all contestants, not just those businesses participating in the whole festival. So without further ado, get ready, get set… Decorate!” The mayor jingles the bells again to signal the start of the contest.
The room turns to chaos as everyone scrambles for the best parts of their kits. It’s like a bunch of sugared-up kindergartners prepping for war, and it’s all I can do to keep up.
“Looks like Mikhail’s Hardware is stepping up their game,” Eve says, holding one of the walls of her house in one hand and a piping bag in the other. Unlike me though, she’s all smiles, grinning at the frenetic energy around us.
“You getting nervous, Winters?”
She tosses me a quick smile over the top of the giant gingerbread lodge she’s assembling. “Please, this might be the only event Iknowwe’ve got covered this year.”
I raise my brows. “Bold claim, Songbird.”
“Claim?” She snorts. “It’s a promise.”
“You’re awfully confident for someone going up against Mikhail… whose son is an engineering major.”
She quickly waves me off. “Just because his son made him blueprints doesn’t mean he can execute them!” Her confidence is contagious, and I find myself not minding the ridiculous amounts of red licorice already stuck to my forearms.
I grab a handful of pretzel sticks from the box in front of me, creating a picket fence. Then, craning my neck, I try to sneak a glance at her blueprints, just to make sure I’m on equal footing. Just as quickly, she clears her throat, catching me peeking“What’s in those notes of yours?” I ask with a gentle tilt of my chin.
“A winning strategy.”
“Oh yeah? You gonna let me in on it?”
