Page 60 of Rebel Without a Claus
Gasps ripple through the crowd like I just kicked over the Christmas tree.
The toddler blinks up at me, victorious, Santa hair still clutched in his fist. My face is bare, my cover blown, and fifty sets of eyes are staring at me like I’ve personally murdered fucking Frosty.
Oh, hell.
Eve swoops in instantly, taking the beard out of the kid’s tiny little grip like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment. “Santa’s whiskers just get a little hot by the fire sometimes!” she declares, her voice all dramatic cheer and Christmas sparkle. “Sometimes he has to cool them off so they don’tpoofinto sparks.” She hands me the beard, stepping in front of me to block the kids' view of me while I put it back on as fast as I can.
The kids oooh and nod at Eve, crisis seemingly averted as I snap the elastics around the backs of my ears. But I can feel how crooked it is on my face. The mouth hole is covering half my lips, leaving white acrylic hair to slide into my mouth. I probably look like Santa got into a bar fight.
Eve grins at me like she’s won a bet, then leans in. Her fingers are gentle, smoothing the fake whiskers into place.
And then she doesn’t move back.
Her face is inches from mine, her eyes shining under the twinkle lights, and suddenly the sleigh feels too small. If I so much as tilt forward, Santa will be kissing Mrs. Claus in front of half the town.
My pulse slams.
She whispers, just for me, “Hold still, Santa. You’re a mess.”
And for the first time in my life, being a mess doesn’t feel so bad.
Her fingers linger a second too long at my jaw, and the front lawn of her inn fades into a blur of lights and noise. She’s closeenough that I can smell cinnamon on her breath, close enough that I’m thinking about doing something very stupid in front of dozens of witnesses.
And then?—
“They’re gonna kiss!” A kid shouts from the line.
The voice cuts through like a snowplow. Eve jerks back, and I follow her gaze toward the line of kids as they all start singing.
“Santa and Mrs. Claus sitting in a tree…”
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
But it isn’t the roaring sound of dozens of kids chanting at us that grabs our attention. It’s the two adults who just showed up at the back of the line—Eve’s parents.
Her dad, moving slowly but steadily on crutches, his face beaming with pride. He pauses just long enough to give us a thumbs up, seeming to let us know he’s okay. Her mom is right there beside him, her hands around his arm, helping him toward the sleigh. The sight of them shouldn’t hit me this hard, but relief slams into my chest. Thank God he was okay. And Eve… Eve looks like she’s about to cry, but in the good way. Like up until now, she was holding all of this together with nothing but glitter and stubbornness.
The sea of kids are completely oblivious to this moment as they continue their song and I sit frozen in the world’s itchiest velvet suit, beard still slightly crooked, and realize something I shouldn’t: I don’t just want to protect Eve from small-town gossip or her own relentless optimism.
I want to protect everything in her orbit—her family, this whole ridiculous, messy, glitter-coated life she’s fighting to rebuild.
And that thought scares the hell out of me more than the toddler with grabby hands ever could.
Before Eve can climb down from the sleigh to go to her parents,a megaphone squeals from the front porch of the NorthStar Lodge. Our mayor smacks his hand against it before bringing it to his mouth.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time!” Mayor Shelby's voice booms over the chatter. “The judges have tallied the results of this year’s Christmas Festival contest…”
The crowd hushes, anticipation buzzing like tinsel-static in the air. Kids clutch half-eaten cookies. Parents crane their necks. Eve’s hand finds mine without thinking, her fingers squeezing tight.
“In third place... Mikhail's Hardware!” The crowd applauds as Mikhail pumps his fist triumphantly. “Second place… The Jolly Bean!” More clapping as Mrs. Garcia raises a paper cup of coffee she’s sipping and waves at the crowd with her free hand.
“And in first place—” he pauses for effect, “—the North Star Lodge!”
The place explodes. Cheering, clapping, someone rings sleigh bells so hard it sounds like it could cause a damn avalanche. Eve lets out a squeal that would normally make me roll my eyes, but right now? It’s infectious.
She beams, turning to her parents and blowing them a kiss.
Mayor Shelby ignores the celebration happening around him and continues with his proclamation. “Not only did North Star Lodge win nearly every event we had over the last twelve days, but any business that can convince Luke Dawson to get involved in this year’s festival clearly embodies true Christmas magic.”
