Page 75 of Booked for the Holidays
I set my mug down and close the space between us, ignoring Beck’s smug grin behind me. “Will you come with me to theHoliday Market today? Just us,” I toss over my shoulder in case Beck is looking to be a third wheel. “I’ll buy you hot cocoa and funnel cake, then look at all the crafts. Hell, I’ll win you a pinecone ornament or whatever prize they offer at these things. An actual date. Very official.”
Her smile goes soft; all sleep and sweet and amused. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”
Behind us, Beck claps. He’s way too pleased with himself. “Thank god. Maybe now I can survive this week without needing earplugs.”
I flip him off without looking back, staying focused on the way Juniper’s cheeks flush when I brush a kiss to her temple.
“I’m going to hold you to that pinecone ornament,” she says, her mouth teasing into a smirk as she turns to pour her coffee.
“I’ll win you a whole fucking tree.”
We’re only ten minutes into the Holiday Market and Juniper’s already dragged me to three different booths, handed me two sample cups of steaming cider, and squealed over a basket of handmade ornaments shaped like tiny snow boots.
It’s cold enough for our breath to fog between us. Lights twinkle from every booth and garland is strung across the stalls like the whole town conspired to look like a goddamn Christmas card.
I’ve been to Christmas markets before—New York, London, LA—slick city versions with overpriced mulled wine and crowds that make you want to throat punch someone. But here? Here it’s families, kids with sticky marshmallow fingers, an old man with a beard like Santa passing out peppermint bark samples, and Juniper—radiant in her knitted beanie and mittens, eyeswide at every stand like she’s five seconds from adopting an entire crate of homemade candles.
She pulls me toward a stall selling gingerbread cookies shaped like snowflakes. “Liam, look!” She holds up one with this triumphant grin like she just discovered gold. “They’re too pretty to eat.”
“But you’re going to sample them anyway, right?” I hand over cash for the cookies while Juniper beams up at me with a flirty smile.
I lean closer, brushing my hand over the small of her back, fighting the stupid urge to buy every last cookie just to keep that look on her face. “You’re getting crumbs all over your mittens, Firefly.”
She sticks her tongue out at me and takes a delicate bite anyway, a sprinkle falling onto her scarf. She giggles, then flicks the crumb at my chest.
I should feel ridiculous here, holding a half-finished cider in one hand and a bag of overpriced fudge in the other, but I don’t. I feel steady. Like I could do this a thousand times. Stand in the cold, carry her shopping bags, watch her get excited about things that feel small and big all at once.
She loops her arm through mine, tugging me toward another stall. This one is selling carved wooden signs that say things likeHome Sweet HomeandMerry & Bright.
“See anything you like?” she teases, brushing her hip into mine.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice low so only she hears. “I do.”
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush pinker than the cold can take credit for.
And I swear—for a split second—this place, this market, this moment, feels like a preview of something I didn’t know I could have until now.
Not just the small-town life. Not just the pine-scented candles and cider, twinkle lights, and holiday traditions.
But her. In it.
Every holiday market. Every snowy December. Every soft smile and gingerbread crumb and mittened hand tugging me through a crowd.
Her.
She turns, catches me staring, and raises a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, leaning down to brush a kiss to her temple. “Just thinking I’m glad Beck ran his mouth this morning.”
She smiles. “Me, too.”
We continue working our way through the maze of stalls until we reach the far end of the market where a giant snow castle sits under a halo of string lights. Kids are climbing through tunnels carved in the walls, parents are snapping photos. A volunteer at the entrance calls out, “Watch your head! It’s slippery in there!” but Juniper just looks at me with that spark in her eyes and I already know we’re going in.
“Five minutes. Humor me.”
Five minutes? She doesn’t even realize she’s got me forever.
It’s quiet inside—muffled from the outside noise, like the world shrank down to just her breath in the cold and my pulse hammering in my ears.
