Page 45 of Rebel Without a Claus
“Eve Winters, sweetheart!” Mrs. Crawley practically sings, waddling over with her basket of pine-scented candles. “Or should I say, EveDawson?”
I laugh—too loud, too fake. “Uhhh… it’s definitely still Winters.”
“Oh, but not for long!” she says, her eyes twinkling like she knows something I don’t. “That kiss at the tree lighting! Half the town saw it. Honestly, I haven’t felt such romantic electricity since the hayride scandal of ‘98!”
“Scandal?” I echo weakly, caught somewhere between amused and mortified.
She leans in conspiratorially. “Let’s just say Sam Laphire got a little too cozy with his nanny under the hay and a full moon.”
I smile and nod as I edge away with a mumbled excuse about “glitter emergencies.” But the moment I think I’m in the free and clear, grabbing a roll of ribbon, I’m ambushed again.
“Oh my stars,” coos someone behind me. “You and Luke are going to make the cutest babies. Can you even imagine the dimples?”
I freeze, mid-reach. Slowly, I turn to find Mrs. Timms from the library, clutching a bag of cinnamon sticks like they’re popcorn for the drama unfolding.
She sighs wistfully. “Big, strong reindeer farmer. Gorgeous, spirited city girl. It’s like a movie. We’ve all been rooting for this foryears.”
“Years?” I repeat, stunned.
She pats my shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for frosty Luke to thaw. And now that he has? You better not break him again, honey. That boy barely survived the last time.”
The smile drops off my face like a brick. “The… the last time? But Luke and I…we never dated before.”
“Yes, but we all knew he was desperately in love with you. That boy skulked around town for nearly the whole year after you moved to Los Angeles!”
I don’t know how I escape the conversation other than murmuring something about ornament hooks and aisle four—-but the air feels heavier now. Suffocating. Suddenly every plastic snowflake and peppermint garland seems to be watching me.
You’re responsible now,they seem to whisper.Don’t screw this up.
I turn the corner and run straight into a wall.
Well, not a wall.
Gemma.
Her arms are crossed, her expression tight and unreadable. “They’re calling you the ‘future Mrs. Dawson’ now?”
Here we go.
I straighten my shoulders. “Apparently. Don’t worry, I didn’t start it.”
She snorts. “No, but you’re not exactly denying it.”
“I’m not confirming it either.”
Her eyes narrow. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
The temperature between us drops faster than the night of the blizzard earlier this week.
“I’m picking out ribbon,” I say, holding it up. “For the contest.”
Gemma steps closer. “No, I mean withLuke.You blew into town again with your charming one-liners and oversized Christmas sweaters, and now he’s walking around like someone lit a candle inside him.”
My heart stumbles a beat. “And that’s... a bad thing?”
“It is if it doesn’t last,” she snaps. “I’ve been here waiting for him to be ready for a relationship for almost ten years. I’ve brought him casseroles with vegetables I’ve grown in my home garden to show him that I know how to handle crops. I’ve brewed him strong coffee with a little pinch of nutmeg, just how he likes it.”
I blink, fully surprised. “Luke likes nutmeg in his coffee?” I could’ve sworn he took it black.
