Page 27 of Rebel Without a Claus
I take a step back, stunned by... all of this. By her confession. By how much I feel like seventeen-year-old me again with one missed chance after another dangling in front of my face.
She nudges me playfully. “Don’t look so shocked.”
My mind flashes back to the bookstore, to Pam’s voice and Eve’s startled expression when she mentioned the inn being in debt. That’s why she’s staying, I realize. But there’s no way she’ll ever admit that out loud. She’s too proud.
I can empathize way too much. Aunt May needs me to run the farm. I never had a choice in the matter, but to stay and take over operations with her. And Eve is suddenly feeling that same pinch. Needing to be here. Wanting to help.
We stand there, not quite touching, not quite apart, with the soft hum of Christmas music in the background and gingerbread crumbs stuck to our sleeves.
Eve glances out the frosted window, watching the snow fall in soft flurries against the darkened sky. “Anyway, time will tell,” she says brightly, though there’s a hint of something in her voice—nervousness? Hope? It sends my thoughts into overdrive.
I clear my throat, trying to sound casual. Like this doesn’t just break every expectation I had of her visit this year. “And what would you do here?”
She spins the trophy mid-air with one hand, grinning as she carefully sets her cocoa beneath it like a pedestal on her table before turning back to me with glee and recklessness written all over her face. “Well, to start with… I’d win again at next year's gingerbread contest.Of course.”
“Of course,” I echo.
I exhale, trying to process everything that just happened. Eve Winters just might be staying in Holly Ridge for good. And Luke Dawson just might be okay with that.
CHAPTER 10
Eve
Does Luke Dawson like me? Or does the manhateme? It’s like kindergarten all over again because the two emotions really seem to be the one and the same right now with him.
Okay, maybe “hate” is a strong word. Let’s go with “gruffly tolerates my existence while secretly contemplating ways to hide my body in a snowdrift and also clearly thinking about maybe kissing me.”
Or maybe it’s onlymethat’s thinking about kissing him.
Still… the evidence is lining up. He saved me at Caroloke. He joined the gingerbread decorating contest for the first time in… well, maybe ever. He brought me peppermint hot chocolate. Even if he claims it was Aunt May’s idea, he still followed through in delivering it.
Today, though, seems to be a different story altogether. I’m parked squarely in his personal bubble at the reindeer farm, pestering him with questions like a sugar-fueled reporter and watching his jaw tic with barely concealed restraint. He’s chopping wood, which seems like a really aggressive but incredibly sexy way to process irritation.
“What do reindeer even eat in the wild?” I ask, tossing a handful of grain into the trough like I’m part of the team. (Spoiler: I am not.)
“Moss. Lichen. Sometimes berries,” he grunts, not even looking at me.
“Berries? So basically, they’re woodland vegans. Makes sense.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
Again.
“Eve.”
“Yes, Luke?” I bat my lashes, leaning against the fence like I’m in a romantic country music video. A rush of frigid wind whips around us and I shiver, pulling my coat higher up around my neck. Luke, as usual, seems totally unaffected by the drop in temperature.
His eyes flick to me—brief, sharp—and then away again. “You're not actually helping when you throw food like that. It’s supposed to go in the bins.Evenly.”
“Oh, right. Evenly. Of course.” I casually brush the rest of the grain from my mitten and act like I totally knew that. “I mean… that seems weird to me. They all just rush over and gorge themselves on the feed anyway. Who cares if it’s exactly two pounds on each side?”
He sighs and mutters something that might be a prayer for strength. Or maybe just an expletive. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.
“Because,” he starts, “If it’s not evenly distributed, a couple of my reindeer will eat a ton of feed and the others won’t get as much. It’ll be like the freaking haves and have nots of Reindeerville.”
My eyes go wide. “Reindeerville! Omigod! Why don’t you turn this place into Reindeerville?! You charge admission. Make an adorable little sign! An archway! Have a petting zoo!” I jumpup and down, clapping my hands together. “You could even dress like Santa and?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there. I amneverdressing as Santa.”
