Page 57 of Rebel Without a Claus
I fold my arms, tucking my hands into my sleeves for warmth—and maybe for armor.
He parks at the curb and kills the engine, and for a moment, the only sound is the ticking of cooling metal. Then the driver’s door swings open and Luke jumps down, boots hitting the ground with that solid, unshakable way of his.
Of course he looks good.
Too good.
His winter jacket is unzipped just enough to show the henley underneath, the gray fabric clinging across his chest in a way that is, frankly, rude for this early in the morning. His breath fogs in the cold, and there’s a wary smile tugging at his mouth.
I slide into my coat, zipping it up to my chin before stepping out into the crisp air, Cringle running out in front of me to do his morning tinkle. “Good morning,” I say.
“Morning,” he responds back, and there’s a surprising softness in it. Cautious, like he’s testing the ice before stepping out onto it.
We stand there a beat longer than we should, the space between us weighted with everything we didn’t say last night. His eyes search mine like he’s looking for the right opening.
“Eve…” His voice is low, almost tentative. “About what happened?—”
Nope. Not now.
Not when my pulse is already doing gymnastics just from hearing him say my name.
“We should—” I start, then stop, shaking my head quickly. “We do need to talk. Yes. But…” I gesture toward the inn, toward the snow-slick yard. “This morning is already crazy. Kids are coming in just over an hour for the Reindeer Meet-and-Greet, and we still have to set up the pen, wrangle the reindeer, get the photo station ready?—”
His brow creases. “I just?—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “Later. I just…” I swallow. “I can’t have that conversation with the smell of reindeer poop in the air, okay?”
Humor’s safer than honesty right now. Because if I stop and really talk to him, I might start caring more about us than about saving my parents’ inn—and that’s the kind of distraction I can’t afford wheneverything’sriding on today.
A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but it doesn’t erase the way his eyes stay locked on me, like he wants to push past my excuses. His eyes fix on mine, steady and unreadable, and I know he’s not buying it. Not the joke, not the casual tone, not any of it.
“I get it,” he says finally, slow and deliberate. “As long as we talk later, Eve.”
Later. It hangs between us like an unopened gift—or a lit stick of dynamite. And the way he says my name feels like a promise and a warning all at once, and my stomach does that traitorous flip again.
I hesitate. Because the truth is, I’m not sure if later will make me ready, or if it will just give me more time to panic. Maybe we should just get this over with now? But before I have time to answer him, a crash echoes from the side yard, followed by a deep shout that freezes me mid-step.
“Dad?” My voice goes sharp, slicing through the cold air. My feet are moving before I’ve even thought about it, Luke’s boots crunching right behind me.
We round the corner, and my stomach drops.
Dad is sprawled on the icy ground, his face pale, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. The box of reindeer pen decorations lies tipped over beside him, its contents scattered across the snow. Cringle is at my dad’s shoulders, licking his face, frantically running in circles like he knows something is terribly wrong.
“Dad!” My knees hit the ground so hard they sting, but I barely notice. “Oh my god, are you?—”
“I’m fine—just slipped,” he says through gritted teeth, trying to wave me off. But when he shifts to sit up, a strangled hiss escapes, and his hand clamps around his ankle.
The bottom drops out of my chest. “You can’t move your leg?”
“I said I’m fine,” he insists, but the lines around his eyes deepen with pain.
Luke crouches beside him, steady and assessing, his gloved hands brushing snow off Dad’s jeans. “Not fine,” he says firmly. “That ankle’s not taking weight anytime soon.”
The back door slams, and Mom bursts out, apron still on. “Mike!” She’s beside him in a heartbeat, eyes wet, hands fluttering uselessly over his shoulders. “We need to get you to Urgent Care?—”
“No,” Dad says, panic edging into his voice. “The contest?—”
“The contest doesn’t matter if you’re not alive to enjoy the win!” I say, but Dad merely rolls his eyes at that.
