Page 58 of Rebel Without a Claus
“Nowwho’s being dramatic?”
“The contest can wait,” Mom snaps.
Dad gives her a pained look. “We both know it can’t, sweetheart. We’ve all worked too hard,” Dad says, jaw set. “We can’t throw it away now. Someone has to stay here and be Santa Claus.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Luke steps forward, his voice steady. “I’ll do it. I’ll stay back and take care of the contest if you take him to the hospital,” Luke says with a nod at my mother.
I whip my head toward him. “You?”
For a second, I just stare at him, the words not quite registering. My brain is still back there, cataloging every wince my dad made, every time he tried to hide the pain so my mom wouldn’t panic. My chest feels tight, like I’m holding everything together with sheer will and a paperclip.
My voice comes out thinner than I want it to. “You’regoing to wrangle reindeeranda crowd of sugared-up kids?”
His gaze locks on mine, and for a moment, the noise of the world—the wind through the trees, the crunch of boots on snow—fades. All I hear is the quiet certainty in his voice when he says,
“I’m not just wrangling reindeer, songbird.” The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and sure, like he knows exactly how to knock me off balance. “I’ll be Santa.”
The mental image almost makes me choke—Luke Dawson, grumpy reindeer farmer in a red suit, fake beard, and the patience of a man allergic to all things filled with holiday joy and cheer.
Mom is already herding Dad toward their SUV, muttering about x-rays and crutches. “Eve, help Luke with whatever he needs.”
I’m still kneeling in the snow, brain trying to catch up, when Luke straightens, dusting off his jacket. His gaze locks on mine—steady, unflinching—and I swear the air between us warms a few degrees.
“Don’t worry,” he says, low enough only I can hear. “By the time I’m done, every kid in Holly Ridge will believe in Santa again.”
I should laugh. Or maybe roll my eyes. Instead, I feel that stupid flutter in my chest, like my heart didn’t get the memo that we’re not doing this right now—not when my dad’s hurt and the inn’s hanging on by a thread. Humor is safer than feelings. Humor means I don’t have to deal with Luke.
But then he leans just a fraction closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Question is… do you thinkyoucan pull off being my Mrs. Claus?”
My pulse trips. My brain says to roll my eyes, to walk away, to protect myself. But all I can do is stand there, watching him stride toward the trailer of reindeer, ready to take on the world. And a dangerous thought slips in before I can stop it: What would happen if I said yes?
CHAPTER 20
Luke
The suit is hell.
It’s itchy, sweaty, and smells faintly like mothballs and cinnamon potpourri. Whoever invented fake velvet should be tried for crimes against humanity. I’ve harvested douglas firs in a blizzard with nothing but an axe and a thermos of black coffee, and I can say without hesitation—this is the real survival test.
The beard doesn’t help. It’s like strapping a sweaty sheepdog to my face. Every time I breathe, it fogs up the fake little glasses clinging to the bridge of my nose and makes me want to rip it off, but I don’t—because apparently Santa isn’t supposed to look homicidal at a Christmas festival.
Why the helldid I offer to do this again?
Sitting beside me, Eve leans in so close that her light vanilla scent teases my already frazzled nerves. “Try to smile, Santa.”
Oh yeah…she’swhy I’m doing this.
In contrast to how dumb I look… Eve looks radiant as my Mrs. Claus. Dangerous, even. Her costume is modest enough—red velvet dress, snow-white trim, little apron tied neatly ather waist—but somehow she manages to make wholesome look like a weapon. Cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, lips curved in a smile that could light up the square. I’ve never wanted to kiss Christmas spirit into silence so badly in my life.
“As if anyone could tell I am smiling behind this rat’s nest you call a beard.”
“You know,” she whispers, “you might be the grumpiest Santa Claus Holly Ridge has ever seen.”
I grunt. “Santa probably hates kids, too. Nobody ever talks about that part. I mean, the man lives at the North Pole, away from civilization with a bunch of elves and his wife, never having kids of his own.”
Her laugh bubbles out, soft but wickedly amused, and I swear the damn bells on her apron jingle in agreement. She pats my arm like I’m her misbehaving reindeer. “Try not to traumatize the children, Luke. You only have to survive the next two hours.”
Two hours.
